This short story was written for Twisted Tournament’s May Flash/Micro competition. It had to feature a werewolf, contain a revenge storyline, and be told from the point of view of someone who wasn’t there. I also had to write it in 1k words or fewer. I don’t typically write werewolf stories, but I thought this one was fun! Let me know what you think in the comments!

- From the diary of James Spencer

January 23, 2026

I think Stanley’s going crazy. Like full-on schizo. He hasn’t been all there since touring Afghanistan, but this…

We had a falling out fight on Christmas. It started as a heated debate, and I admit, I said some dumb things, probably had too much eggnog, but then Stanley struck me. With his fist. We were all shocked, of course, but Stanley stared at the offending hand as though seeing a coiled viper. I’d never seen him look so pale or frightened. He gazed at me with watery eyes before practically running out of the house.

We haven’t spoken since. Then, yesterday, I got a letter from him. I don’t know what to make of it.

# # #

James,

Something has happened to me, or is happening, I don’t know. I thought I was imagining things, but after Christmas… I wanted to hurt you, James. You’re my only brother, and I wanted… Never mind that, it’s unimportant.

When I got back from Afghanistan, me and Tommy went out to celebrate at Burns Bar. There was this couple, and one of ‘em was this brown guy. I thought he was Spanish or Mexican at first. He had that skin tone, ya know? Then he says something to his girlfriend in Arabic, and I swear to God, James, I didn’t care. I saw lots of towel heads in Afghanistan, and never had a problem with any of ‘em. But Tommy, ya know? He gets drunk, and you know how he gets.

Anyway, Tommy tells the guy he’s gotta go, only the guy don’t wanna go. So, Tommy gets mad and cracks the guy on the nose. The cops show up, and all the usual stuff happens, only this time, it might be worse. Before I leave, the girlfriend comes back inside, says something in some strange language I never heard, and wipes her thumb across my forehead. I didn’t realize until I looked in a mirror that she’d used blood.

I thought she was just crazy, ya know? Went about my business as usual. But then, weird things start happening. Subtle. I start eating my steaks rare. I smell things sharper, and I shave twice as often. But the worst part, James, is this rage. My psychiatrist thinks it’s PTSD, but it don’t feel that way. Every little thing sets me off. Like I’m Bruce Banner, only there’s a different sort of beast beneath the skin, ya know?

And the moon. Ever notice how beautiful the moon is when it’s full? It frightens me, but at the same time, fills me with a sense of wonder and longing. Weird, right?

Anyway, next thing I know, I start waking up in random places. My clothes ripped, or sometimes I’m shirtless, and I don’t remember how I got there. Last time it happened, there was blood in my hair. It wasn’t mine, James.

I’m going to find the people who did this to me, and they’re going to give me some fucking answers. I’m sorry about Christmas, James. I love you, brother.

# # #

February 27, 2026

I think I found the people Stanley talked about. It took some digging, but I managed to dig up the police reports and the couple’s address with a little help from Google and my credit card. I’ve been out to their neighborhood a few times and watched them from the street. They seem nice enough. I’d like to talk to them, but what I need to ask them sounds fucking insane. After Stanley’s latest letter, I can’t help but feel like time is running out.

The full moon is in four days. If I don’t do something soon, Agh! This is fucking crazy! The only monsters in the world are the human ones, like Bundy and Epstein. But every time I look at the night sky, my mouth goes dry, and my palms get all clammy. I’m so fucking scared.

Stanley knows where they are, too. I need to warn them.

# # #

James,

I woke up this morning covered in blood. Again, not my own. I think – NO, I know, I killed someone last night. I felt a sharp pain in the back of my mouth, next to my right molar. There was an earring lodged in my gums. I rinsed myself off in a nearby stream and caught an Uber home. Driver said I looked like hell. I feel like it, James.

I know where they live. The couple. I’m gonna wait until the night of the full moon, and then I’m gonna break into their house. That bitch has a lot to answer for. Maybe she can remove this curse. If you don’t hear from me in two weeks, give everyone my love. Tell Mom I’m sorry.

# # #

March 4, 2026

I saw Stanley last night, but too late to help.

I shouldn’t have waited. I should have warned that couple, told them to run.

I pulled up to their house and found the door ajar. Against my better judgment, I swallowed the lump in my throat and went inside. There was blood and gore everywhere. I followed a trail of it to an upstairs bedroom. Stanley was in there, covered in coarse, brown fur, chewing on a human leg. There was a woman’s sneaker still attached. When I retched, he looked up, glaring at me with haunted, yellow eyes, and growled.

Warm liquid ran down my leg as he snarled and rushed me. I knew I was a dead man, but he only knocked me over before bounding away on all fours, whining like a kicked dog.

When I got home, I immediately jumped in the shower. I wanted to wash the stink of him off me. While I was planning what to do next, I noticed a deep cut in my shoulder. His claw must have gashed it when he knocked me over.

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She senses their rapacious scrutiny,

Foul. Satiating. Lurking in shadows.

Shifting through windowless workspaces,

Treading softly behind the treadmills,

Tracking her through pet stores, the park,

The bars and boutiques, banks, and the beach.

No place is secure, nowhere is safe.

Not home in her garden, not even in her grave.

They’re persistent, you see.

These creatures. These monsters. These creeps.

These terrible, twisted, tyrannical things,

Captives of their paleolithic postures,

Seekers of forbidden treasures. Entitled.

Victims of their own inconsequential egos,

Searching for worship, searching for obeisance,

Seeking unearned and unwarranted validation.

She tries to escape.

She wraps herself in dull, gray fabrics.

She travels in packs.

She speaks softly, she shouts, she screams.

She drinks only water.

She makes herself ugly; she hides her face.

She tries to be invisible.

She clearly says, “No.”

But the monster still does what all monsters do.

It eats.

It is her fault.

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There is no doubt that both Tim Curry and Bill Skarsgård did fantastic jobs bringing one of Stephen King’s most well-known monsters, Pennywise, to life on screen. Both actors gave stellar performances and, in my humble opinion, will forever be remembered as two of the greatest monster portrayals of all time. However, both adaptations of “IT” left me deeply disappointed, because they focus almost entirely on the mythical monster.

Tommy Lee Wallace’s 1990 adaptation, guest-starring Tim Curry, has a few shapeshifting moments. However, thanks to the technology available back then, the monster forms IT takes are almost comical in appearance. Ben’s mummy is little more than a coffee-stained skeleton. Richi’s werewolf looks the way you’d expect a 1990 film monster to: like a costumed man in a poorly made, hairy mask. The worst part, though, is that the mini-series nearly glosses over the human aspects, giving us rare glimpses into Henry Bowers awful character and little else. Admittedly, there is one point in the series where Beverly recalls a man walking away from her when she is assaulted by Henry and his gang, but this is late in the series, and hardly any focus is given to it.

Andi Muschietti’s 2017 and 2019 adaptations starring Bill Skarsgård are a little better. There is a lot more of Pennywise, of course, but there is also more of the monsters IT morphs into, including Richie’s Paul Bunyan statue, a Pennywise version of the final Spider-monster, and a film exclusive: that super-creepy woman painting that comes to life and attacks Stanley. Let’s be real for a second: If I had to face the thought of going back to face that as an adult, I might check myself out, too. A lot of people might say that technology made it possible for more of Pennywise’s monsters to appear on film, but I think it was more than that. Muschietti really tried to capture the essence of IT and, in some ways, succeeded.

In Andi’s films, we also see more of what makes Derry terrifying. The homophobically motivated murder of poor Adrian Mellon at the beginning of IT Chapter Two comes to mind, and we see much more of Henry Bowers, his crazy friends, his abusive father, and, of course, Beverly’s crazy, borderline pedophilic father. The problem, of course, is that Pennywise is a central theme to nearly all of these characters.

But here’s the thing: “IT” was about so much more than a terrifying, shapeshifting clown.

One of Stephen King’s greatest strengths as a storyteller is his ability to portray human monsters as far more terrifying than mythical ones, and there is no better example of this than in his 1986 novel “IT.” The story is full of some of the most horrific examples humanity has to offer, and the films hardly scratch the surface.

Andi’s adaptation hints at it, but the real horror of IT lies in how IT has twisted the town itself. Derry is a horrible place. Haunted by IT, yes, but just as IT feeds off of Derry’s children, the residents of Derry feed off of IT, and this doesn’t just happen when the monster is awake. Derry is monstrous while IT is asleep, too.

Mike Hanlon, Derry’s resident head librarian and local researcher, points out a terrible statistic to the members of the Losers Club: The rate of violent crimes and child disappearances is several times higher than any other city of comparable size in America, even during IT’s sleep cycle. Derry attracts bad people the way a Seven-Eleven slushie attracts ants.

Patrick Hockstetter, for example, isn’t just a bully, as he is portrayed in Muschietti’s films. He is a serial killer in the making, a young teenager without morals and an extremely limited emotional range who kills insects and animals for fun, and killed his infant brother. He is blind to others' feelings and thinks he is the only real thing that exists. He is a true narcissistic psychopath.

At one point in the novel, Beverly Marsh is chased by her crazy father, out of her mind with terror, because he is likely going to kill her, but when Derry’s residents see her in this state and hear the threats her father is screaming, they laugh. In fact, no one seems to really see any of the children in their final flight to the sewers. It’s as if they’re already dead. They will be the sacrifice needed to put the monster back to sleep.

There are child abusers, spousal abusers, extreme homophobics, homophobic cops, organized racists, killers, and other types of horrible people that feed off Derry. That is what makes the novel so much more terrifying. There is nowhere safe because not only has IT infected their families, but it also has a supernatural hold on the entire town. There are human monsters everywhere, and they serve IT, too.

Not that there aren’t good people in Derry. There are plenty, but even the good ones will occasionally succumb to IT’s will, if only by turning a blind eye to the horror unfolding around them. Both adaptations do try to capture this concept, but in my opinion, they fall well short.

I’ve seen many a critical comment about HBO’s new show, Welcome to Derry. They don’t get certain facts right; they’ve changed elements that aren’t true to the novel; they've made up an origin story, etc. But what they do get right is the spirit of Derry. The monsters walking among us in human form, happy to see a fellow human suffering. The protagonists of the show are in a constant state of dread, never knowing if they will be eaten by IT or suffer at the hands of other humans. There is hope, of course. There has to be hope for any horror media to be successful. There is laughter and joy, but they are sparse, dispensed grudgingly like Scrooge handing out a Christmas bonus. And that is the true spirit of Derry.

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I’ve written quite a few microfictions over the years, but until recently, I hadn’t considered posting them here because of how short they are. For those who aren’t familiar with microfictions, they are a form of storytelling limited to two hundred fifty words or less. I decided to post my favorites in a single document so my readers would have a little more content to browse through.

Anytime I do a new competition, I’ll update this page with the new story, so be sure to check back every now and then!

A Fatal Nod

The stench of rotten meat wakes her. Desperately, she tries returning to her nightmares, but sleep again mocks her with its flight.

She presses an ear to the wall separating her bedroom from the bathroom.

Splashes. An occasional wail. She whimpers.

Pain lances up the inside of her arm. The track marks no longer faded scars but hundreds of tiny scabs.

Karma. Utter torment every night because he’d drowned after she’d popped a vein and nodded off.

The bathroom door swings open. The toddler standing in the tub is bloated, his pale, marbled skin peeling away from reddened tissue.

“Mommy?”

A Serious Squeaker

“Man, how long is this gonna take?”

Jimmy straightens inside the shallow grave and drops the shovel. His palms have blisters. “Be faster if you helped.”

“And dirty the floppy shoes? What would the kids think?”

“You shouldn’t be within a hundred miles of a child, fuckin weirdo.”

“I told you it’s Beardo, not weirdo.”

“Whatever.” Jimmy resumes digging. Before long, the metal head scrapes the coffin.

“Hurry, open it!”

“I will! Don’t get your balloons twisted!”

The scent of rotted cabbage and sulfur assaults him. After losing a battle with his stomach, he shines a flashlight on the rotted remains.

“Ha! I knew that bitch buried it with her!”

Choking back bile, Jimmy plucks a bulbous red nose off the corpse’s face. It squeaks in disgusting protest.

“This is what you wanted?”

“Loudest squeaker in the Midwest, bud, thanks. I’ll leave you to clean up the mess.”

Worse Than Scrooge

“Dad, I need $10 for the movies.”

“What happened to the ten I gave you?”

I shrug.

He sighs. “You’ll have to work for it.”

I wait for the inevitable blow.

“Mow the lawn, then. All of it. Front and back.”

“What?! Dad, the backyard is like a hundred square miles!”

He grins toothily. “Ok, guess you don’t need it that bad.”

“Ugh, how much will you pay me?”

Scrooge lays two $5 bills on the counter.

“That’s slavery!”

He shrugs and reaches for the bills. I snatch them first. “Fine! Slaver!”

“Mmhmm. Don’t mow over your mom’s coreopsis flowers.”

Tattoos & Butterflies

“Ow, Ow, Ow!” Ricky complains, gritting his teeth. “Not so hard!”

Aaron grins, though his hazel-colored eyes remain focused as he stretches the skin on Ricky’s forearm, preparing to make another pass with the shader. “Don’t be such a screamer, love.”

“Is it supposed to hurt this much?” Ricky moans. He stares at the silver butterfly charm dangling from Aaron’s necklace and wonders how awful a half-drawn tattoo could really be. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

Setting the machine down, Aaron takes a moment to wipe blood and excess ink from Ricky’s skin. “You’ve been coming here and watching me tattoo other people for almost two weeks now. What do you think?” He raises a pierced eyebrow, the steel ball making Ricky think of mercury drops stitched onto a perfect milky canvas.

“Not just you,” Ricky mutters, looking away.

Aaron’s laugh is rich in warmth. Ricky’s heart skips. “It gets a little spicy closer to the wrist, love. Just breathe through it.”

Ricky nods and closes his eyes, tensing as the machine hums and the needles grind against his flesh. He hisses through his teeth when the needle scrapes a particularly sensitive spot.

“Fuck, why did I convince myself to do this?”

“Why, indeed,” Aaron chuckles, a knowing sparkle lighting his gaze. “Seems like a rather torturous way to get to know someone.”

Ricky laughs weakly. “I’m such an idiot.”

“That’s debatable,” Aaron smiles, finishing the butterfly’s wings. “Why don’t we talk about it over an espresso?”

What Would Wonder Woman Do?

Lilly opens her bedroom door. Hallway light slants across the grey carpet, illuminating the corner of her Barbie blanket against the bedpost. Beside it is a narrow strip of darkness, where the monster has been watching for the past three nights. Waiting to feed.

Stomach churning, Lilly ambles to the edge of the bed. She pauses there, heart hammering, straining, listening.

Its voice is slow, warbled, and deep as an underground cavern. “Heeeee hee heeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Lilly chokes back a scream, all but certain that an undead killer is waiting to stab her through the mattress once she lies down.

Wonder Woman wouldn’t be afraid. She’s brave like Mommy.

Quickly, Lilly runs to her dresser and pulls out a flashlight. Its bulb floods the dark room with bright light. Cautiously, she crouches by the bedroom door and focuses the beam into the narrow void.

“Heeeee hee heeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Her breath catches, but Wonder Woman wouldn’t look away, so she won’t either. The beam shows her a few scattered pennies, a couple of old dolls covered in dust, and a dirty towel partially covering something red and furry.

“Heeeee hee heeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Lilly’s body shakes so bad she almost drops the flashlight. Hesitantly, she crawls closer to the bed. She reaches with trembling fingers, grasping the edge of the towel. It slides off easily at her tug, and the thing it was concealing rolls toward her. She squeaks . . . then sags in relief.

“Elmo!” Lilly admonishes. “Your batteries are dying!”

“Heeeee hee heeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Bitter Gains

Too late, Boyd sees.

The premature balding, disproportionate muscle growth, and severe acne carpeting his chest.

His wife’s broken body, thumb-shaped bruises on her throat. The boy beside her, chest stilled.

Unheeded warnings reflected in a dry, rusty red haze.

Snarling, Boyd hurls the hand mirror against the wall, weeping.

A Healing Leap

Susan fixates on the airplane’s jump door and swallows. Well, what’s it gonna be, Susan? she thinks. Your promise or common sense?

“Are you ready, ma’am?” The man she’s strapped to asks.

It’s now or never. Susan’s blood hammers through her veins. She wants to say no, to forget the whole moronic venture. This is so fucking reckless!

“Ma’am?”

“Yes,” Susan manages to croak, and forces her hands not to snatch the safety bar outside the door as the tandem instructor leaps out of the plane, pulling her with him.

“Aaaaaahhhhhhh!!!” Susan almost faints in the first few seconds, her heart thudding so hard she feels it in her throat.

She forces her eyes open. From this high up, the ground is a blur of vague shapes and colors beneath her watery gaze, but the sight takes her breath.

Smiling for the first time, she looks to her right, to the empty space where Jessica would have been, if she were still alive.

“We have to go skydiving at least once,” Jessica had said, hugging Susan’s shoulders. “You can’t go through life afraid of everything.”

“Yeah, sure,” Susan replied, thinking never in a million years.

“Promise?”

Now, as the air whips through Susan’s red curls, she laughs. It’s the first time she has since Jessica died, and it comes out sounding like a sob. Jessica would have loved this!

“Ma’am, are you okay?” The instructor shouts.

“I am!” Susan shouts back. Her chest swells. Perhaps now, she will be.

Madam Zola, Clairvoyant & Medium

Madam Zola: “He is here with us now, child!”

Britney, frowning: “Yes, I know.”

“He loves you so much.”

“I’ve . . . never doubted?”

“He hopes his error won’t tarnish the fond memories you share.”

“Uhhh-huh. And the combination?”

“I’m hearing . . . an anniversary? Yours?”

Britney, shouting toward the audience: “That right, Joe?”

Man in audience, pale and clearly nervous: “Erm, I - uh, d-don’t recall the year, Hunny.”

Madam Zola, alarmed: “Um, is that your husband?”

Britney: “Yes.”

“Didn’t you say your late husband forgot to write down the combination to your safe deposit box?”

“I said my husband, not my late husband.”

“Shit.”

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For NQW’s second round of flash fiction, I decided to do a satire regarding the West’s strange ability to control the narrative of anything they find embarrassing or sheds any negative light on the supposed glorious Western Empire. The prompts for this competition were: Include the word “disco,” incorporate the name of a dance move, and have an action that can be interpreted as “freaking out.”

I had so much fun writing this. I hope you enjoy it! Let me know what you think in the comments below:

George Orwell’s 1984

“Alright, sir,” the officer says. “First, we’re gonna do a heel-toe step test.”

“Ugh, can’t I take the breathalyzer?” I plead. I’ve only had one beer, after all.

“No. It’s waiting on repairs. Now, pay atten –”

That’s when a giant, discoidal spacecraft about the size of a small warehouse drops from the night sky like a fucking meteor, crashing onto the road beside us with a terrible, grinding screech.

“Holy shit!” I yell, covering my ears. “Did you see that?”

“Um. See what?” He says, brushing debris off his pants.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I point to the ship and gesture at the jagged chunks of asphalt forming a semi-crater around it. Dirt and metallic dust glitter in the moonlight like falling snowflakes. The smell of hot metal burns my throat.

“Sir, are you okay?”

I feel my jaw drop. Am I going crazy? No. I glance once more at the wreckage, then turn back to the officer looking at me as though I’d stated windmills cause cancer. He seems to be intentionally avoiding looking at anything but me.

“You don’t see that spaceship right there?” I splutter, gesturing wildly.

“There’s nothing there, sir,” he calmly replies, and is suddenly very interested in straightening the silver badge pinned to his shirt.

“My god, man! Are you fucking blind?!” My eyes bulge. They might pop out of my head soon, if this uniformed idiot doesn’t start making sense. I know I shouldn’t scream at a cop, but I can’t help myself. “Use your fucking eyes, goddammit!” I start hopping back and forth like a toddler playing on a mattress, using both hands to point. “It’s right here!”

Before he can respond, the chop of helicopter blades approaches from the west. Next thing I know, two dozen feds dressed in fancy suit pants and pressed white shirts are clambering out and setting up a perimeter. One of them, a young blond woman with a severe expression, beckons to the officer and me.

“Officer,” she says. “Take your car north and redirect traffic to the nearest alternative route. We’ve already blocked off the southbound.” He half-salutes and walks away without a word, but I notice he glances over his shoulder at the spacecraft as he does. The fed turns her gaze on me. “Sir, you need to go home. Someone from the Bureau will contact you tomorrow morning.”

I swallow mingled relief and excitement and nod. “Can you believe it? A real alien!”

She raises an eyebrow. “Alien? That’s quite imaginative, sir, but I assure you that’s just a downed hot air balloon.”

The excitement bleeds out of me like oil into a drain pan. Confused, I take another questioning look at the wreckage. It doesn’t look like a hot air balloon, but...

“Are you sure?”

Her nod is firm. Confident. “Just a hot air balloon.”

I shake my head, blow a breath in my palm, and sniff it. Then heel-toe step all the way to my car.

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Miami’s Palladium nightclub is packed shoulder-to-shoulder with Friday night dancers determined to start the weekend with a bit of fun and, in some hopeful cases, debauchery. Strobing lights keep pace with thumping bass. The tang of sweat mixes with that of alcohol and perfume. Everyone, with the exception of the two bartenders, one deejay, and three bouncers, has begun the ritual of forgetting hard days spent working or studying over the past week.

Perhaps that is why no one notices one old man standing motionless on the dance floor.

If all goes well, his life will end tonight, but instead of enjoying the blaring music, or sipping a martini at the bar, or even contemplating end-of-life mysteries, the old man is thinking of a single Latin word: Cide. Well, not a word, really, but a suffix. It means to kill, or killer, from the Latin verb caedere, meaning to cut or slay. He knows many words for murder using this suffix. Homicide, matricide, siblicide, and infanticide, to name a few. But as he studies the handsome young man he’s come here to kill, he thinks he’ll be committing an unknown cide, one for which there is yet no name.

The first few strings of a Reggaeton song play loudly overhead, breaking into his thoughts. He recognizes this one. Dile, Tell Him, a song from his youth. The dancers cheer and begin to bounce on their knees and roll their hips forward and back in smooth, provocative rhythms. Others, like himself, stand around watching like silent sentinels or sit on barstools chatting amongst themselves and holding red plastic cups in their hands. His fingers tap idly against his thigh as he watches the young man, keeping pace with the music.

Dile que bailando te conocí, the first verse begins, and the young man twirls a beautiful raven-haired woman into his arms, then leans over and plants a kiss on her luscious lips. He’s wearing pressed black slacks, a clean white t-shirt, and formal dress shoes. She wears a gorgeous green sequin mini dress that sparkles when the strobe lights catch it and a pair of velvet platform shoes. Except for the tight roundness at her abdomen, she’s mostly thin. Small spots of color bloom high on her cheeks. She looks thrilled to be alive.

Rosa Bell Fernandez, the old man recalls, though back then, he’d called her Bell. She used to laugh at that, but her hazelnut eyes had always sparkled like the stars every time he’d used that name.

His eyes move to Rosa’s belly as the first tear spills over onto his leathery cheeks. No doubt the child would have been just as beautiful as its mother, just as noble, and just as proud. A child who could have grown up and done marvelous things, perhaps changed the world. But the old man had never known, thanks to the lying, cheating scumbag dancing with her.

An hour from now, Rosa and her unborn child will be killed in a horrible car accident. The young man survives with hardly a scratch. It was always the bastards that live, always the good ones that die.

Well, that was going to change, and damn the consequences. He’d waited sixty years for the miracle of time travel to be possible, six decades to come back and make things right.

The lovers lock hands, and the young man begins pushing through the crowd, pulling Rosa with him. The old man moves to intercept. He clutches the rough wooden handle of the serrated blade concealed in his pocket. The young man pulls out a cell phone and begins tapping the screen, angling it away from Rosa so she doesn’t see.

It takes every bit of willpower the old man has to control his sudden rage and still his trembling hands. Bastard! Bad enough to betray her at all; the little shit’s doing it right in front of her! I’d almost forgotten that cocky smile.

He tries to recall the name of the woman the young man is texting, but it’s like grasping at strands in a complex spiderweb. It doesn’t matter anyway. Whoever she is, or was, what happened hadn’t been her responsibility. It had been this arrogant sack of shit’s.

Closer now. The old man breathes cold determination. Soon, they’ll pass right by him. He steels himself for the right moment, swallowing his rage, his depression, his hope, and fear. He forces them into a tiny box and shoves it into the deepest recesses of his mind. He can’t afford to fuck this up. If he does nothing, the young man will walk Rosa to his Honda Civic. He’ll open the passenger door like a gentleman and usher her into the steel deathtrap that will become her tomb. All the while planning a tryst with his sidepiece, no doubt fantasizing about all the different positions he wants to put her in while his woman waits for him back home.

If the old man does nothing, that is.

The accident will make the local news headlines, its front page featuring the small car, the passenger side peeled open like a can of sardines, where emergency firemen used the Jaws of Life to get at Rosa’s broken body. She’ll suffer from head contusions, numerous internal bruising, and a dozen cuts to the sides of her face and forehead where the glass exploded. But it’ll be the broken ribs that kill her, one of which pierces her heart. Internal bleeding causes her death long before the ambulance reaches the hospital. The baby dies less than an hour later, unable to survive the trauma.

But the bastard who kills them? He survives with only a broken wrist and a few scrapes and bruises. The worst damage will be to the cell phone he’d been texting his sidepiece with as he ran the red light and got plowed by a Ford F250, flipping the car over 3 times before it finally slid into another vehicle.

It’s happened thousands of times in the old man’s mind, in every waking moment, in every dream. He won’t let it happen now. He leaps forward with a growled curse and a snarl, and before anyone knows what’s happening, buries the knife deep into the soft flesh of the cheater’s belly, savagely twisting it on the way out before the younger man has time to do more than cry out in shock. Rosa’s screams are lost in the crowd’s terrified screams and shouts. She stumbles backward, clutching her stomach. The liar seizes the old man’s wrist, but it’s too late; the death blow has already been given.

The young man stares in shocked confusion into the eyes of his killer. Familiar eyes, the exact shade and shape of his own. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and gasps out a single question:

“Why?”

The old man leans close to whisper. “I had to save her. From us. She will live now.”

Understanding dawns on the young man’s pallid face as the old man relaxes. His body is already beginning to fade into nothingness. He turns to Rosa, smiling weakly despite her horrified regard. She’ll be traumatized, of course, but the baby should help her through that. They’ll both be okay now; that’s what’s important.

“My beautiful Bell.” He whispers.

He thinks, It’s not suicide, not really. Maybe, selficide? Then he’s gone.

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October winds carry chilled tidings over the lake’s murky waters, promising a hard winter. Lillian stands on the shore, a colorful shawl wrapped tightly around her diminutive frame, face tilted upward, eyes closed in contemplative silence. Her tawny, yellowish-brown cheeks are no longer etched with worry lines but smooth, serene in the knowledge that another snow season will pass by without hardship.

Faint scents of daffodil and sweet grass drift in on a light breeze, confirming the enchantment has worked. Thank the goddess. Lillian’s offering has been accepted. All will be well. Sighing in relief, she turns on graceful feet and heads back to her lakeside cabin.

There are no roads leading to her secluded shelter. No beaten paths, no dirt trails, nothing connecting the cabin to the tainted cities and cacophonous towns of the outside world. Her home is surrounded on three sides by a maple forest and faces the lake. Yet there are signs of life. A clean, bearskin rug lies at the cabin’s threshold, fragrant herbs hang from bits of twine, and perhaps most telling, only a few fresh fallen leaves litter the front steps.

Pausing to lay a hand on the moss-covered log above her door, Lillian mutters another prayer of gratitude and steps inside.

“The goddess has granted safe passage through the winter,” Lillian says, hanging her shawl on a wooden peg beside the hearth. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

A muscular man dressed in overalls sits slumped in a high-backed chair at a modest table in front of the hearth where a small fire burns, filling the room with cozy heat. His vacant gaze stares at nothing. Lillian quickly kisses his bearded cheek, then removes the wooden bowl before him.

“Let me wash this for you,” she tells him, her tone warm and appreciative. “I’ll bring us another.”

Humming, she moves into the kitchen and empties the bowl’s poisonous contents before pulling down a cluster of herbs wrapped in yellow and pink ribbons hanging beneath the window. Once green and supple, the tiny wreath is now brown and brittle, but that’s fine. She’ll make a fresh one next year to lure the next man or woman into her land.

Lillian had to admit he was a fine-looking specimen. She’d been pleasantly surprised to find him knocking on the door. “Oh my!” She’d exclaimed, taking in his broad shoulders and square jaw. “Aren’t you a beautiful thing? What awful sin has brought such a magnificent creature calling to humble home?”

They all had their dark secrets, and this one was no exception. He’d been a lumberjack, evidenced by the rather large axe he’d been carrying over one shoulder, its curved blade stained crimson along its sharpened edges. The bloody shreds of some poor woman’s blouse had been stuffed into one of his pockets, balled up like a handkerchief. It seemed her visitor enjoyed cutting down more than just trees.

Now singing softly to herself, Lillian sets a much larger bowl before him, this one carved with runes both archaic and arcane, and readies the sacrificial knife. Waste not, want not, her mother had always said. She goes to work. The human body offers so many useful spell ingredients.

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Harper shouldered through the Hyde Park crowd, feigning disinterest as she glanced backward. The bloke in the brown coat was still following, a silver badge featuring a bird with outstretched wings pinned high on his chest.

Her lungs constricted. Goddess, help me!

Ahead, a young girl stood fiddling beside an alley. Harper broke for it, leaping over the instrument’s case like a long jumper and sprinting across the asphalt.

“Hey!” The detective shouted, “Stop!”

Right, Harper thought, dodging a rubbish bin, and sentence Mum to slow starvation.

She saw another alley on the right and cut toward it as the bloke’s footsteps pounded the ground in her wake, running full pelt. Too late, she realized she’d run into a blind alley and whirled, heart pounding.

The detective’s bulky frame blocked the way back.

“Hello, love,” he leered, slowing to a leisurely walk.

Harper’s frantic gaze swept the shadowed brick buildings on either side. All the shop exits were shut, and the units opposite them held only small windows, their curtains drawn. Taking a deep breath, she met the bastard’s cold, dark eyes.

“Leave me alone, you bent bugger!”

His grin deepened. “Can’t do that, love, you know that.” He opened his coat, revealing the pistol at his side. “Never killed a self-proclaimed witch before.”

“How much is the Reid Network paying you to off me?”

He shrugged. “Enough.”

“You can’t think you’ll get away with shooting me here,” Harper said, hands raised and backing away. “Not with the festival only 30 metres away. They’ll hear it.” But between the street musicians’ songs and the roar of the Hyde and Seek Festival, she had serious doubts about that.

“Don’t matter,” the detective sneered. He patted something bulging in his left coat pocket. “I attempted to arrest you, and you pulled a gun. I had no choice.”

“Arrest me?” Harper asked, incredulous. The back of her shoulders thumped against the alley’s wall. “For what?!”

“Section 40 of the SA Summary Offences Act—pretending to have powers to defraud another. Punishable by up to two years imprisonment.”

“You can’t prove that!”

“Mr. Reid will testify that you offered to plague his dear sister with nightmares about her fiancé. He paid you handsomely for this service, and yet, she is still married.”

“He came to me!” Harper knew she shouldn’t have taken the job, but Tarot and palm readings had slowed. She and Mum needed food and a place to live. “I didn’t promise she would listen!”

Smirking, the detective unholstered his pistol. “Tell it to the devil, bitch.”

Harper shrieked and clenched her trembling hands into fists.

Suddenly, the detective’s shadow twisted like a snake and leaped from the ground, coiling around his throat. His eyes bulged, his mouth opening wide as he dropped the gun, choking and clawing at his neck.

It was over in seconds. Once the bastard fell, Harper stepped carefully around him, turned up the alley, and tipped the fiddler before melting back into the crowd.

Thanks be given.

Author’s Note: This was a short story written for the Not Quite Write Prize for flash fiction in January. I had to include the word “draw” in any form, the act of chasing, and it had to feature some kind of law. How do you think I did? Let me know in the comments!

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Most people pay little heed to signs. You know the kind—portents, omens, harbringers of bad juju—but I’m not most people. I read my daily horoscope, spend a good amount of time interpreting my own dreams, and look for synchronicities in my daily life. So, how I didn’t see this disaster of a date coming, I’ll never know.

I met Jimmy through eHarmony, a dating website. I know, probably a bad idea for a gal who grew up in the 80s, but I was desperate. He was no Brad Pitt, but he was active and good-looking enough, and I’m certainly no Angelina. I was a single mother, fresh out of a loveless ten-year relationship, looking to dip my toes into the dating pool. We planned to go hiking at a local trail, a hobby we both enjoyed, according to his profile. And really, what better way is there to get to know someone than on a nature walk?

You know how people say that plans sometimes go awry? Well, back then, my plans never seemed to go right. I had just finished showering and started shaving my legs when my cell rings.

“Hey, Momma.”

“Hey, Kathy.” I immediately know something is off, and not only in her tone. Momma always calls me ‘hunny’ or ‘Kat’, unless she has something serious to say. This won’t be good.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I already know the part that matters.

“I’m sorry, Kathy. Daddy tested positive for Covid, so we can’t take care of Tiff today.”

Well shit. So much for the nature walk. For those of you who don’t know, being a single parent is hard. Dating as a single parent is harder still, unless you’re well-off enough to hire a sitter. I barely make enough money to cover daycare, and Tiff’s father is about as useful as a broken washing machine. I hang up with Momma and sit down on the edge of the bathtub to text Jimmy.

‘Hey, handsome.’

I see him typing a reply almost right away, like he’d been waiting next to the phone for my text. Shit. That means he’s more than a little interested, right? Normally, I’d consider that a good thing, especially since today’s horoscope said that the stars favored open conversation. Right now, all I feel is a vague sense of disappointment. His reply makes it worse.

‘Hey, back! I just stopped at a gas station to grab some water. Want anything?’

Oh, man, he’s thoughtful, too! This really sucks. I sigh and squeeze the bridge of my nose. ‘Actually, my mom just bailed on me. Covid. Really sorry, can I give you a rain check?’

A full minute passes before he responds. Long enough for me to think I’ve blown it, but then I see he’s writing a response, and I allow myself to hope a little.

‘You have a kid? Your profile doesn’t mention that.’

Shit. Well, I see where this is going. I feel a stab of annoyance. Not everyone puts their whole lives online, you know. I mean, it’s not like that information is important for a first date, is it?

‘Yeah, she’s 18 months. I don’t usually throw out the baby thing until the second date.’

Another pause. This one is shorter. ‘I think that’s cute. How would you feel about ice skating instead? Tonight. Bring the baby, and I can meet you both?’

Wow! Not the answer I expected, but hey. Not every guy is a dick, I suppose.

I hesitate at first—I never planned to bring every guy I meet into Tiff’s life—but in the end, I reply hell yeah. I figure she’s only 18 months, and if this doesn’t work out, she won’t remember it anyway. With some new pep in my step, I finish shaving before Tiff wakes up and forces me to leave my legs unfinished.

A few hours later, I take Tiff out for some Chinese, and an hour later, we’re at Frosty’s Ice Skating and Hockey Palace, waiting on the man of the hour.

Jimmy arrives, and maybe it’s his apparent willingness to overlook the fact that I’ve got a baby daughter, but to me, he looks better than his photos. I can tell he’s been to see a barber because his beard lines are sharp and clean. He’s wearing blue jeans and a grey V-neck sweater over a plain white T-shirt. Butterflies flit about in my chest as he approaches us.

First thing he does after shaking my hand is to kneel in front of Tiff and exclaim how beautiful she is, how cute her little pink jacket looks, and how her mommy is going to be in a lot of trouble when she gets older. Tiff grins when Jimmy gives her a little tickle under the chin, and I feel my heart melt. That’s how we start the night.

It’s been a while since I’ve had a reason to feel giddy. We rent our skates, and I carry Tiff out on the ice. Jimmy moves to the side I’m carrying Tiff on, and I realize he’s positioning himself to catch her if something happens to make me drop her. He has an easy smile, and he’s an easy talker. I’m a natural listener, so it works well for both of us. I find myself hoping he sticks around for a few more dates.

We move along the outside edge of the rink and keep it slow. Tiff loves it, alternating between drooly grins and burying her head in my chest. Jimmy and I chat about all the usual nonsense that people talk about on first dates. How do you like your job and family, what are your goals, and do you want more kids? He asks about my divorce, but doesn’t push when he senses the areas I don’t want to talk about.

It’s all going great until I hear a commotion behind me. I turn to look and see several teenagers with faces twisted, looking like they had either just eaten the world’s most sour lemons or someone had shit themselves.

It turns out to be the latter.

They’re saying something I can’t make out and pointing at a brown trail on the ice behind me. My eyes follow the trail as an awful sensation of dread begins to settle in my stomach. The trail leads right to my skate, continues up my pant leg, the bottom of my shirt, and to Tiff.

At this point, I also realize my right arm and ribs are warmer than they should be.

I hold her away from me, understanding much too late that my poor baby had a blowout. A really bad one. Perhaps Chinese hadn’t been such a good idea.

Jimmy sees what happened and turns quite a few shades paler before color returns. Only it isn’t a healthy color, more like pea soup. The next thing I know, he loses his dinner right there on the ice.

I won’t gross you out with descriptions of look and smell. Let it be enough to say that he sets off a chain reaction, starting with two of the teenagers behind us.

It’s been two weeks since that night, and he hasn’t called me back or texted. Not even to acknowledge my apologies. I can’t say I blame him.

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Amor, how I’ve longed for you to see me, tangled in the living green ropes stretched above you. I wanted to come to you, but I don’t have the strength to break free of these wrought iron bars.

I’d almost given up hope, resigning myself to a cold life lived in shadow without the warmth of your smile. But at last, you’ve sauntered close, a merry twinkle in your hazelnut eyes. I shudder in glorious anticipation, awaiting your tender touch. At long last, I can stop wondering why you’ve stayed away for so long and think of other - more pleasant - things.

Like the day we met. You were sunbathing in a pink bikini. I remember how you glistened in the afternoon sunlight, the glimmering beads of sweat sliding down the sloping valleys of your backside like morning dew drops on cool summer mornings. Your dark hair seemed spun from silken threads of la mora negra. Your skin was smooth, rich, and supple, like warm cocoa butter.

Falling in love was as easy as breathing. You said pink was your favorite color, so I picked pink flowers for your hair. I opened myself up to you, as I have again so often in these past few months. Back then, though, you never ignored me. I never felt the sting of your cold shoulder, never wondered whether you still loved me, never questioned whether our love would last until even the angels of heaven turned to dust in the wind.

Then came the day we were forced to separate. We knew of the toll that war had taken on our country, but somehow thought its ever-lengthening claws would never reach our secluded city. How foolish we were, but that’s the folly of youth, isn’t it? We think we’re indestructible, and time is trivial, until life jerks us up by the hair and beats us bloody. Even so, we were scared, you more than me, I think, but I promised I’d come back to you, and you promised you’d wait for me.

I kept my promise, mi vida. Do you see, now? It isn’t the wind that causes my trembling, but your scrutiny as you bend closer to peer at me, your full lips pursed in astonished admiration.

There were nights I shivered in darkness, days when I thought the sun would leave me a smoking ruin in the sand. I saw friends cry for their mothers and held men as they wept for lost limbs and lives. I assured many of my brothers they would be fine, even as their blood gushed from wounds not even God could heal. I often dreamed of the rapid bursts of machine gun bullets, the terrible blasts, and the grinding squeal of roaming tanks. Most of all, I dreamed of the screams of fallen men, some friends, and some the enemy.

But sometimes I dreamt of you, too.

I’d see you walking among the villas at the base of our mountain home, your form glowing as the sun kissed the snowy peaks. I dreamt of your laugh and the way your breath quickened in my ear when I entered your body for the first time. I dreamt of your scent, lilac and honey, and how marvelous your lips tasted when pressed against my own.

Will you kiss me again, amor? I have done my best to leave behind my scars and become beautiful for you.

I don’t remember being sent home, but I do remember thinking I’d never see you again. It was dark, and the moon was new. I heard a sound from just outside the wire perimeter and went to investigate. They warned us not to wander, but I guess I wasn’t thinking. They say landmines click when you step on them, but mine didn’t. I scanned the area with my flashlight and saw a desert rose growing from the sand, rare and beautiful. I approached it, and next I knew, I was lying facedown in the sand. There was some faint sense of pain, but it was vague and far away.

I wished, since I was going to die, that I could be with you one last time. When I awoke, I was here, trapped in these green tangles, tied to this gray iron prison.

Now you’re reaching for me, and it all seems worth it. Your touch is gentle; your caress brings me bliss. I’m stretching for you, but I can’t break free of this prison. You lean in, though, and take in my scent. Your soft smile liberates my spirit. There’s a flash of white pain - a sense of tearing loose from another distant part of myself, from the living rope that bound me, but it’s gone before I can take note of it, and I am finally free in body as well.

The world is beginning to darken, but I’m at peace with it. You bring me close once more. I feel the softness of your lips and a tickle from your nose. Then the world swims as I am slipped into the silk-like folds of your raven hair. You always did love pink.

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Lilly opens her bedroom door. Hallway light slants across the grey carpet, illuminating the corner of her Barbie blanket against the bedpost. Beside it is a narrow strip of darkness, where the monster has been watching for the past three nights. Waiting to feed.

Stomach churning, Lilly ambles to the edge of the bed. She pauses there, heart hammering, straining, listening.

Its voice is slow, warbled, and deep as an underground cavern. "Heeeee hee heeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Lilly chokes back a scream, all but certain that an undead killer is waiting to stab her through the mattress once she lies down.

Wonder Woman wouldn't be afraid. She's brave like Mommy.

Quickly, Lilly runs to her dresser and pulls out a flashlight. Its bulb floods the dark room with bright light. Cautiously, she crouches by the bedroom door and focuses the beam into the narrow void.

"Heeeee hee heeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Her breath catches, but Wonder Woman wouldn't look away, so she won't either. The beam shows her a few scattered pennies, a couple of old dolls covered in dust, and a dirty towel partially covering something red and furry.

"Heeeee hee heeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Lilly's body shakes so bad she almost drops the flashlight. Hesitantly, she crawls closer to the bed. She reaches with trembling fingers, grasping the edge of the towel. It slides off easily at her tug, and the thing it was concealing rolls toward her. She squeaks . . . then sags in relief.

"Elmo!" Lilly admonishes. "Your batteries are dying!"

"Heeeee hee heeeeeeeeeeeee!"

A/N: Thank you for reading. I was very pleased with how this story came out, and even happier with the results from the competition. If you enjoyed this story, please consider liking and subscribing.

A/N: This story was initially published on Vocal Media last year. A few weeks ago, I submitted it to one of their summer competitions, “Leave the Light On.” Yesterday, I found out I won! Anyway, please enjoy my winning short story, The Countdown, and be sure to let me know what you think!

A deafening cheer erupts from the crowd outside Danny’s hotel window in New York City’s Time Square. The sky darkens as a giant, electric-blue ball begins its final descent. Danny’s heart races, his nausea amplified by the rising tide of outside voices counting down in perfect sync. “Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven-”

Less than a minute left now. What will it be? His humanity, or soul?

Three strange beings wait silently in the room with him. They aren’t human. Their smooth, mudlike skin is hairless, their oval faces a mix between a horned Klingon and a whiskered catfish. It’s their black eyes that cause him the most discomfort. Looking into them feels like peering into an endless, empty void.

Outside, the crowd continues to chant, “Fifty-one, fifty, forty-nine-”

Sour acid boils up Danny’s throat, threatening to spill over into his mouth. “Please,” he sobs, “I can’t do this! Don’t make me do this!”

They study him in cold silence, eyes still and unblinking. Apparently, they’ve said all they’re going to. The only thing left to do is choose. “You fucking bastards! Don’t do this!”

Clutching at his throat, he gags against the sudden urge to puke. Again. Not that there’s anything left. The bitter tang of vomit still burns his throat like hot, sticky coals.

God, I could really use a beer right now.

The thought shames him. Bethany would be disappointed. Danny’s most precious treasure, a beautiful, jade-eyed daughter he prays will never be like him. The only tangible thing left in his life that gives him purpose. What would she say to him if she were here? Rhetorical question. He knows, which makes his decision that much harder.

“Forty-two, forty-one, forty -”

A warm, coppery taste fills his mouth just before he realizes he’s bit his tongue. Exquisite pain causes the room to swim, but he doesn’t ease up. If he weren’t such a goddamn coward, he’d sever the damn thing with his teeth. Go for broke, as they say, choking to death on blood as it gushed down his airway. He’d laugh as the light fades from his eyes, proud to have finally done something good.

But he’s always been a coward. A failure. Scum.

As a baby, Bethany hardly ever fussed. Even when the pertussis had wrecked her little body, she’d barely cried. There had been times when Danny was sure she wasn’t long for this world, but Bethany had battled through it all with grace and grit. His fault, of course. He’d refused to take the vaccination while she’d been in the womb and passed it on shortly after her birth. Danny remembered endless nights crying on his knees, begging God to bring her through. He’d promised to give up the alcohol and late nights, binge drinking with so-called friends who cared less for him than he did for them.

She’s now a bright, joyful five-year-old. A raven-haired little girl who charmed just about everyone with dazzling smiles and cute giggles: how she manages to keep that kind spirit is beyond Danny’s comprehension. A miracle, considering what he’s put her through - lies and empty promises. I’ll never drink again, baby. I’ll pick you up tomorrow, ok? We’ll go for ice cream, how’s that sound? How many tears has she hidden behind that smile, sparing him the guilt he so richly deserved? Doesn’t he owe her something in return?

“CHOOSE, HUMAN.”

The gravelly voice crashes into Danny’s mind like a megaphone, sending him to his knees with an agonized cry. It feels like a metal spike has been driven into his brain, but the voice is only in his mind. Shakily, he climbs to his feet, surprised there isn’t blood gushing from his ears.

Thirty seconds left.

Licking his lips, he scans the crowd outside the window. A sorry bunch of locals and tourists, drinking and celebrating without a care in the world, dancing while lofting cheap plastic wine cups filled with cheaper champagne. Some of them haven’t bothered waiting for the countdown and are already sucking each other’s faces like it’s going out of style. His hands tighten into shaking fists. Why should he care what happens to these freaks?

“Twenty-seven, twenty-six, twenty-five -”

Time is moving much too fast. Tears well up and spill over, tracing rivulets down his flushed cheeks.

Bethany had begged him not to go; she wanted to spend New Year’s Eve with Daddy, but Danny had won an all-expense-paid trip from a radio show. He’d believed his luck was finally improving. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. A trip for one. Who else but he would have even wanted it? He should have known better than to go anywhere without his daughter.

“Twenty, nineteen, eighteen -”

The force of their presence had woken him from a nap. A chill that ran deep into his bones, a cold so intense he’d thought he would never be warm again. When he’d seen them hovering over his bed, he’d opened his mouth to scream but had been unable. In his nightmares, he couldn’t yell because of paralyzing fear - but this felt more like shouting underwater. What came out was nothing more than silent pockets of air.

“Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen -”

They had fish-like lips but didn’t use them. They’d conversed with Danny in his mind. They were here to study the extremes of human behavior. The choice was simple - in a horrific sort of way. Bethany, currently two states away, could die in her sleep tonight, or every man, woman, and child in New York City would take her place.

A no-brainer. He’s been a loser his whole life, but he’s not stupid. He doesn’t owe these people anything. In their own way, they were no different than the aliens in his room - uncaring, cold, and distant. He wouldn’t sacrifice his daughter for them.

But there’s always a catch.

Bethany would know of his decision either way. Bethany, who had once cried because he’d killed a spider in her room. Bethany, who’d insisted on giving away one of her teddies to a homeless woman on the street, would know that her father had condemned over eight million people to die. For her.

“Ten, nine -”

She’d hate him, obviously. He can deal with that. Will she hate herself, though? Will she grow up feeling that awful burden, knowing her life could have spared millions? Will she be depressed? Will his sweet angel grow up traumatized, turn to drugs or alcohol, or worse, take her own life?

“Eight, seven, six -”

He’s out of time. Danny looks into those glass eyes and stares into the void - into hell itself. He feels nothing but a vague, helpless anger, a distant emotion that brings no comfort. As the countdown reaches five, he spits beside their strange, inhuman feet on the carpeted floor, glaring in open defiance.

“Fuck you, then. I chose Bethany. Let the rest burn.”

“Four, three -”

The visitor’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates, then widen more. A brilliant white light envelopes everything, burning all to dust and ash.

Time stands still as horrific scenes flash through Danny’s mind in rapid succession. New York reduced to rubble, its people smoking ruins of charred flesh covered in ash and snow drifts. News Media around the world struggle to make sense of what happened. Eventually, the US government blames some scapegoat terrorist organization in the Middle East. No one believes it, but the patriotic calls of citizens demanding blood cannot stop the inevitable tides of war. The US strikes first, killing thousands, and soon after, the whole world is at war once more.

Danny doesn’t see who sets off the first nukes; he only sees his daughter, standing in a yellow sundress on a grassy hill, holding her mommy’s hand when the first warhead hits. She’s smiling, but there’s fear and pain in those green eyes. Right before the fire dries her tears and melts her flesh, she screams her daddy’s name, her voice joined by billions as their lives are snuffed away.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” The scream tears from his throat like a buzzsaw. He falls to his knees, clawing at his eyes as the terrible visions fade.

“Happy New Year!” The crowd shouts. Fireworks thunder in the night sky.

There is no sign of the visitors. The explosions never come. Danny collapses on his knees once more, his chest heaving with sobs.

When he finally composes himself, he sees a note on the bed. When he reads it, a fresh scream rips from his throat, louder and more terrible than the first.

We visited your daughter first. She has cancer. It will kill her before the year is up. We promised to remove it for her if she correctly guessed which decision you would make. She was wrong. Thank you for participating.

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'Ana walidatuk (I am your mother)

I rocked you in the waters of my womb

'Ana waliduk (I am your father)

I gave of my flesh so your tree could bloom

'Ana 'akhuk al'akbar (I am your older brother)

I fought against those who would harm you

'Ana 'ukhtuk alsughraa (I am your younger sister)

I gave you comfort when you were subdued

Limadha la tatakalamu? (Why won’t you speak)

When they slander my name?

Limadha la tasrukhu? (Why won’t you shout)

When they drown my home in flames?

Limadha la tudafie eani? (Why won’t you defend me)

When they flood the streets with my blood?

Limadha la tabki? (Why won’t you cry)

When my children are left dead in the mud?

'Ant taqul 'ana hadha lays min shanina (You say, it’s not our business)

As another of our daughters is raped

'Ant taqul 'anaha laysat maerakatana (You say, it’s not our fight)

As another child’s body is draped,

'Ant taqul 'anaha laysat mushkilatana (You say, it’s not our problem)

As another of my people die,

'Ant taqul 'anaha laysat harbana (you say, it’s not our war)

As another of your missiles fly.

Photo by Jonathan Castañeda via Unsplash

Dogust 2, 2024

Attn: Colonel Floppy “Long Ears” McSniffles.

418 Waggin Street

New Yorkie, NY 10017

Colonel,

I regret to inform you that I've failed my 347th escape attempt. After this latest defeat, I've come to believe the initial reports of human simplicity provided by the Central Canine-telligence Agency are either inaccurate or incomplete. It seems improbable, I know, but allow me to elaborate:

As I disclosed in the previous letter, my captors planned to bring me to one of their secret laboratories, run by masked humanoid creatures in white furless skins they call vets. A nasty place not even fit for cats, where they perform vile experiments and purportedly collect jars of male genitalia. Yesterday, while pretending to indulge in behind-the-ear scratches and belly rubs, I learned they would transport me via "subway" and subsequently began planning my daring escape.

This subway fortress of theirs is quite fascinating. Upon arrival, my nose was nearly overwhelmed by the various scents of warm beef, salt, cheese, and human sweat. Humans mill about by the hundreds and huddle closely together like Buffalo, perhaps for warmth since their fur is often thin. Some of them perform noisy tricks for strange paper treats. I’ve little doubt that they communicate through scent like we do, because I detected strong odors of their urine on several walls.

We reached a double-sided platform where a giant metal monster waited, devouring dozens of humans and spitting out others before rushing off, presumably to hunt for more. I’m not ashamed to admit I was terrified. I tried warning them against such a horrifying creature, but they seemed determined to sacrifice themselves, so I decided to enact my plan.

While they were distracted, I yanked on the twisted fibrous restraint they had wrapped around my neck. There was a moment when my air was cut off, and then I was free, dashing amongst the other human cattle and looking for the surest path out. Some tried snatching at the restraint’s loop, but I was too quick for them. My devious captors did manage to come within a paw’s length of recapturing me, but here I used a clever trick to get away.

I'd been sure to beg for scraps of bacon they ate for breakfast earlier that morning. It’s a delicious laxative that gives me the runs, and I squirted some on the floor behind me right as they reached for the restraint. They slipped on the mess and fell, and I used this opportunity to leap over the gap spanning the two platforms just as another giant monster was slowing for its feast.

You’d have been proud of me, Colonel, if only I hadn’t stopped to catch my breath! Another human snatched my restraint and kept me under guard until my captors could regain custody of me.

I'm already planning the next attempt, but I'd appreciate it if you included some getaway advice in your response. As ever, I remain loyal to the Paws.

Regards,

Private Anya Growler

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Photo by A.C. on Unsplash

“Oh my God, Quinn, would you hurry up?!” Vic glanced at his watch - 6:46. Fourteen minutes until the library closed, and he lost his chance with Monica forever. “What’s taking so long?”

Quinn inched his square-framed glasses down his broad nose with a slim finger and raised a bushy eyebrow. “If you think you can do this any faster, Vic, be my guest.”

Vic groaned internally. Quinn’s pride was bruised so easily. He raised his hands placatingly. “Sorry, man,” he said, forcing a sheepish grin. “But we’re almost out of time!”

“Thought so,” Quinn said, pushing his glasses back in place. “I’m almost in. You just watch for Mrs. Big-Nose and run defense if she gets too close.”

The concept of his friend calling Mrs. Jones – the head librarian – big-nosed when Quinn himself had a sausage-like snout struck Vic as deliciously hypocritical, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

6:47 now - time was running out. Vic pictured his summer plans souring like curdled milk. After this summer, his dream girl would move to Florida to attend The University of Miami, and he was a year behind her. If he didn’t get her to fall in love with him before she left, he might never have the chance.

The problem was his abysmal grades. He wasn’t exactly failing, but after the last report card, Vic’s parents had warned if he didn’t bring them up, he’d spend half the summer grounded and the other half with a tutor, leaving him no time to pursue his love interest. As far as Vic was concerned, he’d made a heroic effort this last quarter, pulling most of his class averages up to a solid C. He only had two D’s, but he was sure that even though they were in unimportant classes – Math and Science – his parents wouldn’t see it that way.

Well, I’m not letting them stand in the way of my destiny, Vic thought fiercely, rechecking his watch. 12 minutes left. He resisted the urge to ask Quinn how he was progressing and settled for looking over his shoulder instead, but that only made Vic want to scratch his head. Quinn had half a dozen windows open with what amounted to little more than gibberish to Vic, so he stepped away before giving himself a headache.

Right on time to see Mrs. Jones headed their way.

Shit! Vic thought. His eyes flicked nervously between the monitor and the approaching calamity with the admittedly big nose. Gotta distract her! He leaned over and whispered a warning to Quinn – who waved him away lazily – and then weaved around the desks to intercept the head librarian.

Mrs. Jones’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as Vic drew close, the corners of her mouth wrinkling as she glanced from Vic to Quinn and back again. Vic swallowed and put on what he hoped was a charming smile.

“Hello, ma’am! Can you help me find a book on native flowers?” Mrs. Jones raised an eyebrow. Vic felt his cheeks warming but pressed on. “N-Not for me,” he stammered. I need it for — uh — my mom. Her garden, I mean.”

At first, Vic wondered if Mrs. Jones had heard him, but when he opened his mouth to repeat himself, she tilted her head to look over his shoulder at Quinn, then fixed Vic with a piercing stare. “Young man, did you know,” she asked matter-of-factly, “that in Georgia, you can be prosecuted for surfing pornography on a county-owned computer?”

Vic thought his jaw might hit the floor. “Wh-what? We aren’t looking at porn!”

The librarian continued to peer at him through hooded eyes as if waiting for him to break. He shifted uncomfortably, aware of how red his ears must be and unable to meet her gaze. Finally, she nodded, and Vic felt a flood of relief.

“What book are you looking for then?”

“Umm, I don’t really know, ma’am,” Vic replied, scratching the back of his scalp. Why the hell hadn’t he thought about that before coming to the library? “Could you maybe recommend one for me?”

To Vic’s relief, that worked. Mrs. Jones pursed her lips and pointed at Quinn. “You and your friend need to wrap it up, young man. The library closes in 5 minutes. Wait by the desk, and I’ll see if I can rustle up something for you on your way out.”

5 minutes?! Vic tried not to let the panic show on his face as he hurriedly returned to Quinn’s side. He better be in by now!

Quinn was smart – brilliant, actually – but did things at a pace that made Vic want to pull his hair out. His friend was a straight-A student but often needed extra time to complete tests and would spend hours longer on projects than anyone else. Quinn was a plotter. Vic preferred playing the game of life by the ear. Things were much easier that way.

Quinn’s head raised as Vic approached, and the gleam of triumph in his brown eyes made Vic want to pump a fist in the air. “Told you I could do it,” he chortled.

Vic stared at the screen with wide eyes. In the browser was a simple website titled ‘Student Information.’ A generic photo at the top of the page showed a smiling teenage girl bent studiously over her desk, scribbling something on paper. Under that were three rectangular bars. The left one was labeled ‘last,’ the middle one ‘first,’ and the far right ‘student id.’ Beneath these were blue underlined links: Student File, Teacher Notes, and finally, Grades.

Giving Quinn a playful slap on the arm, Vic whooped in excitement. “I knew you could do it, man!”

“Damn right,” Quinn gloated. He blew a puff of air against his knuckles and wiped them on his shirt above the chest. “Bill Gates doesn’t have shit on me.”

“Yeah, you know it!” Vic clapped his friend heartily on the shoulder. “We should change your name to Neo! Now hurry, we got, like, three minutes left!”

Quinn flexed his fingers and clicked inside the first rectangle. He typed ‘Davis,’ then clicked in the middle box and typed ‘Victor’ – using a one-finger technique to type that most people stopped using after kindergarten. Vic wanted to tell Quinn to hurry the hell up but again held his tongue. Quinn clicked the magnifying glass and the ‘Grades’ link underneath.

And there they were — all of Vic’s grades listed alphabetically by subject. There was a tiny box with a grade letter inside for each quarter underneath every subject. The first three boxes were grayed out, but the fourth allowed changes. Quinn went through them all, assigning Vic an ‘A’ in each, then moved his mouse to close out the window.

“Wait,” Vic hissed. “One more!”

Quinn’s eyebrows shot up. “What? Who?”

“Monica Hernandez.”

“Monica?!” Quinn’s head shook in bewilderment. “Why? You don’t even know her!”

But Vic did know her – just not in the strictly traditional sense. He’d loved her since the start of freshman year, when he’d seen her in a yellow sundress, standing beside the school’s water fountain in the courtyard. A girl with warm terra-cotta brown skin and curly raven-colored hair framing a perfectly smooth, round face – the face of an angel.

Unfortunately for Vic, he was about as smooth with members of the opposite sex as a desert cactus. Still, fortunately, he was also the Picasso of procrastination, so no biggie. He could put off approaching his dream girl for another day.

Except a day had turned into a month and then into two years. Now, his window of opportunity was closing rapidly. What if he never got to talk to her at all?

“I’ll tell you later,” Vic insisted. “Just do it, man, hurry!”

Quinn shrugged, and after a few excruciatingly long seconds that made Vic want to push his friend aside and do it himself, Monica’s grades were on the screen. Hers were much better than Vic’s - 5 A’s and 2 B’s.

Vic pointed to the B under Chemistry. “That one. Change it to an A, and let’s get out of here!”

Quinn saved the changes, and suddenly, Vic felt better than he had all week. He’d successfully pushed back the expiration date on his love life by a few months. With time and a little luck, he’d push it back indefinitely.

***

Three days later, Vic sat at a school table during lunch, watching Monica chat with a friend. He’d never felt less like eating and thought he might vomit. Sooner or later, he’d have to work up the courage to tell Monica what he’d done. Tomorrow was the last day of school.

Quinn nudged him in the ribs. “Go talk to her, man!”

“I can’t!” Vic nodded toward Monica’s friend. “Not until she leaves!”

“I don’t think you have that luxury, Vic,” Quinn countered. “Shoot your shot, man. It’s now or never!”

Vic nodded. Quinn was right, and the plan was foolproof. Last week, Vic overheard Monica’s girlfriend console her about losing a fully paid scholarship. Monica, it seemed, had been counting on straight A’s to push her weighted GPA to 3.9, which would meet U.M.’s scholarship requirement, but she’d received a B in chemistry. They’d still pay 75 percent of her tuition, but that meant Monica would have to work summer jobs to pay for the rest.

It was a sign from heaven. Vic needed to improve his grades. Monica did, too, and it just so happened that his best friend was a computer genius. If Vic helped himself, he could help Monica, and if he helped her, she’d be so grateful that she wouldn’t care if he stuttered through their first conversation like a drunken idiot. Perhaps he could talk her into a date.

“She might even give me a kiss,” Vic muttered hopefully.

“Huh?”

Vic ignored his friend and took a deep breath. It had to be now. He stood stiffly and nearly tripped over the bench behind his knee, regaining his balance through sheer luck. His heart pounded like pistons in a race car. Calm down, he urged himself. Be smooth!

A deep voice he recognized spoke behind him. “Mr. Davis?”

Oh, no! Vic’s blood turned cold. He turned around, seeing a tall, clean-shaven, stern-looking man wearing a pin-striped suit – Principal Stevenson.

“Come with me, young man,” he said, and Vic felt his hopes shatter like glass against the linoleum.

***

Later, Vic stood at his locker, numbly cleaning out its contents. Suspended, he thought grimly. To be carried over into next year. Man, life was going to suck so hard for the next few weeks.

It had been just as he feared. They’d found the discrepancy in his grades - primarily due to one giant mistake. He’d aimed too high, allowing Quinn to change his grades to A’s instead of the minimal he needed to keep his parents off his back. What an idiot!

Quinn found him by the lockers and raised an eyebrow. “Caught, huh?”

“Yeah,” Vic sighed, “but don’t worry, I didn’t give them my accomplice. They offered to shorten my suspension if I did, but I wasn’t about to give up my best friend. You should probably keep your head down, though. There’s no way they don’t suspect you. No one believed I could hack the school on my own.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Quinn said. Then, grinning, he handed Vic a folded slip of paper. “This is for you.”

Inside, a phone number had been written in delicate script. Vic’s eyes widened. “Is this –“

“Monica’s number, yeah,” Quinn chuckled. “After you left, I decided to intercede on your behalf and told Monica what you’d done. She was shocked and pissed at first, but as you can see, I smoothed it over.”

Suddenly, Vic’s summer didn’t seem so bleak. “Ah, man, you’re the best, Quinn!”

“I know,” Quinn agreed. “She says to call her if your parents ever let you out of prison.”

Hello, everyone, and thank you for reading. Last week, I promised to publish my group-winning story for NYC Midnight’s Short Story Competition. I thoroughly enjoyed writing this one, and I hope you enjoy reading it. The judges stated it was ‘beautifully crafted’ and a ‘wonderful setup for a new fairytale. I’d love to know if you agree!

A Wedding Proposal

By Kenny Penn

Once upon a time, a proud queen of fairy blood ruled over the land of Eules. Her name was Peony. Like the flower, her beauty was legendary, her hand sought by kings and nobles worldwide. Her people loved her, for though her fury was said to be dreadful, she was fair in judgments and fiercely protective of her subjects.

One day, while Queen Peony tended her rose garden, one of her maidservants entered through a garden gate and hurriedly knelt at her feet. “My Queen,” she said, “Lord Basel has arrived and has requested the grace of your presence.”

“Myriam,” the queen chided, “how often must I tell you there is no need to prostrate yourself? I am not a goddess to be worshipped.”

“Apologies, your Grace,” Myriam replied, bowing deeper, “but it wouldn’t be proper for your servant to be seen as discourteous.”

Tiny silver bells woven in the queen’s golden hair whispered musically as her head shook. “Foolish Myriam, there is none but us out here to witness such formality.”

“Your Grace, Lord Basel?”

“Yes, lead the way. We mustn’t keep him waiting.”

Myriam straightened gracefully and led the way inside the palace proper. As always, the queen felt a pang of regret upon passing through its wooden arches. The palace’s white-marbled walls and grey-tiled floors were forever silent, indifferent as death, its many colorful paintings and grand murals cold compared to the bountiful life thriving amongst her flowers and shrubs.

Lord Basel bowed as Peony entered the great hall. A handsome man, human, and young, even by the standards of his race. He wore a dark silk coat embroidered with gold thread and was bejeweled on his wrists, fingers, and neck. His black hair had been braided with eagle feathers and slicked back with scented oils in the fashion of the nobility. He’d brought a servant with him, a bearded middle-aged man who wore naught but a simple brown tunic over grey trousers the Queen surmised could hardly have cost more than the thread used to make them.

“Lord Basel,” she said. “How can your queen be of service?”

The young lord straightened and smiled charmingly. “Your Grace, I have come seeking your hand in marriage.”

“That is bold of you, Lord Basel,” the queen remarked, raising an eyebrow. “Usually, your father would be the one to ask for such a boon, but he died of inebriety, did he not?”

The nobleman flushed. “If you’ll excuse me, your grace, my late lord father was a drunken fool. I am not such as he.”

“Indeed,” she replied. “What makes you different than the others before you?”

Basel took a deep breath and spread his hands. “Before my father passed, he found a prize of great value and thought to keep it to himself. If you agree to marry me, I will give it to you.”

Peony glanced at Myriam, who looked bewildered. “And what might that be, my Lord?”

The nobleman smiled. “Wings, my queen. Iridescent, glorious. Your wings. Found by my father years ago, though where I know not.”

“My wings,” the queen whispered, lips thinly pressed. “You would gift me my wings as a bridal offering?”

The manservant’s eyes widened at the queen’s words, but Lord Basel didn’t notice. “Yes, if it pleases you, your Grace.”

Queen Peony nodded slowly. “At last, to fly again,” she mused. “Long have I cursed the thief who stole them in my sleep. In three days, hence, then. Let it be done.” She gestured beside her. “This is my most trusted servant, Myriam. She shall serve as my bridesmaid. I shall send her to you each day with a quest. Should you succeed, we shall marry on the eve of the third day, and you shall return me my wings.”

The young lord beamed. “As you say, my queen, so shall it be.”

***

Early on the morning of the first day, Myriam knocked on the door to Lord Basel’s palace rooms. His manservant answered, greeting her with the utmost courtesy due to someone far beyond her station. Curious about a man with such manners, she asked for his name.

“Orlen, my lady, may it please you.” He bowed deeply. “Will you let me take your coat?”

“Please,” Myriam agreed, watching as he hung it carefully on the rack. Only one other coat hung there; the same Lord Basel had been wearing the previous day. Did Orlen not have coats of his own? Indeed, he must, for the nights in Eules were yet cold.

Before she could inquire, Orlen extended his hand. “Now, my lady, if you will follow me to my Lord’s study.”

Lord Basel was busy writing a letter when they entered, so he bid them wait. He wore a red silk shirt with deep bluestone buttons on the chest and cuffs tucked into black-dyed trousers fastened to his waist by a broad gold buckle.

“Ah, the bridesmaid,” he said, without further greeting, and set down his quill, “here to give me my first quest.”

“It is a simple task, my Lord. Outside these palace walls lives a family whose father has fallen ill. Our Queen’s physician has assured her the man will be well again given enough time, but he cannot provide the nourishment his family needs while the illness remains. The queen would like you to see to this matter at once.”

“The Queen wishes me to intercede on behalf of a peasant family, like some manor lord?” The young nobleman shook his head. “For what purpose?”

“But, my Lord!” Orlen exclaimed. “This is a matter easily resolved! We yet have much of the wheat we brought with us. More than we need to return home. Give me the word, and I shall fetch enough for them to quiet their bellies for a full fortnight.”

“No,” Lord Basel sneered. “I’ll not have good wheat wasted on peasant mouths.” He tapped his narrow chin in thought. “Send the family to the lower city with a few guardsmen and order one of the innkeepers to give them loaves.”

“That may cost the good innkeeper more than he can afford, Lord Basel,” Myriam warned.

“I care not about what he feeds them,” Basel shrugged, “as long as they are fed. Give them pig slop if he has any.”

“As you say, my Lord,” Myriam bowed. Orlen showed her to the door, laying her coat gently about her shoulders, and she saw he was quite saddened.

***

On the morning of the second day, Myriam brought the nobleman to the market plaza. “Our Queen wishes to look radiant for your wedding, my Lord, and would like you to find a trinket for her hair.”

Lord Basel was pleased to be given such a task and set about with gusto, sampling gems, ribbons, pearls, and brooches of all shapes and sizes. Finally, he selected a red silk ribbon woven with dozens of tiny pearls, sapphires, and rubies.

“Please give this to the queen with my compliments,” the lord said. “It is my fondest hope that it should bring her joy.”

“Thank you, Lord Basel,” Myriam said, carefully pocketing the trinket. “It shall be as you say.”

A beggar child, dressed in rags, smeared with dirt and grime, and smelling most foul, ran from a nearby alley and approached them. Its face was pale and hollow-cheeked, its eyes downcast and sagging in exhaustion.

“Excuse me,” the wretched child pleaded, “Could you spare a copper or two? I’ve eaten naught for days.”

Lord Basel clutched a handkerchief to his nose and shook with rage. “How dare you!” He motioned to a nearby guard. “Take this street urchin away and have it whipped within an inch of its life! That will teach it some manners!”

As the guard dragged the child away, Orlen hurriedly pressed something hard into Myriam’s palm.

“Please, my lady,” he whispered, glancing warily at his master’s back. “It is only food the child seeks. Give the child this small token from my own purse.”

He bowed and left. When Myriam opened her hand, she saw Orlen had given her an entire piece of silver and was moved to tears.

***

On the morning of the third day, Myriam brought the nobleman to the edge of the Queen’s wood. “Queen Peony wishes to celebrate your wedding with a feast and has asked that you hunt and kill a wild boar.”

Lord Basel grinned, nodding eagerly over his horse’s neck. “If my queen desires boar, then boar she shall have!” But though the nobleman hunted all morning and into the early afternoon, he could find neither hoof nor hair of a boar and, not wanting to be late for his meeting with the queen, bitterly called an end to the hunt.

Before they returned to the safety of the queen’s walls, a brawny man stepped out of the shadows and into their path. He held a magicked longsword wrapped in glowing bluish hues.

“I am called Robert, the Bold,” the brawny man said. “Give me all of your gold or die by my blade.”

“I-“ Lord Basel licked his lips and stepped back, his hand trembling on his sword pommel. “I will do no s-such thing, you c-cur. We outnumber you three to one, so b-begone!”

The bandit nodded thoughtfully. “It’s true; there are three of you and but one of me.” He pointed his sword at Myriam. “But one of you is a woman, which makes the odds better for me.” He looked to the sky, pretending to think. “Tell you what. I could take you both, but I’m feeling generous. How about you give me the lady to warm my bed, and I’ll let you pass unharmed?”

Looking relieved, Lord Basel opened his mouth, but Orlen brandished his short sword and shouted, “Over my dead body, fiend!”

“Then die!” The bandit shouted back and rushed them, glowing sword held high.

Basel screamed and nearly tripped as he skipped backward, placing himself behind his servant. Orlen rushed forward to meet the threat. Myriam, seeing he was no true swordsman, screamed for fear of his safety, but Robert the Bold tripped over a rock, impaled himself upon Orlen’s sword, and died soon thereafter.

“Orlen!” Myriam dashed to and embraced him, her tears hot against his cheek. “You saved me!”

“Yes,” Lord Basel mused, “you did. Now the wedding is saved, for surely the queen will find that since we saved her bridesmaid, the boar no longer matters. Fortune has smiled on me this day!”

“As you say, my Lord,” Myriam said, grateful to be alive.

***

Later, Queen Peony entered the great hall where Lord Basel waited, brimming with confidence. Myriam entered behind her, dressed beautifully in a long yellow satin gown embroidered with white flowers, her hair woven with the gem-encrusted ribbon the young lord had intended for the queen.

The nobleman’s smile faltered, but he quickly recovered. “Your lady makes a lovely bridesmaid, your Grace, beautiful as a star. Does this mean you have agreed to our marriage?”

The queen favored him with a smile. “You have brought my wings?”

“Of course, your Grace,” Basel said, gesturing to Orlen. “My servant has them tucked away safely in my palace rooms.”

Orlen blushed but remained silent. The queen looked to Myriam, who nodded. She had confirmed this detail with Orlen earlier.

“Very good, my Lord,” Queen Peony said. “I have but three final matters to attend. Perhaps you’d like to assist me?”

Lord Basel bowed. “Of course, my queen, you have but to ask.”

Queen Peony nodded. “Three criminals have been brought before my court this day and judged guilty. I need help determining what judgments to impose. The first is a farmer who has refused to give his lawful share of crops to the realm. He insists I find food from other sources needing it less. The second is a merchant caught lying about his profits to avoid paying proper taxes to his queen, and the third is a soldier turned deserter. How shall I punish these criminals, my lord?”

“Despicable crimes, my queen.” Basel shook his head grimly. “Because of the farmer’s selfishness, people of the realm may go hungry and starve during famine. You should order all his crops taken to teach him the value of sharing. The merchant is greedy, but more than that, he shows little compassion for the well-being of his fellows. My queen may be less capable of paying the kingdom’s debts and fulfilling its obligations, which threatens our peace. For that, the merchant should lose everything, condemned to live the rest of his life as a beggar.”

Peony pursed her lips, nodding slowly. “Very wise, Lord Basel. And the soldier?”

The nobleman scowled. “The law is clear. The penalty for desertion is death. The kingdom should not suffer cowards to live.”

Again, the queen nodded. “Thank you, Lord Basel. You have given your answers and thus sealed your fate.”

Basel drew back, unsure he’d heard his queen correctly. When he met her gaze, he visibly paled, for the corners of her eyes smoked with an icy frost. “M-my queen! What –“

The Queen cut him off with a finger. “You expect the farmer to give freely of his crops, yet you refused to help a hungry family with crops of your own.” She lifted a second finger. “You rightly accuse the merchant of greed and lack of compassion, yet you sent a destitute child away to be whipped instead of offering coin or food.” She lifted a third. “You accuse the soldier of cowardice, yet when Lady Myriam’s life was in danger, you screamed in terror and fled behind your manservant, Orlen.”

“Wait!” The nobleman pleaded. “I still –“

“Furthermore,” the queen continued cooly, “you offer me the wings your father cut from my back whilst I slept, pretending to know nothing of his treachery and would sell back to me that which is mine by right. For these crimes, I take from you that which you would take from those criminals. Lord Basel, your home and title, I bestow to Orlen, who has shown far more compassion and bravery than his master. Your life, however, belongs to me. A new statue for my garden, I think.”

Peony’s eyes grew larger, and the air grew colder with them. Basel screamed as light erupted from his eyes, mouth, and nose before bursting from every pore until he was shrouded in light. Orlen and Myriam covered their faces and screamed.

When the light dimmed, Lord Basel stood frozen in stone, his mouth forever open in an expression of fear and disbelief.

“Myriam,” the queen said calmly, “see that my new statue is moved to the garden. Close to the aviary, I think. Lord Orlen?”

Face pale, Orlen forced his gaze away from his former master. “Yes, my queen?”

“Bring me my wings. After that, you should arrange to sup with Myriam. I think she likes you.”

###

Well, what do you think? I hope you enjoyed it. If so, please consider subscribing to be notified of future publications. Thanks again for reading!

-Kenny

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NaNoWriMo

Whew! NaNoWriMo, the month where we write until our wrists are sore and our eyes are burning from staring at the computer screen, is over! I got in over 40k words but didn’t meet my goal of 50, mostly because I’m in the editing/reviewing stage, but I still had fun! The rough edges are beginning to smooth, and the story is shaping up nicely. I’m glad the month is behind us now, but working toward a goal like that is definitely motivating for me. What about you?

Now that it’s over, my thoughts always turn to ways to stay motivated throughout the rest of the year. I like to use daily reminders, word goals, and a calendar to keep myself on track, but others like routines. I have a friend who can’t stay motivated if she doesn’t go for a run every morning and another who has to read to keep himself in the mood to write. I’d love to read your own methods and suggestions in the comments!

‘Frighten Me Please!’ Winners

In October, I ran a competition challenging writers on Vocal to give me some scary stories, and they did not disappoint! I had 26 excellent entries, but the two below stood out to me as the winners.

In second place, we have an entry by JBaz, 'Salems Saviour' This creepy story takes place in an old village in Salem, Massachusetts (I had to look up the spelling) and involves a little girl attempting to save her parents' lives. Aside from the constant oppressive vibes this story gives, I was most impressed with the narrative style JBaz gives it. The narrator sounds as though he comes from that time period, giving the tale a sense of realism that adds to its overall fear factor. It really is an excellent piece, you should definitely give it a read!

The winner was none other than the fabulous L.C. Schäfer for their absolutely dreadful story, Imposter. It's about a man who has to check a dead woman's vitals for signs of life, and my goodness, is it ever creepy. Here's a sample line from the protagonist that I thought was genius: "I wish I weren't alone. I hope I am alone." L.C.'s use of repetitious elements, heart-pounding descriptions, and well-chosen vocabulary make this story a MUST-Read. Warning: Not for the faint of heart.

A poem: Falling by Donna Fox (HKB)

This week’s poem is a lovely Haiku written by Donna Fox. I’m a huge fan of Haiku, especially the more traditional ones with nature themes, and Donna’s is no exception. I loved the image of fall she gives with just twelve words. She brings back fond memories of my childhood spent playing in autumn leaves and reminds me why fall is still my favorite season.

A Horror Micro: Locked In by Cathy Holmes

If you read last week’s edition, you’ll remember I featured a horror micro inspired by Vocal Media’s ‘Spooky Micro’ competition. Well, I’ve got another one for you, and it’s damn good. In this frightful tale, Cathy explores the question: What would happen if you were drugged with something so potent that your friends and family believed you were dead? I got real chills reading this one. Perfect for the upcoming Holiday!

A Short Story: The Literary Agent by Sarah Parker

In keeping with the season, ‘The Literary Agent’ is a fantastic murder story that’s all about following your dreams. Ok, that’s a major oversimplification, but read it, and you’ll see what I mean! I loved Sarah’s writing style here as she paints a portrait of a hard-working woman living in her sunset years who loves her job but has always dreamed of publishing a best-selling novel. This story is well worth the read!

A Vocal Media Top Story: UMSDERWPFLEPI Crowns Climate Chaos Queen by Gael MacLean

Looking for a good laugh? Then you need to read this absolutely hilarious satire written by Gael MacLean. This piece is based on what Georgia’s US House Representative and conspiracy theorist Marjorie Taylor Greene said about a “suspiciously well-preserved patent from 1816.” You won’t believe your eyes, and you might hate me for recommending this piece when your stomach hurts from all the laughter it causes. Seriously, though, you need to read it, and for more than just the giggles.

A Poem: How Girls Write About Lust by Amelia Moore

Today’s poem was also recognized by Vocal Media and given a top story nod! It’s easy to see why after reading it. Like everything Amelia writes, it’s masterfully done with beautiful words and provocative imagery. Each line tugs at your heart and emotions, like this one: “And you laugh like the doorbell that welcomes me home.” If you enjoy reading that one, she wrote a companion piece for it as well, How Boys Write About Lust. Both are fantastic and sure to please.

A micro: Within Basil's Cellar by ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)

Vocal Media is running a competition in which writers are challenged to create a micro horror fiction in less than three hundred words, beginning with the line, ‘There was only one rule: don’t open the door.’ Andrea smashes this challenge with her chilling story about a professor who isn’t what he seems and a student who bites off more than she can chew. This story will raise the hairs on your neck.

A chilling tale: The Midnight Motel by Kilo

Man, I love October, and stories like ‘The Midnight Motel’ are the reason I look forward to it every year. Have you ever wondered what would happen if you were driving on a long stretch of empty desert road and needed to spend the night in some creepy-looking motel? Of course you have! Well, Kilo’s protagonist has no choice but to stay in one, as he’s exhausted and nearly out of gas. As the story progresses, things get more and more strange. Read it for yourself and thank me later.

Another poem: Feast of the Eyes by Dr. Jason Benskin

Have I mentioned I love horror? Well, I do, and Dr. Benskin’s poem is one of a kind in its genre. The poem reads like a traditional one, except its several creepy stanzas might make you shiver with dread! Check out these lines that reminded me of Michael Jackon’s ‘Thriller.’ “And when the blackness claims your sight, Your screams are swallowed by endless night.” I’m sure you’ll agree, this poem is October-perfect!

Poem 1: Who Are You To Say I Am Too Much? by Amanda Starks

I can’t say enough about this absolutely gorgeous bit of poetry. Amanda beautifully contrasts feelings of love and hate, care and despair, and lets us know with vivid imagery that she is the sum of all her feelings. I must have read every word at least ten times, drinking it in. Check out this stanza: “I am a culmination of all I have felt before, every tidal emotion and burning emptiness, made flesh by nature's will and power.” I get chills reading it. This poem is one you do not want to miss.

Poem 2: My Type by D. J. Reddall

Typically, I only post one poem per week here, but good gawd, this one had my eyes popping. As a lover of gothic and horror stories, D. J.’s abecedarian poem was right up my alley. It tells a story of a primal being, full of her god-like prowess and rightfully looking down upon the rest of us, from the politically powerful to the most desperate street urchins, mere cattle meant to provide sustenance and nothing more, and thankful for the opportunity to do so. Read it! Read it now!

A Short Story: In the Closet with Monsters by J. Otis Haas

Vocal Media has a current horror challenge in which every entry must start with the same prompted sentence. So far, J. Otis’ entry is my favorite. It features the spirit of a dead child living with the monsters in the closet, and if that description alone isn’t enough to raise the hair on your arms, I don’t know what will. It also packs one helluva good ending, so give it a read!

A Sobering Story: Facing Milton by PK Colleran

This week, we’ll end on a sober note and delve into PK’s top story on Vocal Media. This piece reminds us that we can prepare for anything and everything, but nothing in life is guaranteed. While the devastation caused by Hurricane Milton is heartbreaking to read about - much less live through - PK also shows us that there is hope and that if we can be kind to one another, we can help each other through the most challenging times.