Under 300

The Wolfmen

2010-07-07T18:32:00.000-07:00

"Across the moors, near the Grisham Farm." Doctor Havermyer knocked back the last of the his sherry.
"So you believe us now?" said Mr Edwards.
The Doctor paused then very reluctantly nodded.
Mr Edwards gave a sharp nod in return. His relief at the Doctor’s admission was almost palpable. "The farmer's are livid you know, won't stand for it. They're losing too much livestock now. There must at least eight of them and it's spreading fast.” Edwards stepped forward to place a hand on Havermyer’s shoulder, “If we don't catch the beasts they'll turn the whole village before summer."

The Doctor stared into the fire, his wiry brows knitted together. "This is the stuff of fairy tales, Edwards. Sheep ravaged. Carcasses strewn across the hilltops. Children missing. Ghastly sightings. Do you really think it’s...?"
"What other explanation is there?” said Edwards, “You've seen it yourself."
The Doctor groaned and passed a heavy hand across his eyes. "I know, I just can't believe it."
The weight of it hung in the air between them.
"I've spoken to the outer farms,” said Edwards, “we'll assemble tomorrow at dawn to hunt them down."
Havermyer's head snapped up, "so soon?"
"Soon?” said Edwards, “We’ve been suffering these abominable creatures for almost two months. It's alright for those living in the town centre but out on the ridge it’s an entirely different matter."
"Yes, yes, I understand."
"You'll come?"

The Doctor raised his shaggy head, his eyes burning red as the firelight silhouetted his muzzle. A low growl rumbled in the back of his throat as he lay his ears flat against his head, black lips curling back to reveal a row of pointed canines.
"I'll come. If there really are humans on the moors you'll need me."

Words: 293
Image courtesy of: Genjihl

On the Cards

2010-06-26T13:31:00.000-07:00

Years of use has given the cards a worn and gritty texture making them easy to shuffle. They flicker through my fingers quick as moth wings, their colors flashing like an old movie reel. She watches with fish-eyed curiosity, hands twisting in her lap. As she leans toward me a swath of black hair falls across her shoulder to brush across the table.

With a deft flick I snap a card facedown onto the table; she jumps. I catch her eye and smile. She gives a nervous laugh. I draw out another four cards, slapping each one face down between us. With insipid slowness born of years of practice I begin turning the cards. Three of Cups. Temperance. The Hierophant. Eight of Swords. The Hanged Man. She clears her throat and swallows.

Fortune. They always ask: Will I get married? Am I successful? Does he love me? I never know. I read their faces, see the need etched in the shape of their bones, the bow of their lips, the creases around their eyes. I always lie. I'd rather lie and get paid than be truthful and homeless.

Besides, No one wants what I have. Not even me. I don't see if people become famous, or poor, or married, or childless. All I've ever seen is how people die. This black haired beauty here, like some modern day snow white with her lips so red and wet, well, she'll die in a snow storm. Gets hit by a van because the driver doesn't see her. He's on parole. Armed robbery. He panics, puts her body in the back and buries her 367 miles away. She is immortalized on the side of a milk carton at the age of twenty-seven. Fortune. You can ask me anything but don't ask me that.

Words: 300

Image courtesy of Eirian-stock

The Mermaid Tank

2010-06-10T13:17:00.000-07:00

I tried to match her breath for breath as I watched her dive. Would press my hands and face to the glass as she twirled through the water, spinning for the punters, her ginger hair drifting like a storm. I had to take two breaths for every one of hers; sometimes even three.

A show would last hour. People would throw pennies in the tank and she would dart toward them, snatch them up and blow underwater kisses. Afterwards, Gerald the strongman would carry her to her trailer where she'd wriggle out of the mermaid suit.

My job was to wait outside then hang it on the clothesline. I loved that costume. It was speckled in sequins the color of emeralds and had a high waist that fastened just below her breasts. Forget about nurses, teachers, and doctors, I wanted to be a carnie mermaid when I grew up.

That night, after the gates were closed and the last drunk had staggered away, I stole her suit and ran to the tank. I was only eight. Despite the terrible fit I was able to fasten it under my arms, although the tail hung from my feet like an empty sack.

The tank was much deeper than it looked. The suit much heavier than I'd anticipated. It dragged me down. Stuck to me like a second skin. My lungs burned, I beat my legs uselessly inside the suit. The world edged itself in shades of gray and a terrible roaring static filled my ears.

And then she came. Suitless. Hair like wildfire. I saw gills at the small of her back, translucent fins sprouting down her thighs and calves, and between each toe a thick fold of webbing. The scales on her legs glittered like sequins. She had fooled us all.

Words: 300

Image courtesy of Sinned-Angel-Stock, Model C. Simonds

Interlude #001

2010-06-09T20:58:00.000-07:00

I'm stealing Warren Ellis's interludes. Over at Freakangels when the guys don't get around to posting a new episode they throw up an 'interlude' which is mostly Warren or Paul complaining about their reliably unreliable computers. Anyway, consider it stolen.

It's hard not to come back and edit these. I'm always wanting to re-write them but I'm trying to step away from loving them to death and just let them be. I have to remind myself they're supposed to be quick, flash in the pan fictions. I write them, give them a once over for any glaring errors, hit post and walk away. Then I come back the next day and think, oh hell why am I posting this trash? It's hard to let go.

That being said it's been a lot of fun and I think I'm learning things about stories and how to find them, although a lot of these are closer to vignette than short story but perhaps I'll get there in time.

I really enjoyed doing The Tillypick Path. If I had a pocket artist I'd love to do more comics (and no I am not my own pocket artist!).

Currently birthing a new story; it's overdue I know, I'm having a difficult labour. If you've been over to Missanthropics you'd know where all my time is vanishing.

Rapunzel

2010-06-02T23:29:00.000-07:00

It's all lies. Well, bits of it are true, but mostly it's lies. Although the part about my father stealing herbs is all true. Word to the wise; don't eat weird plants when you're pregnant. That pithy piece of advice could save your offspring a world of pain.

Anyway, I was never locked in a witch's tower, that's a load of goat-hair. Sure I was trapped, but only in my own room. Have you ever tried to go out with fifty miles of hair trailing behind you? It's like wearing an anchor. We couldn't hire enough footmen to carry it all. It got so bad that getting to the wardrobe became a herculean effort involving mountaineering equipment. Eventually I just lobbed it all out the window.

We tried cutting it but it kept growing. I'm not talking inch increments here, I'm talking six feet every six minutes. I am seriously hirsute. Where's the witch with the dodgy apples when you need her? What I wouldn't give for a long nap and prince charming ending. Sleeping Beauty? Don't get me started.

Speaking of princes, there wasn't one. You know what happened? A drunken village lad, spurred on by his mates, decided to climb the braid I'd tossed out the window earlier. He was fifteen with a face like a cow-pat. Had to post sentries after that.

All in the past now. Should have seen the state of my hair after a month in the roses. The smell doesn't bear speaking of. Anyway, a girl's got to secure her future. There was no prince for me. So I swapped the guards for a hundred weavers and now I'm the largest fabric merchant in all the land. For the softest cloth and thickest weave; you can't do better than a bolt of Rapunzel's.

Words: 300

Image courtesy of: Iardacil-stock

Corwin Cottage

2010-05-26T19:54:00.000-07:00

Just because I couldn't find the path didn't mean I was lost. I poked the moss hugging the base of the tree, trying to remember if I was supposed to follow the bare side or the mossy side. Instead, I followed the sun.

The forest grew thicker and thicker. Tree roots knotted the ground; like a net they snagged my feet on almost every step so when a path emerged I was thrilled. After a while the trees thinned and the ground gave way to sharp black shale.

Then I smelt it. Cinnamon and apples. Pure Heaven. A short distance ahead there was a cottage, smaller than my parents house it had only enough space for one room, and was built entirely of black stone.

As I neared I saw shoes hanging from the trees, their laces knotted together so each pair could be slung over the branches There were hundreds of them. It was a forest of shoes.

A woman was seated on a wooden bench beneath the cottage widow. Above her, cooling on the sill, was a hot apple pie. She placed her sewing in her lap and smiled, almost eagerly.

"Are you lost?"
"Only a little." I lied.
She asked if I wanted some tea and of course I did.
"Why don't you take your shoes off, love?"
So I did.

She set our meal on a large tree stump, gave me lashings of cream and hot apple pie. We talked about my village, about the fair, and about Connor Pratt who I was secretly in love with. The world turned red as the sun sank behind the hills.

"I should go home."
"Should..."
"Where are my shoes?"
"In a tree above your head, my love."
And in the dying light her eyes glittered like hot embers.

Words: 300

Image courtesy of: Beforethedaybreaks

The Tillypick Path

2010-05-23T01:50:00.000-07:00

Something different today; a hastily put together mini-comic. Was a lot of fun to make. Had to write the story around the available images I could find which was a bit backwards and odd. Tell you what though, it's a lot easier when you don't have to worry about writing descriptions! Much thanks to all the contributing artists who made their work available. Credits following the work.

Words: 129

Contributing Artists: Frozenstocks, Photowizard, Sed-rah-Stock, Laire-Stock, Domi-nica, HFPhotos,
Intergalaticstock, Tigg-stock.

Baby-doll

2010-05-20T20:09:00.000-07:00

"She looks like a two-bit whore in that dress."
Marie nodded. Julia was definitely the cheapest looking girl in the room. That cherry red dress, the way it clung to her hips like saran wrap over a hot steak. And the sequins! What was she thinking?

"Don't get me wrong," said Deborah, "the shoes are fabulous, but mercy me, if her hair was any bigger she'd need airspace clearance."
"Too true," said Marie shaking her head and pursing her lips. Cupping her hand she leaned towards Deborah. "And that spray tan is so bad!"
Deborah clasped her hand to her heart, "Isn't just?" Their heads shook in tandem.

Marie leaned down to hand a set of plastic white teeth to her daughter.
"Put your flippers in, Kate, it's time dazzle the judges for Mommy!" She straightened the strap of Kate's evening dress, forced a dab of Vaseline across her new plastic teeth, then clasped her six year old's hand. On the way to the stage she said, "Do it just like we talked about. And don't let that Julia win, baby-doll."

Words: 181
Image courtesy of: Neriah-stock

The Astronaut

2010-05-18T15:13:00.000-07:00

"I'm an astronaut you know." She looks at me, a curl of grey hair slips forward and she tucks it back with a liver-spotted finger. "Did you hear me, Clare?"
I nod briskly, my pigtails bobbing madly. She looks to the sky, "I'm going to live on a star," she says, "a great big silvery star."
I squint at the sun, my eyes watering. "How will you get there?"
"I'll fly."
"In what?"
She clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "In nothing. I'll fly like superman."
"Oh."
We think about this.
"Grandma?"
"Yes, Clare?"
"You will wear pants won't you?"
"Overalls probably, dear."
I nod, satisfied.

The nurse arrives wheeling the food cart. She whirls into the room bleating pleasantries as she lays out the plastic tray sporting an assortment of plastic containers. She doesn't notice that neither of us responds and quickly vanishes into the next room reciting the same tired greetings that require no answers.

Grandma lifts the lid from the largest container and makes a face.
"Oatmeal again," she says. She motions toward her nightstand. "Fetch me the box in the top drawer will you. The black one."
The contents of the drawer smells like mice. There is a black matchbox beside the Kleenex; I hand it to her. She pushes it open and sunlight glitters across the contents; a box of silver fire. My mouth forms a tiny o.
"Stardust," she informs me sprinkling the silvery specks over her oatmeal. She spoons a glittering glob into her mouth. "I'm going to live on a star," she repeats.

I never saw her again. She died later that night. When they told me she was gone I thought she'd flown to the stars. My grandmother, dashing through the universe fuelled by stardust.

Words: 297
Image courtesy of: Smoko-Stock

Meat Sack

2010-05-16T16:19:00.000-07:00

The soles of his feet squeak against the cold tile floor as he steps toward the body. She has been lain out with care and arranged just so, her arms resting by her sides with the palms of her hands tilted to God. Supplication. He wonders if she ever went to confession, clasped those hands together and begged forgiveness. Too late now, he thinks.

She wears a necklace of bruises, a terrible rainbow of purple, yellow, and black around her thin throat. His eyes trace the pattern of her veins as they twist and snake beneath the skin. He follows their path to the base of her jaw, to that white soft crescent where he can see the pulse of her heart fluttering the beneath the skin.

He reaches out, a flash of steel in his right hand. He pauses at her collar bone, her clavicles spanning under his hand like frail wings. The assisting nurse asks if everything is alright. He nods and quickly pushes scalpel into flesh. Organ donors are few and far between and he likes to say a prayer for each and every one.

Words: 188

Image courtesy of: Mitzu-stock

The Namless Man

2010-05-14T15:53:00.000-07:00

It’s early, the grayish light colours the world in monotones. His shirt feels rough and stiff as though it's been over starched—then he notices the stains, the russet red of dried blood, the smears and hand prints on his jeans. He struggles upwards but the world rolls sluggishly sending him back to the dirty pavement, black static roaring at the edges of his vision.

He smells of urine, copper, and cigarette ash. As the slow waltz in his head subsides, he tentatively runs a hand over his bloodiest areas. Old war films come to mind, men with their intestines looped like tinsel through their clutching hands. What if his intestines tumble out of hole he fails to detect. He is thorough but finds nothing, no gaping wound, no punctures.

The sun is a little higher, the day slowly warming up. As he scans the unfamiliar surroundings wondering how he arrived he suddenly realizes he doesn’t even know his name. The knowledge is like a bolt of steel slicing through his heart.

He finds a cellular phone in his back pocket, but no wallet. There are photos of a middle aged woman with short hair and kind blue eyes. He clicks through them, watches her life stagger past; here with young children, here feeding a Yorkshire terrier, here at a birthday party, here with an older man, his arm wrapped around her waist, his head tilted to rest against hers. Who are they?

There is a preset titled 'home' and he dials it. The line connects and a woman's breathless voice says, "Henry, thank god, where have you been?"
He feels as though he's standing on the edge of a precipice.
"Henry?"
He hangs up.

Words: 285
Image courtesy of: Livion-stock

Nadine's Shoes

2010-05-13T18:44:00.000-07:00

Nadine wore conservative colors like a mask. Thought her neutrality was chic and always said, "classic is forever," so when Lucy reached for the red stilettos at Macy's that afternoon, Nadine was horrified.

"Oh my God, these are amazing!" said Lucy, turning the shoe between her hands, the slender metal heel glinting like an ice pick.

Nadine frowned. "Only children and whores wear red shoes. Wouldn't catch me dead in those."

"I'm getting them," said Lucy.

They left shortly after, Lucy with her new red shoes, Nadine with
a pair of plain black flats. At home Nadine placed her sensible new flats in the hall closet, next to the sensible Brikenstocks, and the sensible Klogs, and the sensible Crocs.

That month Nadine had several opportunities to ventured out with Lucy and her amazing red shoes. Somehow Lucy was never alone, never without a drink, never left standing awkwardly in the corner forced to hug herself with her own skinny arms because no one else would. The last thing Nadine saw at the end of each night was Lucy's slut red shoes clicking down the pavement next to a pair of smart black wingtips.

In the break room on Monday, after another weekend alone, Nadine found a mail order catalogue next to the microwave. She flicked though while she waited for her coffee to heat up. A flash of red caught her eye and she stopped. There on the page were a pair of blood red Steve Madden pumps; predatory shoes full of scandalous desire. She thought of Lucy and her forget-me-not heels. When Nadine left the catalogue was nowhere to be seen.

Words: 272
Image courtesy of: 6lost6angel6-stock