Mixed Signals

Stanley is a little bit psychic.

Most of the time that’s annoying. On rare occasions I wish it was full on. Once in a while it comes in handy. Like when he sets you up on a blind date. But you can’t count on it.

“Dude! You’ve been down in the dumps since that last ho-bag dumped you.”

“Stan, first, we dated for months so a little respect. Second, it’s not very nice to say things like that about your sister.”

“She broke your heart and my mom’s not around… bitch. Point is I’ve got a winner for you on Valentines.”

“I admit you’ve had some wins but my worst dates have been your idea too.”

“Like?”

“Lisa…”

“Dude! What was wrong with her?”

“She was a werewolf, you set us up on the full moon.”

“Granted…” Stan doesn’t normally look sheepish. “This one though.”

I made him run down her traits for me, and translated along.

Well rounded – Fat

Nice personality – Butter-face

Passionate – Psycho

Comfortable with herself – Twenty cats

Great cook – Really fat

Demure – Religious whack job

Loves her family – Daddy issues

He sweetened the pot, he thought she was a hero. Capes and tights? No, classic Greco-Roman hero. I agreed, reluctantly.

Stan was to call me at nine thirty, if all was well I would give him the code phrase. If not I would claim an emergency.

You can imagine how surprised I was when I showed up and the girl was gorgeous. I mean like Bridgette Bardot had lesbian sex with your favorite questionable actress and somehow had a baby who was voiced by Mae West beautiful. She smelled like roses, not like the crappy floral perfume your grandma wore too much of but like she rolled in petals until they bruised then came to meet me. Best of all? We hit it off instantly.

I almost didn’t answer the call when it came. Then, I picked it up and gave the code phrase, that’s taken care of. Stan’s response child me to the bone.

“No, dude, there’s a real emergency. She’s about to go crazy bitch on you. I don’t know what’s going to set her off, but you’re in danger.”

I looked at this lovely flower just in time to see her pulling a bow from her purse. She knocked a heart tipped arrows and I knew who’s daughter she was. Just a moment before she had been laughing and pleasant, now she glared at me with the wrath of… well… a god. Her voice was locked in a glacier.

“Let me guess, you have to go? I really liked you too. Why do men have to have the escape route and not just say, ‘this isn’t working’?”

“No…”

Too late. She launched the love arrow at me. My last free thought was more terrifying than it should have been. I wondered what that arrow would do to someone already in love with the woman he was looking at.

Then all I had was hers.

#shortstory #love #magic #mythology #author #writer

Predestined Accountablility

Check it. Last night was legendary. I don’t normally go for cougars but… I got the bitch hammered and went back to her place. She was a God nut and the old school wrathful pictures were not in line with what we did. I mean, I knew going in that she was crazy but I only knew half of it. The things she did blew my mind hole.

Afterwards she starts chanting Latin at this vengeful Jesus mural. I swear she smiled at me there at the end. Anyway, my vision goes all blurry and I woke up alone. Thank Poseidon, right?

I rolled out of bed, stumbled, and smacked my head on the floor, figured it’s residual tequila body. I mean, it was a short fall so I must have been on my knees. My legs failed me so I crawled to the wall where there’s a mirror to find, I’m a damn baby. That don’t make sense.

Then I hear the sweet voice of my mother dancing through the trailer. I smile, watching a runner of drool fall onto the floor. Mom comes and scoops me up. She starts cooing at my bump. She’s telling me I’m her good boy for not crying, what a big man I am. I snuggle into her.

“Mom, check it. You ain’t gotta worry. Despite the meth you did while pregnant, despite the neglect and the abusive boyfriends I’m successful. I have a nice car, big house, stable seven figure job. Even you overdosing when I was thirteen and leaving me your thug brother didn’t mess me up. I don’t hold it against you. I just wish you didn’t.

“That’s not how a man measures success. That’s what one of my ‘uncles’ taught me. Last night proves I can do anything. A couple years back I crashed this wedding. The hottest bridesmaid was the high school aged sister. I ruined her for boys her age. A year later I tapped the bride. Despite them hating me and crying to anyone that would listen I hit their mom last night.”

I try to say all that to the one woman I ever had true feelings for as I drink in the sweat tainted warmth of her loose skinned body. What comes out sounds like me shitting from my mouth. I want to cry but I can’t with mom holding me. Eventually she lays me back in the crib and puts the side up this time.

I’m in that prison when the ten year old girl climbs through the window. Fear coils in my tiny belly. Mom didn’t understand my words but it seems this girl did.

“Sometimes a miracle requires sacrifice. My daughters will never know the pain you are so proud of inflicting.”

The pigtailed psycho pulls a butcher knife, bigger than her, from behind her back. With a clumsy hand she carved me a second scream.

“So that’s how I got here Pete. Can I meet Jesus? My lawn needs work.”

#shortstory #dark #horror #magic #religion #writer #author

Dark Wicked Night

I never saw the man behind me. Sudden looseness around my wrists and ankles told me I had been untied. Rustling thundered in my ears. Rough burlap clawed at my face. The hood was removed. Stale air replaced stagnant, dim light after total darkness blinded me. There was a click as whoever did the deed exited.

Blinking fiercely I took in my surroundings. Small room, light grey walls, filled with the soft but constant sound of dripping water. It had the purgatory smell hospital rooms. Between me and them was a square table. Upon it were a Birmingham Screwdriver and simple but ancient wooden cup filled with water.

They sat across the table. A sharp dressed man focusing his malevolent gaze over my left shoulder. He danced a silver coin as old as the cup across his knuckles. Sitting on his lap was a garden gnome holding up a sign. It read, ‘Make your choice. Prove you are ready.’

I closed my eyes and thought for a moment. I did not understand the objects or the test. I answered on instinct, opening my eyes.

“Both.”

The sign now read, ‘He did it again. All yours.’ I swear it smiled before vanishing. Then the man look at me. I really wish whatever was over my shoulder had stayed interesting.

“Typical,” He seethed.

“Just a minute…”

“Shut up.” He never raised his voice. “All your life you claimed to be a democrat. But you ran for congress as a liberal republican. It worked but it is the same choice you always make. You straddle the line and deny who you are.”

“Just let me go. I can make it worth your while.” I was whining, but that was okay.

“You are a cliché, so let me speak your language. My give a damn is broken, and I am all out of fucks to give. The only price you can pay is remembering to pick a side. Safely in the middle is not a place of sanctuary.”

He picked up the golden hammer and went to work like a mafia dentist. My jaw shattered, then my ribs. Pain bloomed through me. The jerk began to whistle a catchy tune. I listened to the drumbeat of my pulse racing in my ears, counterpointed by pounding crack of my thigh bones, then my hands, then my feet. When he finally went to work on my skull I was sure I was dead. Reality began to fade into oblivion. I heard him speak.

“Both.”

A drop of water from the cup and I was whole again. Pain still echoed through my body. It was a phantom but my nerves did not get the memo. Then he turned the hammer around.

Using the claw he flayed my flesh. I was witness to every wet, ripping sound. Fire coursed along exposed muscles. My ears were treated to the soft sound of rain on the roof, my blood pattering onto the floor. The scent of iron filled my nose.

My vocal chords ruptured before my voice gave out. Then, like a priest giving a benediction he sprinkled me with the water and began again.

He was a creative man. I was missing for three days that felt like my elected term. When he was done he took both cup and hammer. Still whistling he departed without a word.

I remembered every promise I ever made. To the people that voted me in, to my friends, even to my mother. I do not sit in the middle anymore. I have kept them all. I also can’t hang my own pictures.

#shortstory #dark #author #horror #magic #monster #socialcommentary #writer

For Her Honor

With dagger previously aloft in left hand I hefted my Ice Shard in the right. The bolt of terror arched above us to scar the ceiling. I hazarded a glance at my compatriots. A sorry scraggly lot of mercenaries they were but also my friends. Honor must be defended. I bellowed back, advancing on the heathen wizard.

“Going in boys! Handle the ruffians!”

The stench of half rotted, heavily seasoned meat wafted to my nostrils. Mingling there with the odor of burnt hair from where the near miss singed the follicles of Ralph the Red. This blaggart wizard would pay.

The cacophony of shattering wood, clanging steel on steel and hastily cast cantrips comingled with meaty impacts of flesh on flesh. My eyes did glance to the dagger. Perhaps my vision was faltering. No! It was the greasy remnants of the aforementioned mutton clinging to the utensil. I advised it was my eating dagger, yes? No matter! I was near blood frenzy at the slight to our honor.

The wizard blearily glared at me through bloodshot eyes. Silently he did caution me, there would be no surrender, no retreat. I suspected he had already blown his… uh… big powerful thingy in his opening salvo though. He was the lone soul still sitting as the public house erupted into an all out, free for all brawl. We two, he and me, were the only combatants left out of the fray and that only due to our intent focus upon one another. I would show him a bard was not a man to be trifled with.

Anon did I tower epically over the villain, who feigned lack of worry and concern by remaining stubbornly seated and rolling his ocular organs. Were my hands not full slap him I would have I tell thee. Instead I affected my stage voice and demanded of him.

“Prithee, tell me why hast thou offended the crimson mane of my noble compatriot with your odiferous incantation.”

“He called the barmaid a wench.”

It vexes me so when a man of letters refuses to speak in a proper fashion. My blood it did boil, cooled only by my ire running cold. The din of the battle behind me echoed loudly in my ears and I refused to dumb my speech down for this one.

“Your anger is voracious, for is she not a wench? Of the serving variety.”

“He said it mean.”

“Be she your sister, or mayhap your wife?”

“My sister.”

“Only one thing for it then to end this all.”

It would not do to use the dagger. Instead I upended my hand and dropped the contents of my Ice Shard, letting it loose upon his head. Splutter and fuss he did. The deafening roar of combat fell to raucous choruses of laughter to end the melee. What a waste. I assume you are no foreigner and knew from the beginning of my tale; Ice Shard is the finest of ales for adventurers on a budget.

#author #comedy #magic #shortstory #writer

The Succubus

So Old Odd Ends has one of the main characters as a variation on the succubus. I got to thinking... what the hell? Why are we so obsessed with them. For a historical reference you can look here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Succubus

So they started out monstrous and gross. Over time they got sexy as hell. They are a demon that even in religions that say all demons are fallen angels they were once human. Conflicting much?

I know many people who love angels and demons in their art. I know even more who think of the succubus when they think of demons. Why the obsession? Is it just the association with sex? Is there something more?

I am seriously asking here. I love them, love using them in my writing and I am not completely sure where my obsession comes from. Normally with angels and demons I prefer to stick to the traditional. Angels are angels and were never humans, demons are fallen angels not the souls of the damned. Yet, while I will fudge this in my writing, all information says these were humans not angels. So this is an oddity to me.

Succubi, why do we love them? Why do you love them? Sound off! Do it now!







#commentary #hello #magic #thoughts #villainess #writer #writing #succubus #demons #mythology #religion

My Thanks

Okay, and one more story. So this was around Thanksgiving last year that the prompt came up about a writing intervention. Since we're getting closer to that season I might as well post this one.

                I have never liked Thanksgiving. Bland food and boring company make me want to open a vein and end it all in a way that only the fights surrounding Christmas can compare to. I used to give in to convention and spend it with my family, then one year my mom gave me a typewriter, we were poor so no word processor or anything like that, and I fell in love. It became my tradition that once the drudgery was over I would slip away and write what I was thankful for and share it with no one. Over time my life became about writing and the dead end jobs that I worked to allow myself to get by until I am discovered.

                Now there is some grey in my beard and I live life on my own terms, sort of. Six years ago I decided I wasn’t doing Thanksgiving with the family anymore. I spent the night alone, writing and eating turkey curry from an Indian place down the street. This year I gave in though, I gave in when Joe and his new wife invited me over. Joe is my best friend, and a friend of the family so I knew at least my mom would be there. I was not expecting an ambush.

                Joe’s wife let me in, I always think of her as Joan because she’s a curvy redhead, and in a pun on my friend’s name. I didn’t smell any food, but then Joe wasn’t much of a cook. When I was led into the living room I saw Joe, Frank, Bobbi-Jo, my mom, my grandmother and a handful of other friends. Over their heads hung the Intervention sign above the mantle. I sighed, it was going to be one of those nights.

                “Getting right to the point you spend too much time writing.” That was Joe, scrawny little punk always has something to say. “If you were to make a living at it we might be able to accept that.”

                “I always have money.” My only possible response.

                “That isn’t from writing. I wish I’d never given you that typewriter! You ignore your family and friends for your fantasy worlds.” That was my mom of course.

                “I just don’t like most of you that much.” Time to be honest I guess.

                “You never go out, and you don’t have a girlfriend.” That was Frank, he should shut up more.

                “I have women when I want them.”

                “They aren’t real sugarplum.”

                That last was my grandma, god I hate her. What I said was true. I’m never broke, and I have women when I want them. You see, what I write always comes true. Six years ago I wrote how thankful I was that I wouldn’t spend Thanksgiving with friends or family for five years. It wasn’t enough. This year I’m going to have to write how thankful I am for the tragic chain of events that killed all my nearest and dearest.

#anger #comedy #magic #shortstory

Snow King, Gypsy Queen

Another of my favorites, probably because the idea got all twisted around when I wrote it. Hope you enjoy. Oh, and since I haven't said it today, remember to go buy my book.

Louisiana to New York is a long distance to call, especially for eleven on a Saturday morning when there are lawns to be mowed. Mom was hysterical when she placed the call.

“Calm down mama. What’s wrong?”

“It… it’s… it’s your father…” She choked out between heart shattering sobs. “He’s been frozen solid as,” his cold and murderous heart “a block of ice.”

“Get hold of yourself. Have some tea and I’ll deal with it. Everything is going to be okay now.”

I knew my father’s condition was my fault, and I could actually fix it. Mama didn’t know either of those things. I went through my contacts as I stepped into the kitchen. Maybe I’d have a beer to help.

Isadora was a voodoo queen, a priestess of the Loa. She had also had a thing for me since long before I moved to the big city. She made me wait a full five jingles before she picked up. Who doesn’t have a cell phone these days? Or even voicemail? When she did answer it was in that sweetly seductive tone that made me consider moving her to New York with me.

“Mon cher, I was expectin’ your call laytah.”

“The Baron feeding you bad information?”

“Non, he jes’ fine. You the one normally be sleepin’ in.” She gave a throaty laugh.

“It happened just like you said it would.”

“Well you know tha price for my help.”

“You can fix it?” I was worried, I admit it.

“Non. Only you can do tha’ an’ you acted rash mon cher. There is risk, he may be harmed by the coming back.”

“But you think it can be fixed.”

“Oui.”

“I’ll call you back when it is.”

I opened the freezer before dialing mama. This was a high price.

The phone only rang once when I placed the return call to my mother. She was sniffling but the wailing cries had abated. That, with the comatose way she slurred her words told me she had listened to me about the tea then chased it with a valium.

“Okay mama. I can fix this. Put the phone to papa’s ear for a second.”

“How lawn…guh?”

“You’ll know.”

A moment of silence, then the clink of the phone against ice and I was talking to my dear father. I seethed the next words quietly, only for him. Cold stung my hand, funny how I only felt it then.

“All right you son of a bitch. I’m going to put the poppet of you in cold water. You should unfreeze in about two hours. This was a warning. Mama ever calls me crying with a black eye or a bruise again and I’ll hit it with a hammer instead of a nice warming bath. You better understand.”

I raised my voice both to hurt my father’s ear and to let mama hear me.

“I’m hanging up mama; this will take a little bit. Just stay chill. Everything is going to be okay now.”

#shortstory #writing #voodoo #magic #familyissues #anger