Short Story Madness

Odd Anecdotes: Vampires

Wednesday, February 3, 2010 11:15 PM EST

Author's Note: The following anecdote isn't meant to offend members of the female gender; rather, it's a reminder to us males that there are pros and cons with every situation.

Drip, drip, drip. Blood dripped down the bandage on his neck.
"Gee, I didn't realize your wife was a vampire," said the unconcerned unmarried single man.
"Yes, she's literally sucking me dry these days," replied the overworked unappreciated penniless husband, applying a fresh bandage.
"Well good luck with that one."
"Wait a minute, who is he?" the husband pointed to a man staring at them through the window.
"Oh him? He's a vampire too," said the single man. "From the IRS, actually. That's what I get for not being married."
"Are you sure you're any better off?"
The unmarried man shrugged.

Word Count: 131

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Short Stories: The Sweetest Stalk

Saturday, January 30, 2010 1:30 PM EST

Author's Note

The following was entered into Writers Weekly's 24-hour Short Story Contest on April 25, 2009. Aside from a few minor tweaks, one notable modification has been made--the main character's name changed from Scilla to Smira.

Here is the original writing prompt used for the contest:

"Silly Scilla, silly Scilla," the young girl sang, as she pushed another tiny blue flower into her hair. She knew she would have to remove these adornments before they returned to the house. When Mamm gently cleared her throat, the girl remembered the tiny celery seeds that had been spilling out of her apron all morning.

She sighed and settled down in an empty row, digging her bare toes into the cool soil. She froze when her foot bumped something hard. Scooping the dirt aside with her fingers, she found a tiny, tattered purse. Glancing at her mother to ensure her secret treasure was still a secret, she opened the clasp...

As you can see, Scilla is stamped all over the prompt. How original of me. So where did I come up with the name Smira? I suspect it had something to do with an old friend I stumbled across on Facebook--Samira.

So if you out there, Smira, this short story is dedicated to you.

The Sweetest Stalk

Smira of the swampland was she; daughter of hollow, goblin princess of bog. And heinous she was, even to goblin eyes, and it seemed nothing could be done about it. Then one day she sent herself on an errand, leaving behind a trail of seeds.
"Silly Smira," said her half-brother Kamm, a radish-hued swampling with her father's cruel brow. "Celery cannot grow in swamps. Foolish are you to think one day you could be queen."
"So it shall be," said she. "You will see." And off she went, deep into the tangled wetlands where wandering eyes strained to see. At last she arrived at the spot she'd been told and thrust her claws deep. On and on she toiled, dredging deeper into the mud, kicking up sickly shades of brown in the emerald waters. As fatigue crept in, she dug in her heels, until at last she bumped across something stout. "This is it," she pawed with renewed vigor.
From the muddy pulp she fished a tattered purse, the one the faery chimed about. She filled it with seeds hidden under her dress and buried it again. "On and out they shall sprout. Till the magic binds and stalks unwind," she danced.
The aid of faery magic was a certainty, especially if she hoped to grow anything in these lands. It saddened her to think what her brethren would do if they happened upon the faery. Darklings had a keen taste for faery flesh and wings and were cruel scavengers at heart. To save her soul she did not lend an ear to their dastardly tales of faery treachery.
At last the swamp illuminated. Eagerly she scooped up her shambled host. From its feeble cloth she plucked out a single seed, unlike the hundreds she'd poured in. Closer still she peered, at the seedling that shined like a star. Something danced inside, ever more radiant still. Suddenly it hopped in her hand, bursting from its gelatin shell. She gawked at her hand. Droopy spidery leaves.
"What am I to do with this weed?" said she and tossed them into the mire. Bubble it did, all around, until the waters steamed into a fowl broth. A creature of the swamp's refuse rose, bemoaning its labored rebirth. "Slumberwort, why do you steal me from my sojourn?"
"Not I. A faery made you be. I came to her, seeking stalk for murky haven and instead she delivered you, o servant of stringweed."
"A faery? From what divine quarter?"
"Underwood."
"Underwood is fowl," it replied. "A boggie's bowl of fright found you in place."
"Indeed," she frowned. "What shall I do? A touch of celery I must find--to love, to grow with my kind."
"Must you?"
"If I do not raise stalk, these lands will forever be deemed a wasteland, as will I. No suitor of noble lore will have me."
"A goblin prince? Does such a thing exist?"
"Aye. And celery is the goblin gold that springs them from their muddy holes. A princess am I," she curtsied.
"Indeed," it replied. "Pure of heart, take mine of kale; from it all things may grow. All I ask in return is the purse from whence I came." Smira thought it a fair exchange and handed over the purse. And in her hand he placed his final offering before recoiling into the muddy stew.
Back she traced, skipping from puddle to puddle with glee. In her father's dying oak she placed the heartling and at once a stalk of celery shot into the sky. Creatures gathered from all around, gaping at the vast vegetable. Some even offered their hand, goblin and human alike. "Stalkers" her father called them. And he would have none of it.
All fared well until the giant stalk grew seedlings of its own. More and more stalks shot up and soon its legion sang. Not sweet songs of fae, but screeching rants that shattered the ear. The celery would not stop growing, nor singing.
Desperate to stave off the masses from fleeing his kingdom, King Gondegook called for Smira. He inquired about her trip to the mudlands and when she told him about the faery and the beast, his face darkened. "I warned you about playing with faeries. Now they have played us."
"But father, all the beast wanted was the purse from which it sprouted."
"Purse? From whence?"
Smira frowned. "My mother's stash. No more did I imagine its use."
"Twas not a purse, but a faery trinket," Gondegook gasped. "Reclaim gifts, faeries cannot. Duped into returning the harvest bag, have you."
"But gave me his heart did thee, this creature of the bog."
"A trick. Twas the faery all along. And how many seedlings drop thou into it?"
"Hundreds," she replied.
"Then hundredfold they shall rise. Faeries they are, forged from the singing stalks."
Suddenly, the celery sprung to life, ripping out their roots and dancing in the bog. Horrified, the king and his loyal following fled. All, that is, but one.
Smira stared in awe at the faery folk, her accidental bogling. And from them, the sweetest helping stepped forward. "Beautiful creature, art thou a princess? Surely you must be." Soon after, he offered his hand and this one she accepted. And so Smira became a queen many times over and although she was the richest goblin queen, she was also the most loved.

Word Count: 1114

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Flash Fiction: Enchanted Underpants

Thursday, January 28, 2010 8:00 PM EST

A craggy old man walked to the center of town and inquired, “Does anyone have a pair of underpants I can borrow?” The peasants looked at each other.  Surely they'd never heard a request so strange. Even the town elder thought it odd.
“What's wrong with ones you had?” said one of the peasants from his window.
“It was made of wolf's skin and it came alive and bit me.”
The peasant cracked open his door and handed him a bag. “Here, take this. It's made of sheep skin.”
The old man thanked him and went on his way.
The next day the old man came back and asked, “Is there anyone who has pair of underpants I can borrow, preferably not of sheep skin?”
“What's wrong with sheep skin?” said the peasant from the day before.
“Only that as I put them on, the undergarments made of wolf's skin returned to the castle and chased the sheep skin off my hind end.”
“Here,” a woman held out a bag from her window. “While it may look brash, I threaded these from the feathers of an golden owl.”
He thanked her and hurried along.
The townspeople placed bets on whether or not he would return a third time, and when he did they were little surprised.
“What's wrong now?” The woman yelled from her window.
“As soon as I put them on it flapped its feathers and flew after the wolf and sheep,” he sobbed. “Is there anyone who can help me?”
Finally the town elder recognized him. “Here Jack, take mine. They're made out of piranha skin. That way if you start eating those magic beans again, your undergarments will come alive and bite off your back end.”
Jack put them on and was instantly cured and never bothered that poor little town again.
THE END

Word Count: 313

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Story Snippets: John Doe

Wednesday, July 15, 2009 8:00 PM EST

While combing through my notes, I found this little gem waiting to be turned into a full-fledged story:

My name is John. Doe, that is. At least for the past hour. I survived, they say. Lucky to be alive. But to what end? My driver's license says I'm 27…and married. No children that I can recollect.
But I do know pain. The trauma of this aching, itching body. Underneath these bandages, they've hidden away the gruesome details. But every now and then I catch a glimpse at the monster between the cracks in my gauze. What else will I find when the bandages come off? I'm curious myself.
I held onto the nurse's hand as she angled me forward. "My wife…is she here?"
"Not at the moment," she smiled and politely removed my hand. But I can tell she is lying.
"Did she say when she would be back?"
She shook her head, avoiding my eyes.
"Tell me about her. Is she beautiful?"
Tears welled up in her eyes. "She was," she managed and did not offer another word.
"Please, could you tell me her name?" But she had already stepped out of the room. I chewed on that for a while, staring at my dinner tray. As my head hit the pillow it suddenly stirred inside my soul, rising like the tide and smashing through the surface of my subconscious. "Kyra," the words fell from my lips as I succumbed to the other side.

Word Count: 227

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Short Stories: A Dubious Deed

Thursday, July 2, 2009 8:00 PM EST

A tiny wood stove was the only thing warming the chapel that night, yet the room scorched as if the sun knelt in one of its pews. Footprints melted off the stone floor as the minister and his wife stripped off their heavy coats.

"Sorry to trouble you," said the groom.

"Not at all," replied Theodore, pulling the door firmly shut. "True love is always welcome here," he smiled.

The bride smirked and cast her head aside.

"What a gem she is," said Helga.

"Indeed," the minister nodded, marking one of the few times they'd actually agreed. For a moment Theodore wondered if his wife had ever been as stunning as the maiden before him. Probably not.

"May I take your coat?" he shook the wicked thought from his head.

"I'm afraid we can't stay long...with the terrible snow storm and all," the groom winked.

"Of course," Theodore winked back. "Let's get started."

Helga frowned.

"Dearly beloved," said the minister, unfolding his speech.

The bride whispered into the groom's ear.

"Would you mind if we skipped the formalities?" he said.

"I do, actually. This is a moment you'll cherish for the rest of your lives. Surely it deserves full treatment."

So the minister continued.

The dim light played upon the faces in the chapel, shadows dancing in the firelight. The groom looked about the room as the minister droned on. "I apologize," he cut in. "But could we scale back some of the lines?"

The minister pitched his notes aside. "And if anyone can show just cause why these two may not be lawfully married, speak now; or forever hold your peace."

Outside the wind howled, racing round and round until finally bursting in. The minister and his wife dove behind the pews as the arctic wind gushed inside.

"Well, for starters, she's not even human," came a voice.

The bride adjusted her coat, revealing an exposed wing.

"Don't you see, Vincent?" the figure crept forward. "You cannot marry Mariel."

"What the devil?" Theodore gasped.

The stranger stepped into the light, a mirror image of the groom.

"But I love her," replied Vincent. "Besides, who are you to tell me that I can't marry her?"

"Because I am you, one year from now. You've got no idea what you've stumbled into," he put his hand on Vincent's shoulder. "And there's another problem. This man isn't a real minister. His real name is Nemmus, lord of shadow."

"What?!" said Theodore.

Arcs of black and green light shot out from the far corner of the room, incinerating the elder version of Vincent. "It's Nekkus, you fool," his voice boomed. From the shadows he materialized, a dark soul with the minister's countenance, save the ominous grin. "Guess it would help if I were on time for these things."

Helga fainted.

"Dad!" said Mariel.

"Can't you see this man has no future? He couldn't even listen to his own advice and it got him killed," he stepped forward. "What you need is another succubus like yourself."

"Succubus? But I thought you were an angel," Vincent turned to the bride.

"Any woman will tell you she's an angel if you ask her," Nekkus chuckled.

"What's a succubus?" said the minister.

"You should know, you married her mother," Nekkus grinned.

"What?" the minister looked at his feet.

"Don't listen to him. It's all lies," Helga, grabbed his leg. For the first time he noticed her fangs.

"Ahhh!" he shook her off. "Now wait, so you're telling me that I'm her father?"

"You're not my father," said Mariel.

"Stepfather, actually," said Nekkus.

A rail-thin beauty with crimson hair and pearl fangs stepped out from behind the beam.

"Let me guess. I'm her stepfather too?" said Theodore.

"Marilda, what are you doing here?" said Nekkus.

"Your father's right. What you need is another succubus," she pawed at the groom. "I'll take care of him."

"Don't touch him," Mariel slapped Marilda.

"Don't hit your stepmother!" Nekkus stepped in between.

On the far side of the chapel, the wood stove inched towards the door.

"And where do you think you're going?" said Nekkus.

The stove churned its stubby legs, tripping over a recess in the floor and slamming into a beam. Daggers of wild fire clawed their way to the chapel ceiling.

"Vagrant hellspawn," Nekkus shook his head.

"Quick," Mariel jumped forward. "All of this will be undone if you marry us," said Mariel.

"Do that and I will smite you right where you stand," said Nekkus.

"What's stopping you?" Marilda crossed her arms.

"Ask me, ask me if I do," she grabbed the minister's hand.

Fiery debris crashed down from the ceiling.

"Get out of the way, Mariel," Nekkus screamed.

"It's a trick," Helga clawed at Theodore's leg. "Don't do it."

"Quick, there isn't much time," Mariel pleaded. "Tell me that you want to spend the rest of my life with me. Do you understand?"

"I do, I do!" the minister finally uttered as Helga bit into his leg.

Theodore's screams echoed through the hall. No longer did he find himself in the tiny smoldering chapel, but a giant cathedral surrounded by family and friends.

Mariel tapped her foot on the marble floor.

Theodore looked himself over. No longer was he an old bag like the minister before him. He was young and impeccably so, not unlike Vincent. "I do?" he said aloud.

Applause thundered through the chamber.

"You may kiss the bride," the priest nodded.

Mariel smiled as their lips came together, revealing her long tapered fangs. "Thanks for inviting us to church," she whispered. "For all times."

Word Count: 930

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Total Word Count: 2715

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