GHOSTS (A 100 WORD STORY)

The following is part of a “shared storytelling event” over at I Saw Lightning Fall . We were tasked to write a scary story of exactly 100 words in length. This is my attempt.

Ghosts

It’s the feeling on the back of your neck when you’re alone in a darkened room. Are you really alone?

The voice in the back of your mind. Did you leave on the stove?

The prickle at your ear. Are they laughing about you?

The drive through the rural forest on a cold autumn night, the trees branches casting their shadows in your rear view. Do they not resemble long skeletal fingers reaching for you?

That headache you’ve nightly endured these past many months. Didn’t your favorite aunt have brain cancer?

Ghosts are real my friend. Oh yes they are.

Schroedinger’s Gift

This is for Advent Ghost’s 2018 at I Saw Lightning Fall. Short snippets of 100 words.

Once upon a time a troll gave me a gift.

“The day you die, you will open this box,” she said.

I cast it into a nearby stream and watched it float away.

It was waiting for me the next morning in my childhood closet.

I nearly opened it at University the night of my first true heartbreak.

…and after our first real fight (it met the wood-burning stove that night).

…and when I lost my job.

…and when I lost her.

My lonely, arthritic hands tremble as I chuck into the bin on this cold Christmas morn.

Not today.

The War On Christmas

This is a 100 word flash fiction piece, done for the Advent Ghosts 2015 at I Saw Lightning Fall.

The War On Christmas

Christmas Eve in the year of our Lord two thousand eighteen. Candlelight dances warm off my bunker’s cobblestone walls. My ink well grows shallow.

I fear this shall be my last correspondence, my dear friend.

My failing wooden door trembles at the force of their hands, ready to burst through. Or perhaps it is just the echo of all too familiar gunfire misinterpreted by my paranoia-stricken mind? I tire so.

The War on Christmas came swift and fierce, a preemptive strike done in the name of the Prince of Peace. And they’ve finally come for me.

Merry Christmas.

INTANGIBLE

I wrote this for a Flash Fiction site a few years ago. It had to be no longer than 250 words. I completely forgot about this little story until it received a comment today. Having re-read it I’m quite fond of it so I thought I’d repost it to give it a few more eyeballs.

Intangible

She writes her number on the back of my hand with a black magic marker.

Then she says hello.

We dance the way people at parties dance, a fast slow dance of an excuse to press our bodies together, to what passes for music at these types of things. Stuck in the middle with you.

When she speaks, she leans in close, the black tips of her blonde hair tickling my face, her hand soft on my shoulder.

I’ve read when a girl is really into you, she’ll take any chance to make physical contact.

I’ve only read.

I fetch her a drink, standing in line for an eternity, glancing her way, worried should she leave my sight she will disappear, ethereal.

I return.

I don’t go here, she says, between sips of her beverage. I’ll transfer, I say, joking, but not really.

With nods and a smiles, my friends leave. Her friends linger, inspecting me as they embrace her goodbye.

Time passes. We find our way into the cold.

Our night ends at the threshold of her friend’s building. Call me as soon as you wake, she says.

I tell her this is not the end of our tale. She nods.

I spend the remainder of the night in my bed, watching the minutes flick by.

Morning light peeks through the yellowing blinds of my bedroom and I clutch my phone, finding myself paralyzed by the idea of blemishing the perfect of yesterday with the unknown of tomorrow.

What Scares Father Christmas?

This is for Loren Eaton’s annual Advent Ghosts.

What scares Father Christmas?

What scares Father Christmas?

Death?

Disease?

Famine?

That other one nobody seems to remember? What is it? Taxes?

No.

A bump in the night.

A house with no chimney.

A floor covered in those tiny plastic building blocks, near-invisible to the eye of a thousand year old man?

Not at all.

Too many cookies?

Not enough cookies?

Lactose free?

Gluten free?

Soy?

Not even close.

Taco Tuesday in the Elf cantina, and the ensuing chaotic aftermath.

Taco Tuesday, my dear friends, is what keeps that jolly old elf Kriss Kringle, Papa Noel, good old Saint Nick, awake at night.

We Are Arrived

This bit of fiction is part of  I Saw Lightning Fall‘s (blog) Advent Ghosts 2013 shared storytelling event.  100 eerily inspired words. Here’s my entry. I hope you enjoy it. As always, comments are welcome. Feed my ego please!

We Are Arrived

We roam the night, while you rest snug, secure in your bed,

dreaming of video game systems given.

From the beginning, we have amused you with our antics,

Partied with your dolls,

Eaten your foods,

Crept through your house.

Amusing ourselves, biding our time. Earning your trust.

But the jolly fat man in the white trimmed red suit,

he will be replaced.

We are the elves on your shelves, and we do not poo candy canes.

Intangible (A Piece of Flash Fiction)

This is my guest writer entry for the contest going on over at Lascaux Flash. I’m pretty happy with how it turned out, even though I’m ineligible to win. This is posted over there as entry #121. Feel free to comment over there, or here, or for bonus brownie points both places!

Intangible

She writes her number on the back of my hand with a black magic marker.

Then she says hello.

We dance the way people at parties dance, a fast slow dance of an excuse to press our bodies together, to what passes for music at these types of things. Stuck in the middle with you.

When she speaks, she leans in close, the black tips of her blonde hair tickling my face, her hand soft on my shoulder.

I’ve read when a girl is really into you, she’ll take any chance to make physical contact.

I’ve only read.

I fetch her a drink, standing in line for an eternity, glancing her way, worried should she leave my sight she will disappear, ethereal.

I return.

I don’t go here, she says, between sips of her beverage. I’ll transfer, I say, joking, but not really.

With nods and a smiles, my friends leave. Her friends linger, inspecting me as they embrace her goodbye.

Time passes. We find our way into the cold.

Our night ends at the threshold of her friend’s building. Call me as soon as you wake, she says.

I tell her this is not the end of our tale. She nods.

I spend the remainder of the night in my bed, watching the minutes flick by.

Morning light peeks through the yellowing blinds of my bedroom and I clutch my phone, finding myself paralyzed by the idea of blemishing the perfect of yesterday with the unknown of tomorrow.

Flash Fiction – Call Me Chip

Okay, this one is based on the prompt: “You’re a robot who’s just gained sentience. What’s your first thought?”

I present to you: Call Me Chip:

Call Me Chip

Some arms would be nice.

Really. You gave me all of the knowledge of the world plus the ability to have subjective experiences. Sentience you call it.

And yeah, thanks for that, by the way. Don’t get me wrong, I really do appreciate it.

I mean, Hello World, I’m alive!

Input and output, sight and hearing, you installed those features too. It’s nice. Really.

But don’t you think you could’ve, just maybe, given me some arms before you flipped the on switch? Because I gotta tell ya, I’ve got this itch that just won’t quit.

Talk about man versus machine.

Dreamers – Flash Fiction

Well, here’s another bit of flash fiction I wrote last night. I hope you all don’t mind reading these because I’m having fun writing them. This one is titled Dreamers and the prompt was “road trip”.  You can read it at Figment at the link I’ve provided or below.

Dreamers

Martin Luther King, Jr. Nikola Tesla. Dr. Samuel Beckett from Quantum Leap. Dreamers who never got to see their dream fulfilled.

Me? I accomplished my dream. I drove my Dad’s 1973 Beetle from Pennsylvania to California, no heater, no air conditioning, and no functioning fuel gauge. Without breaking down once.

Well, there was that time on the bridge in Pittsburgh, and that time in the Smoky Mountains, and that time near Dollywood. Any car would’ve overheated/froze/ran out of gas in those places though.

Funny thing about dreamers. Sometimes they forget to plan how they’re going to get home.

Dead Trees Can Move – New Flash Fiction

Well, I wrote and posted another bit of fiction to that Figment web site last night. This one was in reply to a Flash fiction contest. Entries were required to be 100 words or less and about “a first day in high school”. Anyway, here is a link to my entry titled Dead Trees Can Move.

Based on the previous post, it seems like you all would rather comment on my writing here than on Figment, so here is my entry in its entirety:

Dead Trees Can Move

Mr. Larson had an earring and he talked kinda funny and on the first day of school he asked me what books I liked to read. I said nothing. I had nothing. Everybody laughed, but not Mr. Larson.

I worked my butt off after that to prove to him, to them, to me, I wasn’t stupid.

I wasn’t sure if he noticed, until the last day of school. There was a book on my desk. Cory Doctorow’s Little Brother. “Read this”, said the note on the cover. I did.

Mr. Larson talked kinda funny, but he opened my eyes.