Archive for March, 2016


March 30, 2016 2 comments

I know now that it was my fault. I thought it would be alright. I knew that I looked good, but I never dreamed that something as simple as dressing up could have drawn them to me. I guess it must have been my own fault.

I don’t know why they singled me out, but they did. When the first one showed up, I thought she was just friendly. Paying a visit and being nice. After all, its a beautiful spring day.

When she touched me, I was shocked. What made her think that was alright? Why would she even think about it.

She did so much more than touch. I felt so violated and helpless. Then she just took off.

For a moment, I was thankful. Then I saw the others coming towards me.



I looked up from the flower toward my son. “What?”

He pointed a finger at the bee sitting on the dandelion and asked, “I wonder what the flower is thinking when the bee lands on it?”

I shook my head. “I don’t have any idea.”


Car Bomb

March 23, 2016 Leave a comment

George stumbled down the hall, one hand on the wall and the other holding his stomach. With every step, his feet drug a little more.

“I’m not going to make it,” he mumbled.

The explosion rocked the hallway, and George thought the building might be coming down on top of him. Pain erupted in his guts like a volcano, burning and tearing at his consciousness. He felt his pulse hammer in his temples as he struggled to take another step.


“Don’t you think you might be a little dramatic in that description?”

Martin turned to look at his wife, Carla, and gave her a sheepish grin. “Dramatic is what sells stories.”

“Really? Drama about having the flu and not making it to the bathroom from the couch?”

Martin felt his face heat up from his blush. “This is supposed to be a crime story where the hero got shot in the gut.”

She nodded, looking at him with a skeptical smirk. “Right. Sure. And the fact that you had a little case of the flu last week has nothing to do with that description?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay Mr. Writer,” she said, a devious grin spreading across her delicate face. “Then what exploded in the hallway?”

Martin turned back to the screen and frowned. “Uhhhh. Car bomb?”

She laughed as she left her husbands office.


March 16, 2016 Leave a comment

The sign above the booth was simple. Black letters on a white background. The masks and costumes looked the same as the ones being sold on either side. They all cost about twenty dollars each and they were all dedicated to the heroes and villains Marlene had grown up with.

“Be Who You Feel Like You Should Be,” she said as she looked at the table. “I like that.”

“I’m glad you do. May I help you?”

She looked up into a scruffy beard that covered a wrinkled brown face in thick patches. The booth vendor had different colored eyes and he wore a beanie with pretty convincing horns poking out of it. “I don’t know. I’ll know what I want when I see it. Don’t you think it should have been ‘Be Who You Want To Be’?”

“Naw. Lots of people dress up as what they want to be. I’m here to help you be who you should be.”

Marlene lifted on eyebrow but didn’t say any more.


She lifted the tiny brown leather outfit up and licked her lips. It was ragged with some kind of fake fur all over it. It was more than a bikini, but not by much and she wished she could have worn it.

“That one calls to you doesn’t it? It was made for you”

“Yeah,” she said, the sound of longing dripping off the word as she spoke. “I remember this from the first movie. I loved her character.”

“I have the matching boots. Why don’t you try it all on?”

“There’s no way that is going to fit me,” Marlene said. She looked down, frowning at her belly. “I don’t have the body for it.”

“There is a dressing room right here,” the vendor said, pointing over his shoulder to a little box with a curtail hanging around it. “Just try it on and see what I mean about it being made for you.”

Marlene bit her lip, but she couldn’t help herself as she headed behind the curtain.


The sword vendor yelled at Marlene as she grabbed the weapon off the rack, but he only missed having his head cut of because he fell down while backing away from her.

Marlene, conquerer of the barren wastes; warrior princes of the frozen horde, howled in rage. People looked at her and laughed before screaming and running to keep out of arms reach. She was no longer a cook who the owner kept in the back because he didn’t think she was pretty enough to be a server. She was no longer afraid to talk to boys. She would never again let them laugh at her. She was dressed for battle. She was a barbarian. She would chase them down and remove their laughing tongues.

The little old man watched her charge through the crowd. He scratched at the base of his horn, frowning at the itch from the stupid beanie, and wondered how long it would be before this one got shot. Then he knelt down, collected the yellowish coin that was lying beside her old cloths and popped it into his mouth. “Paid in full,” he said as he turned to begin packing up.


March 9, 2016 2 comments

I watch her walking. Her tennis shoes aren’t making any real noise, but she isn’t trying to be quiet. I don’t think she knows that I am following her. I am not that close.

In a block, she is going to turn down an alley. She always does. I turn a block earlier and hurry to be ahead of her. She will be in the alley for two blocks, I want to be at the second street before she is.

I am a half a block away when she turns back onto the sidewalk. Two blocks later, and she will be home. I keep my distance, tonight isn’t the night.

When she gets to her door, she steps back out and crosses her arms. She stands there, wearing a halo of light and watches me. When I get to the stairs, I stop and look up at her.

She nods and says, “You’ll do,” and walks into her house without shutting the door. As she steps in, she pulls her shirt up over her head and drops it.

I follow her, tripping on the stair as I see her bra come off and fly to one side. Her hair hangs down her back, covering most of it as she heads up the stairs. I shut the door, drop my pack, being careful not to let the contents clink so that they won’t scare her, and follow her up.

Her shoes are lying on the top step.

Her denim shorts are on the floor in front of the open bedroom door.

I walk in and she is lying on the bed. She is smiling and not wearing a gag. Her hands are extended to welcome me rather than being taped together. Her eyes look hungry. I don’t see any fear, and that makes me want to cry.

“You are so beautiful.”

I tear myself out of my clothes and join her. We are together, one instead of two, in no more than a few breaths. I kiss her, tasting something salty and metallic, like blood, and I am in heaven.

Her skin is cool, like the night air that blows across my back through her window, and it offsets the heat from my body.

When I see the fangs, I wonder why I didn’t notice them before. As I reach the peak of excitement, she bites me and I just don’t care.

The last moment of my life is the happiest one I have ever had.

A Dark and Stormy Night

March 2, 2016 Leave a comment

“It was a dark, and stormy night.”

“Was it really?”

“Don’t you like that as the start of the story?”

“Not really. It is far to bland and old and tired and boring.”

“For my internal editor, that was a really terrible sentence.”

“Oh my dear boy, what makes you think I am your internal editor?”

“Because you start talking and criticizing me every time I write. If you aren’t my internal editor, then what are you?”

“I am the part of you that wants to tell stories.”

“So you are my muse?”

“That name will work if you feel you must give me a name.”

“If you are my muse, then I have a question. Why do we always write horror?”

“Because those are the stories you feel.”

“I wish we could write better and have people wanting to read our work.”

“Do you know what is missing? It is a simple thing.”

“No. What?”

“Experience. You know you are supposed to write what you know. You want to write horror but you have never experienced it.”

“I watch horror, I read horror and I write about it. What the hell do you mean I’ve never experienced it?”

“You haven’t ever been the source of the fear you try to illicit in others. How can you expect to make someone feel it with words when you haven’t felt it yourself?”

“I don’t know.”

“Just think about it. There is no rush. After all, I am your muse. I am always here to help you along your way.”


After reading these words in my dream journal, I threw my typewriter away. In twelve years, I haven’t written another story. I haven’t watched a horror movie and I haven’t done anything on Halloween.

Yesterday, for my birthday, my wife gave me a new typewriter. I feel so good typing these few lines out. It feels natural and right.

But I am afraid that this might be the beginning of my own dark and stormy night.