Tag Archives: fiction

Arctic Abaddon

copyright Dee Lovering

copyright Dee Lovering

Arctic Abaddon

The moment I was created in that frozen cloud crucible, I knew I was a killer. I spun my six blades and my war cry joined that of my tens of millions of brethren. I fell like an arctic Abaddon, ready to destroy everything in my path. A fleshy digit was thrust out below me and I prepared to slice it to pieces.

“Look, a snowflake!”

A killing warmth surrounded me. My six daggers melted away as I puddled.

*        *        *

The moment I was created as a tiny water droplet on a little girl’s finger, I knew I was a life-giver . . .

 


Pattern Recognition

copyright Sandra Crook

copyright Sandra Crook

Pattern Recognition

I turn the corner and let out a primal scream. Then I take off my shoe and hurl it in rage. People look at me but then realize I’m a tourist and ignore me.

My girlfriend walks up. “What the— oh, it’s that pattern again.”

“It’s stalking me!” I wail. “It’s not argyle, it’s not plaid but I keep seeing it. The socks, the wallpaper, the hipster’s vest, that one Pinterest page, and now . . . this!”

“Just go ask,” she says.

I finally find an English speaker. “I don’t know its name,” the woman says. “We just found it on Pinterest.”

 


The First Time

The First Time

The Tower Bridge had always had good connotations for Robert before that night. He was waiting nervously by the north tower, as they had agreed, when the woman emerged out of the evening fog and walked towards him, high heels clicking confidently on the pavement. She was prettier than he had imagined from her voice on the phone. She walked past him a step, then paused and waited for him to fall into step.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“A café near here I use for this sort of thing.”

“In public? What if someone notices?”

She gave him a mocking smile. “This your first time? Trust me, no one cares.”

She led the way to a small café and took a corner booth. She held up two fingers to the waiter and two espressos appeared as if by magic.

“Now,” she said, leaning forward. “What have you got for me? Come on; the first time’s the hardest, but it gets easier.”

“I saw my neighbor, Gavin Henry, reading an anarchist newsletter,” he mumbled. “He holds meetings at his house sometimes. Here, I have photographs.”

She held up a hand. “No need for evidence. We’ll find our own. You’ve done a great service to your country. You should be proud.” She took out a thick envelope.

Robert pushed it away. “Actually, I was hoping that you could give me information on my daughter instead. She was arrested five months ago. I can’t find anything about her.”

The woman grimaced. “Next time. For now, take the money.”


Poisonous Mushrooms

Here is the second guest blogger story, written by two of my Mexican students in our fiction class.

Poisonous Mushrooms

by Amelia Victoria Nava and Karina Rodriguez

San Miguel de Allende was a small town in Guanajuato, Mexico. The main food in this place was mushrooms. People included mushrooms in all their food, like the potatoes in America or tortillas in Mexico.  Most people in San Miguel were farmers and they harvested mushrooms to eat or sold them to the nearest cities. One day, all of a sudden, people got sick. At the beginning of the illness the symptoms were headache, fever and diarrhea, but later it changed to red spots on their skin. If they scratched them they started to bleed. The worst thing was, people died after a couple of days in the advance stage of the illness.

People did not know what was happening at that time. The first person with those symptoms was Mrs. J. She was a very healthy person and always helped people. She was a happy and friendly person in that town. You could see her every Sunday in church.

When Miss K realized that her friend Mrs. J had gotten sick, she went to the clinic and talked to the doctor. They talked for hours and hours about the problem but the doctor told her that Mrs. J was going to die and all infected people too. It must be a secret because nobody knew that the virus had no cure.  Mr. A was a young, very smart man. He did research for the world in medicine. Unfortunately he had a problem. He was schizophrenic.

Six weeks later, you could see the town empty. No more kids playing in the parks, no students in the school and no people walking in the streets. Miss. K was very worried. She did not know why most people got sick, her friends, her family and her boyfriend too. There was no difference between her and them. Except the food. She ate all type of food but no vegetables. She started to notice this difference and started to talk to her relatives and asked them if they had done or eaten something different before they got sick.

She thought that the only thing people had in common was the food. All of them prepared their dishes with mushrooms and they were infected. Nobody knew, only the doctor.

Miss. K looked for help because she really wanted to assist the population. She planned her trip to the nearest city and talked to a group of scientists.

A month later, that group came to San Miguel in order to analyze the epidemic. Hundreds of people had died. The group did not explain why. The town had an expert in those cases, Mr. A.

Mr. D, who was the leader of the group, talked to Mr. A about the situation. The doctor only said viruses did not have a cure but gave people pills and serum to make them feel better. Mr. D was not convinced by it and started to make a vaccine to stop the epidemic but Mr. A did not help him.

One day both were in the laboratory and Mr. D found a file with all the information about the virus’s formula. But he did not say anything at all. He continued working on the research and later talked to Miss. K about the problem. He made a vaccine with the information he found. The result was that water contained a strange substance and people watered vegetables with it but only mushrooms reacted negatively. Both started vaccinating people in the town while Mr. A was on a trip.

Finally, when Mr. A came back to town, he was taken to the mental hospital. Unfortunately it was too late to save innocent people who believed in him.


Reality Bestiarius

copyright Stephen Baum

copyright Stephen Baum

Reality Bestiarius

I crouch, trembling, in the storm drain. I can hear the hunter slavering outside—almost feel his hot, stinking breath. He’s been pursuing me for days. I am terrified and bone-tired.

skull icon

I sniff weakly around the storm drain entrance, my desperation for food bordering on panic. I have not eaten meat in days. I wonder if my little ones have already died of starvation.

skull icon

“Welcome back to Day 6 of the Predator/Prey Showdown! We’ve seen some surprises but it’s all going to end soon for one contestant. Remember to text 684833 to place your bets on the winner. Call now!

skull icon

Note: the title is actually a misnomer, since a bestiarius refers to a person who is forced into a combat with an animal. I could not find the Roman term for two animals who are forced to fight each other, as this story intends.


Sacrifices to the Monster

Happy Canada Day everyone! I’m sorry I’ve been away so much in the last few weeks and this week isn’t any better. I’ll be gone for most of the remainder of the week, totally beyond the range of Internet access. However, I’ll try to read as many as I can when I get back.

copyright Jean L. Hays

copyright Jean L. Hays

Sacrifices to the Monster

A few feeble cries still came from the sweltering trunks of the half-buried wrecks. As the sun set, the cars descended on a platform into the earth, moving silently on well-oiled gears.

When it stopped, an old man approached and unlocked the trunks. He pulled out the sacrifice victims, all young men and women as he had demanded.

He gave them food and water.

“They said you were a monster,” one croaked. “That you would eat us.”

“They are barbarians,” the man said. “Live down here with me until we have enough. Then we will ascend and retake our land.”

 


Shades in the Dark

As you may know, I am an English teacher. This last month, our university was host to a group of students and professional from Mexico, as part of the Proyecta 100,000 program. They are gone back home now, I am very sad to say, but while they were here, I was their writing teacher. Among the projects we did were short stories. I asked if I could post them on my blog and they agreed. So here is the first one, Shades in the Dark, written by Frank Soria and Jorge Montesinos.

Shades in the Dark

by Frank Soria and Jorge Montesinos

It was an October night full of stars, and the moon shone in the high clear sky. There was nobody but the wind blowing outside. Deserted streets seemed to be aware that something unexpected was coming up. Everything was quiet, warm, and cozy. Emily and Kevin had just gotten to their grandpa’s home. He was an old fashioned man, rough of character, but lovely deep in his heart.

The first days passed harmoniously, soft, and warm. One night after having dinner, Kevin heard a slight creaking noise coming from the corridor. Without notice he stood up and went through it to realize no one was there. He felt how the temperature in the room dropped drastically. His legs trembled as he walked away. He was almost voiceless, nobody seemed to be there, but the whisper of a strange entity surrounded his little body, taking him to his deepest scary feelings. The lamp in the corridor flickered, announcing the inevitable encounter with the paranormal event. His heart beat as fast as a horse in the wild field. Suddenly, he felt a hand grabbing his shoulder. His breath stopped for a moment. He turned around to realize that it was his grandpa looking at him. He told his grandpa about the noise, but he said nothing about it.

The following day his sister teased him about the ghost story, laughing at him. Kevin cried for her madness. Night came back. A storm was announced in the papers. The lights went off. It was windy and cold outside. Grandpa took some candles from an old drawer and met the boys for dinner. Kevin was afraid and asked grandpa to take him to bed. Emily stayed for a while in the kitchen. Suddenly, she heard somebody coming to her. She turned around. No one was there, but an empty room in the shadows. She never had felt so lonely and frightened. A gust of wind opened the window blowing the candle out, pulling everything in its path towards Kevin’s room. She ran to rescue her little brother, but she couldn’t open the door. She yelled at him desperately. There was no answer. Lightning lit her frightened face when her grandpa hugged her and calmed her down. They heard a horrible roar coming from the inside of the room, but the door remained sealed. After a few minutes they could open it and Kevin was not there. The room smelled like a rare fragrance. They had a terrible feeling, but they could do nothing.

The little boy had disappeared. Not a single roar, strange sound or shadow was seen from that day on. No one mentioned a word about that event. Emily grew up there with her grandfather and sometimes she woke up thinking that was a weird nightmare and looked for Kevin but he had gone.


Misnomer

To say this installment of Friday Fictioneers is late is somewhat of an understatement. It’s so late, it’s almost early for next week. I will apologize for being busy, but next week is not much better, since I leave for a 4-day trip on Wednesday afternoon. Thanks to those who continue to read my work when I post it. I appreciate you all.

copyright Kent Bonham

copyright Kent Bonham

Misnomer

Kent sat silently, surrounded by racks of string bikinis, more air than there. Outside, the snow lay slathered over the landscape like sunscreen applied liberally by an inexpert hand. It even mockingly covered the TRAK Beachware: Yellowknife Branch sign. The red “A” still glowed optimistically pink through the snow.

He was going to be a pioneer, but it was June 15 and he had taken a snowmobile to work. He morosely picked up the reply to his angry letter to Environment Canada.

“Actually, Mr. Bonham, we prefer the term climate change these days. Global warming is somewhat of a misnomer.”


Piety by Proximity – Friday Fictioneers

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Piety by Proximity

My dad believed in piety by proximity. His nightstand was a stack of Bibles. My desk lamp was holy, he told me.

“It’ll keep you safe from demons,” he said.

“What’s a demon?”

“It’s like a cross between a deer and a lemon, I think.”

One day, I went on a field trip to the cathedral and saw a row of lamps like mine, one missing.

“Did you steal my lamp?” I asked him later.

“They have five more,” he protested.

“What about the eighth commandment?”

“I didn’t covet it; I just took it.”

I suggested he read his nightstand.


Clock Tower Jill

I wrote this originally for Sunday Photo Fiction, which is a story challenge based on a picture. The stories are supposed to be around 200 words. I try to stay close to that but this week it’s a bit longer, just as forewarning.

Clock Tower Jill

I called her Clock Tower Jill, even back when I was still trying to eat her. I didn’t know her real name because we never talked, of course. She was a quirky one, Clock Tower Jill.

It was July and the hot, muzzy air was hanging like a lead blanket in the forest when I first saw those long legs stepping towards me through the undergrowth. I wasn’t starving but I roared and readied myself to pounce. She picked up a stick and swung it like a bat, right into my snout. That stunned me and before I could recover, she sprinted away. It was too hot for me to run far and by the time I found her, she had reached the ruined town. I saw her at the top of the clock tower, sticking her tongue out at me.

I kept her treed up there for days, out of spite for my hurt snout. Then I realized she would eventually starve to death and I would not get to eat her anyway. So I brought her some food. It was accepted imperiously, without even a thank you. I named her Jill. She was like my pet.

After a month of living up in the tower, she came down and called to me. “You, creature. I want to go down to the lake to swim.”

I had long given up trying to eat her and I stood by to let her go.

“I want to ride you,” she said. I bristled at that, but gave in eventually, since she was my pet.

She sat on my back and held my mane while I trotted down to the lake. I stood guard while she swam and then I brought her back. She was a good pet.

“Good boy,” she said, patting my head before she went back up into her tower. “Bring me something good tonight, okay?” That rankled but I did it for her anyway since I liked having her around. And after all, she was pretty quirky, my Clock Tower Jill.


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