So I sez (last minute, of course), “Let’s do some Halloween fiction! Everybody write a short story and I’ll post it on my blog.”
Kelly sez, “What’s the criteria for a short story?”
Sez I, “It has to be short.”
Marina sez, “And a story.”
“About what shall I write?” Kelly asked (she is early in the process of being corrupted as a fiction writer).
“Um, cannibal fairies,” sez I. “And a duck.” (I believe fiction writers should be thoroughly corrupted with no hope of turning back) “Make it a love story.”
Then the ever so charming artist, Chris Zombieking, sez, “Cannibal fairies? A duck? I can do that.”
So Marina and I (already thoroughly corrupted) took up the challenge as well, though we cheated and included neither cannibal fairies nor ducks in our stories. They are, however, short and stories.
(Hey, don’t look askance at me about the above mostly-true and pretty much factual conversation. You all keep asking where writers get their ideas. So there you go)
The Red Band
by Kelly Shew
“I cannot believe they stuck me with you, of all faeries!” Fatina threw up her hands as she fluttered in the air. “Even Arcus the Dunderhead would be better than you!”
Nibale flew up to meet her. “It’s not like I’m happy about this either! Do you think I have nothing better to do than drag around a Papinae on this mission? I hope you can keep up, because I will not be held accountable for your failures!”
Both faeries hung suspended in air as they glared at each other. The Grand High Faerie Council had decreed a hunter from each tribe would be assigned the task of locating a rogue faerie who was ignoring the Age Restriction.
A thousand years ago, the Council determined that, if allowed to continue hunting unchecked, faeries would soon eat themselves out of existence. Were younger faeries easier to catch? Absolutely. They weren’t old enough to have learned any survival tricks. They were needed to continue the line. What would the faeries do when they ran out of food? It was decreed that faeries could not hunt anyone under seven seasons in age. (to read the rest of this story, click here)
As said before, Marina has neither cannibal fairies nor ducks in her creepy little tale. Nor does it have Halloween.
“Hmn?” sez I.
Marina sez, “Christmas is more horrifying than Halloween.”
Good enough for me. Read on…
Xmas House of Horrors
The church parking lot lights winked at Tim through the lens of his excited breath in the unusually cold Southern air. He slammed the car door and slung his full backpack over his shoulder.
“Tim, honey, stay with me,” his mother called as he plunged into the sea of parked cars.
“We are already late, Mom!” Tim shouted, leaving his mother to unstrap baby Jennifer from her car seat. Tim didn’t like to think of what fun he’d already missed while his mother had been stuffing Jennifer into her new snow suit. Jennifer had pooped her diaper half way through, which had forced Mom to reverse the process before starting it all over again. Having to haul a baby around slowed everything. It was more than a twelve year old could bear.
Tim arrived at the front gate. A rickety old privacy fence looked as if it had been stolen from five or six different back yards. A ticket booth was set up beside the gate.
Tim couldn’t see through the fence. He could hear people laughing and shrieking at the wonders inside. He could hear music and see flashes of light in the air. The ratty sign over the ticket booth sparkled with promise. “Spirit of Giving Christmas Carnival” was splashed in faded red paint across yellow canvas. (to continue reading this story, click here)
For your edification, here is exactly where I got the idea for the following story. I read a tweet on Twitter: “I sold my soul to the Devil. He got a shitty deal!” To which I thought, hmn…
The Devil His Due
by Jaye W Manus
“This is an as is deal, right? No take backs? No do-overs?”
Bub curled his lips in Smile Number Four— the Winner. Every morning, after his workout, but before his shower, he practiced in front of a mirror his repertoire of smiles. He had sixteen. He hadn’t become the Big Boss’s top producer by neglecting details. “Are we having second thoughts, my dear? You don’t have to sign. You do have free will.”
The waitress looked between Bub and the contract printed in blood-red ornate calligraphy on golden parchment. “Just making sure. I don’t want you coming back and saying I cheated you or anything.”
“Once you sign, the deal is done. No take backs.”
“Yay!” She took the proffered Mont Blanc fountain pen and signed her name. Instead of a dot, she drew a heart over the ‘i’ in Brandi. She handed back the pen.
“So that’s it, Bub? You have my soul and I get my heart’s desire? Do I need to do anything else?”
“You’ve done quite enough, my dear.” He slid the pen into his shirt pocket and gave her Smile Number Thirteen— Wicked. He rolled the scroll. It was warm to the touch and gave off a faint scent of brimstone. He tied a neat bow in its securing red ribbon. “Good day.” (to continue reading this story, click here)
Ms Becky Joy will have us know that no collection of Halloween stories is complete unless it includes a tale suitable for reading aloud to children. I will agree.
The Story of Hall-o-ween
by Becky Joy
It happened in the hall, the same type of hall that is in your house. It was after midnight, cold outside, but it was just as cold inside. But only in the hall. The only sound was the ticking of the clock… Except… There was no clock… Not in the hall. Movement! From what? Was it a who or what used to be a who? Up the hall. Down the hall. Bump. Silence. Tick. Tock. Bump! “Oh!” I screamed. It echoed off the walls in the hall. “I ween that you were something to fear, with long fangs and the thirst for blood. Instead, you are my hamster, Jay, left in your plastic ball. I forgot to put you back in your cage.”
See more of Chris’s wonderful artwork over on -brainzzz or GTFO-. But don’t steal him. Marina and I got dibs.