#short-stories

[thepersonalwords]

Love does not choose belief, place, time, situations, or race. love happens between two souls.

Haidji, Harables: Short Stories 1

[chaotic-hypnotic-erotic]

Heartache

‘Are you certain of this place?’ asked Tymon. Imara nodded. ‘This is where we would gather – myself, Chaya, and Oria.’ She looked around at the interior of the taverna. ‘Everyone is welcome in here.’ She looked at Rathi, Anathana, Axan, and the two new arrivals – Kila and Mera. ‘Glad to hear that,’ said Axan. ‘The Blueback sells a wide range of foodstuffs,’ Imara said. ‘They import food from…

[quotelr]

This isn't where I intended to be. Killing a person has a funny way of getting your life off-track.

Erin Mitchell

[gunswordfist]

(TW Blood, Vampires, Gore) My Black Action Vampire Story. Please consider spreading the word about my 307 word story here, which will become a webcomic written and drawn by me one day. The link to my story also has a built-in text-to-speech feature https://medium.com/p/16b03156c714 :

BloodPunk Dracula

[1400s France]

An assortment of Black vampires are searching the night for somebody. A small light flashes in the distance and gathers all of their attention. A short Black woman donned in dark armor is transforming her gold magic ring from a large circle of blood into two iron weapons in preparation for the impending battle. She’s Dracula, the vampires' target. Her red eyes and new curving gold swords gleam back at them. They rapidly march their way through the snow towards her.

The fastest one arrives in seconds, only to get quickly chopped up by Dracula's golden blades. Dracula's short swords begin magically sucking in streams of blood from the vampire's wounds, forcing the unfortunate vamp's body parts to stay levitated in the night air. These lifeless husks finally hit the ground as the next foolish vampire comes to strike Dracula.

Their sharp nailed attack misses after a fast back step from the Queen of Vampires. The lesser vampire's clawed hand pierces through a building's outer wall instead. Dracula breaks the ground beneath her back foot to dash in at them with her weapons held out at each side. Her right blade runs right through the row of stacked bricks beside her. In under a second, she leaps and has that same sword slash up the wall and through the neck of the arm-in-wall vamp. Dracula's feet hit the snowy ground. She turns to promptly greet the rest of the now headless vampire's corpse with a violent dance of dual blades. This time Dracula uses her mouth to blood suck their red liquid from through the air to her opened red lips. After seconds of being rendered into a hover by Dracula's powerful blood feeding, the night creature's now shrunken bits rain into the soft snow. The next fool makes their way to Dracula...

[mindbat]

Keeping Score: 10 February 2023

As you can imagine from my last post (and lack of posting through Nov, Dec, or Jan), absolutely nothing went as planned, writing-wise, over the last three months. NaNoWriMo? Sure, I got 16,000 words into it before crashing and burning. Now I have two incomplete novels sitting on my laptop, waiting for me to pick them back up 😬 The TCF? Dropped it. Okay, I delayed it first, then dropped it.…

[chunkysoup22]

[thestuffedalligator]

“Are you the witch who turned eleven princes into swans?”

The old woman stared at the figure on the front step of her cottage and considered her options. It was the kind of question usually backed up by a mob with meaningful torches, and the kind of question she tried to avoid.

Coming from a single dusty, tired housewife, it should’ve held no terrors.

“You a cop?”

The housewife twisted the hem of her apron. “No,” she muttered. “I’m a swan.”

A raven croaked somewhere in the woods. Wind whispered in the autumn leaves.

Then: “I think I can guess,” the old woman said slowly. “Husband stole your swan skin and forced you to marry him?”

A nod.

“And you can’t turn back into a swan until you find your skin again.”

A nod.

“But I reckon he’s hidden it, or burned it, or keeps it locked up so you can’t touch it.”

A tiny, miserable nod.

“And then you hear that old Granny Rothbart who lives out in the woods is really a batty old witch whose father taught her how to turn princes into swans,” the old woman sighed. “And you think, ‘Hey, stuff the old skin, I can just turn into a swan again this way.’

“But even if that was true – which I haven’t said if it is or if it isn’t – I’d say that I can only do it to make people miserable. I’m an awful person. I can’t do it out of the goodness of my heart. I have no goodness. I can’t use magic to make you feel better. I only wish I could.”

Another pause. “If I was a witch,” she added.

The housewife chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she drew herself up and, for the first time, looked the old woman in the eyes.

“Can you do it to make my husband miserable?”

The old woman considered her options. Then she pulled the wand out from the umbrella stand by the door. It was long, and silver, and a tiny glass swan with open wings stood perched on the tip.

“I can work with that,” said the witch.

[jordanbolton]

“The Driver” by Jordan Bolton

My first book ‘Blue Sky Through the Window of a Moving Car’ is out now! Order it here - https://smarturl.it/BlueSky

[mimimar]

the woman who holds the moon

prints available here. my cover for this month's issue of baffling magazine.

[theremightbecupcakespodcast]

In which Carla returns to the haunted English coastline for Victorian Christmas ghost stories. Source: Strange Stories of Ghosts and Coincidence, ed. Arthur Conan Doyle https://archive.org/details/doyle-arthur-conan-et-al.-strange-stories-of-coincidence-and-ghostly-adventure-george-redway-1891 Contents: https://www.isfdb.org/cgi-bin/pl.cgi?369419  Alternative source: Doyle, Arthur Conan; Scott, Sir Walter. The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories (pp. 180-193). Valancourt Books. Fenn Bibliography: https://www.isfdb.org/cgi-bin/ea.cgi?162372 The Society for Psychical Research https://www.spr.ac.uk/about-spr W. W. Fenn: https://www.victorianresearch.org/atcl/show_author.php?aid=376  How to Support Cupcakes: Substack: https://www.theremightbecupcakes.com/account and please visit my lovely sponsors that share their ads on my episodes.  Where to Find Cupcakes: Substack: http:/theremightbecupcakes.substack.com Instagram: @theremightbecupcakes Reddit: https://www.reddit.com/r/theremightbecupcakes

[traciehicks]

The Midnight Baker

The aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg drifted from beneath Mia’s barely cracked window, making her stomach growl. Her next-door neighbor must have been baking Christmas cookies again. The scent reminded her of the legendary pastries that appeared on doorsteps each Christmas Eve—creations so perfect they belonged in a museum rather than on someone’s doorstep. The cotton sheets rustled as Mia rolled…

[plotpulse]

The Great Deck of Immortality Unleashed

Barnoby never liked New Year’s. Everyone else was out celebrating with fireworks, fancy parties, and silly resolutions, but not him. No, Barnoby’s parents had always told him that New Year’s was pointless. “It’s just another day,” they’d say. And so, while the rest of the world rang in the new year, Barnoby stayed in his musty basement, tinkering with his spells. Tonight, though, was a little…

[themasthead]

Unsettled: Episode 85

The Ghosts of Whisper Ridge Russet and amber leaves twisted in the autumn wind, clinging to the old trees. Like many of their brethren, they soon lost the struggle, whirling in the wind. Some landed on the thick green grass. Others on the cobblestone street nearby. Every tree in the park was setting free its leaves in anticipation of the coming winter. Neighborhood children giggled as they…

[erikgrove]

Creepy Nice 10/16/2024

Mustache Sightings I mentioned last time I will be doing panels and readings at OryCon. Here are the details of my schedule in graphic form! The Sky Above the Corn You can order copies of the Even Cozier Cosmic anthology from Underland Press now!!! My story is called “The Sky Above the Corn Is Full of Eyes and Teeth.” It’s about a little girl who goes to her grandma’s house to wait out an…

[creepyclothdoll]

The Devil's Wheel

The Devil’s Wheel

“If you say yes,” said the Devil, “a single man, somewhere in the world, will be killed on the spot. But three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, missus.”

“What’s the catch?” You squint at him suspiciously over the red-and-black striped carnival booth. You’re smarter than he thinks you are– a devil deal always has a catch, and you’re determined to catch him before he catches you. 

“Well, the catch is that you’ll know you did it. And I’ll know, too. And the big man upstairs’ll know, I ‘spose. But what’s the chariot of salvation without a little sin to grease the wheels? You can repent from your mansion balcony, looking out at your waterfront views, sipping a bellini in your eighties. But hey, it’s up to you– take my deal or leave it.”

The Devil lights a cigar without a match, taking an inhale, and blowing out a cloud of deep, sweet-smelling tobacco laced faintly with something that reminds you of rotten eggs. If he does have horns, they’re hidden under his lemon yellow carnival barker hat. He wears a clean pinstripe suit and a red bowtie. No cloven hooves, no big pointy fork, but you know he’s the Devil without having to be told. Though he did introduce himself.

He’s been perfectly polite. 

You know you need the money. He knows it too, or he wouldn’t have brought you here, to this strange dark room, whisking you away from your new house in the suburbs as fast as a wish. Now you’re in some sort of warehouse, where all the windows seem to be blacked out– or, maybe, they simply look out into pitch darkness, though it is the middle of the day. A single white spotlight shines down on the two of you. 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” you say. “I bet the man is someone I know, right? My husband?”

“Could be,” the Devil says with a pointed grin. “That’s for the wheel to decide.”

He steps back and raises his black-gloved hand as the tarp flies off of the large veiled object behind him. The light of the carnival wheel nearly blinds you. Blinking lights line the sides. Jingling music blares over speakers you can’t see. The flickering sign above it reads:

THE DEVIL’S WHEEL

“Step right up and claim your fortune,” the Devil barks. “Spin the wheel and pay the price! Or leave now, and a man keeps his life.”

You examine the wheel. 

The gambling addict

The doting boyfriend

The escaped convict

The dog dad

The secretive sadist

“These are all the possible men I can kill?” You ask, thumbing the side of the wheel. It rolls smoothly in your hand. Then you quickly stop, realizing that this might constitute a spin under the Devil’s rules. He flashes a smile at you, watching you halt its motion. 

“Addicts, convicts, murderers– plenty of terrible options for you to land on, missus!”

“Serial wife murderer?”

“Now who would miss a fellow like that? I can guarantee that the whole world would be better off without him in it, and that’s a fact.”

The hard worker

The compulsive liar

The animal torturer

The widower

The desperate businessman

The failed musician

The beloved son

“My husband is on here too,” you say. 

“Your husband Dave, yes. The wheel has to be fair, otherwise there’s simply no stakes.”

“I know what’s gonna happen,” you say, crossing your arms. “This wheel is rigged. I’m gonna spin it around, and it’ll go through all the killers and stuff, and then it’s gonna land on my husband no matter what.”

“Why, I would never disgrace the wheel that way,” the Devil says, wounded. “I swear on my own mother’s grave– may she never escape it. In fact, take one free spin, just to test it out! This one’s on me, no death, no dollars.”

You cautiously reach up to the top of the wheel and feel its heaviness in your hand. The weight of hundreds of lives. But also, millions of dollars. You pull the wheel down and let it go.

Clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity

Round and round it goes. 

The college graduate

The hockey fan

The Eagle Scout

The cold older brother

The charming younger brother

The two-faced middle child

The perfectionist

The slob 

Your husband Dave

Clackity-clackity-clackity.

Finally, the wheel lands on a name. A title, really.

The photographer

“Hmm, tough, missus, but that’s the way of the wheel. But hey, look! Your husband is allllll the way over here,” he points with his cane to the very bottom of the wheel, all the way on the other side from where the arrow landed. “As you can see, it’s not rigged. The wheel truly is random.”

“So… there really isn’t another catch?” You ask. 

“Isn’t it enough for you to end a man’s life? You need a steeper price? If you’re really such a glutton for punishment, I’ll gladly re-negotiate the terms.”

“No, no… wait.” You examine the wheel, glancing between it and the Devil.

You really could use that three million dollars. Newly married, new house, you and your husband’s combined debt– those student loans really follow you around. He’s quite a bit older than you, and even he hasn’t paid them off yet, to the point where the whole time you were dating you watched him stress out about money. You had to have a small, budget wedding, and a small, budget honeymoon. Three million dollars could be big for the two of you. You could re-do your honeymoon and go somewhere nice, like Hawaii, instead of just taking two weeks in Atlantic City. You deserve it. 

Even so, do you really want to kill an innocent photographer? Or an innocent seasonal allergy sufferer? Or an innocent blogger? Just because you don’t know or love these people doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t. 

The cancer survivor

The bereaved

The applicant

Some of these were so vague. They could be anyone, honestly. Your neighbors, your father, your friends…

The newlywed

The ex-gifted kid

The uncle

The Badgers fan

“My husband is a Badgers fan,” you say.

“How lovely,” the Devil says. 

Then it hits you.

Of course.

The weightlifter.

The careful driver.

The manager.

The claustrophobe.

Your husband Dave lifts weights at the gym twice a month. You wouldn’t call him a pro, but he does it. He also drives like he’s got a bowl of hot soup in his lap all the time, because he’s afraid of being pulled over. He just got promoted to management at his company, and he takes the stairs to his seventh-story office because he hates how small and cramped the elevator is.

“I get your game,” you announce. “You thought you could get me, but I figured you out, jackass!” “Oh really? What is my game, pray tell?” The Devil responds, leaning against his cane.

“All these different titles– they’re all just different ways to describe the same guy. My husband isn’t one notch on the wheel, he’s every notch. No matter what I land on, Dave dies. I’m wise to your tricks!” 

The Devil cackles. 

“You’re a clever one, that’s for sure. I thought you’d never figure it out.”

“Thanks but no thanks, man,” you say with a triumphant smirk. “I’m no rube. No deal. Take me back home.”

“As you wish, missus,” the Devil says. He snaps his fingers, and you’re gone, back to your brand-new house with your new husband. “Don’t say I never tried to help anyone.”