15 Apr 2019
Today’s prompt: “What you would shoplift”
You meander through the magic shop, running your finger along the crystal case, studying the decks of tarot cards, and holding various amulets with stones or Celtic symbols up to the light. At last, the shop owner turns her back and you stuff the book into your coat.
If you had bought the book, the shop owner would have thrown in a hamsa for free. And warned you not to read the book without wearing the charm.
After admiring the book, with its matte black cover embossed with a pentagram, you leaf through the pages. The spells are simple, with only an incantation and a few household ingredients required – nothing you couldn’t dig out of a closet or a spice rack. You begin with a simple levitation spell. You light three candles, burn three dried leaves, and read from the book in a voice that starts as ominous, but then devolves into silliness. But it works. First, you levitate a plate with a cookie on it. Then, yourself. Then, your cat, who hides from you for the rest of the day.
Next, you try a fire spell. You decide you’d better be outside for this one, but you don’t want to deal with any nosy neighbors. You drive to an abandoned Kmart. Behind the store, you sprinkle sand in a circle around you, open the book and read the words. It looks like Latin or something. You’re not sure. But apparently, you get the pronunciation right, because flames burst from your fingertips. You howl with laughter.
You go home, and now you’re ready to try a summoning spell. The spell says it’s a helpful spirit. Maybe it can help you clean house or something.
You draw the symbols in chalk on the concrete basement floor. You take the precautions listed at the beginning of the summoning chapter to smudge some sage and make a circle of salt around the area where you’ve drawn the symbols. And then you step into the circle and begin to read aloud.
Immediately, something seems wrong. The house shakes. A window shatters, and the wind carries the sage smoke away from the center of the room and scatters the salt circle. An eerie, deep, disembodied laugh echoes. This does not seem like a helpful spirit.
You flip through the book, looking for the banishment spell you saw earlier. But when you flip the page, instead of words, all you see is a picture of an eye. You turn the page. Another eye. You flip through page after page with your thumb. Eye. Eye. Eye. Eye. Eye.
You step back, but find you cannot move past the chalk symbols. A sharp pain hits your stomach, and you double over. The pain eases for a second, then comes back with renewed vigor. It feels as though something is tearing you up from the inside. And so it is. A demon claws its way into this world through your midsection. As you die, eviscerated, the book falls with a thud to the basement floor.
14 Apr 2019
Today’s prompt: “Go out to dinner with a friend, and as soon as you get home, write in that person’s voice. Begin with something the person said.” [I’m just writing a story that begins with a sentence someone said at a friend gathering last night.]
“This tastes like wet dog,” you say.
Your friends laugh uproariously and pass another glass to you. You sip delicately, trying to catch the predominant note.
“This tastes like fresh asphalt,” you say.
Your friends laugh again and pass you another glass.
“This tastes like a migraine,” you say, making your way down the long line of tasters.
“This tastes like ass.”
“This tastes like the dumpster behind a Taco Bell.”
“This tastes like impending death.”
“Impending death?” one of your friends asks.
You sip again. “Less impending now.”
You sip one more time. You die.
13 Apr 2019
Today’s prompt: “A kid in your grade whom you don’t know very well shows up at your house one day to tell you something important. What does he look like? What does he say?”
Your mom calls your name. “One of your little friends is at the door!” she adds.
You run downstairs, hoping it’s one of the kids you play Pokemon with.
It is not. Instead, it’s Jeremy.
“He’s not one of my friends,” you think. You want to correct your mom, but you know then you’ll just get a lecture about being nice.
Jeremy’s wearing the same T-shirt he always wears, and he smells a bit. You file this away as ammo in case your mom tries to get you to play with Jeremy or something, knowing that if you use it, you’ll get the “be nice” lecture and give her ammo about regular baths, and you’ll probably get some pondering on her part about what his family life must be like, like you can do anything about that.
You approach the screen door. “What do you want?” you mumble.
“He’s coming,” Jeremy says, a weird, faraway look in his eyes.
You don’t really want to prolong this conversation, but your curiousity gets the better of you. “Who’s coming?”
“Ka-thoo-loo,” he says.
“So?” you say. The name means nothing to you.
“He’s coming to de-vow-er us,” Jeremy says.
“Quit being weird,” you say.
“The adults are bringing Ka-thoo-loo here. They want the monsters to come.”
Now you’re curious again. Adults doing bad things could mean more ammo for you the next time you have an argument with your mom. “Which adults?”
“My mom and dad,” he says. No wonder, you think. “Mrs. Simonson.” Your teacher. No way. “Pastor Whitford.” Huh. Maybe. “And your dad.” Okay, he’s full of crap.
“You take it back,” you say.
“It’s true,” Jeremy says.
“You better go away,” you say.
He doesn’t move.
“You better go away!” you repeat louder. Jeremy runs off.
Your mom heard that. She comes around the corner.
“Why did you tell him to go away?” she asks you. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“He was telling lies about dad!” you say. This is definitely good ammo. Mom wouldn’t stand for that.
She looks surprised. “What did he say?” she asks.
“He said dad and his parents and Pastor Whitford and Mrs. Simonson are bringing Ka-thoo-loo here!” you say.
“He said that?” your mom seems surprised, and a bit concerned. “Okay. Don’t worry about this. I’ll take care of this. Why don’t you do some coloring?”
“Okay,” you say. You color at the kitchen table while your mom cooks spaghetti.
“Mom, what does de-vow-er mean?” you ask.
“It means eat,” she says absently.
Dinner comes. Then bedtime. You pretend to go to sleep, then get up and press your ear to your door. Sure enough, your parents start arguing. You can’t make it all out, but there’s definitely talk of Ka-thoo-loo.
And then there’s a muffled scream.
And then there’s an eerie quiet.
And then you hear footsteps. You run to your bed. You pretend to sleep.
Your father cracks open the door to your room. He’s holding a bloody knife. He walks toward you.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You know too much.”
12 Apr 2019
Today’s prompt: “What your desk thinks about at night”
I’m a desk, not an altar, dammit. That blood is never coming out.
I suppose if they do get the blood out, I’m going to a new person. I hope it’s someone who dusts more often.
11 Apr 2019
Today’s prompt: “Write a story that starts with a piece of gossip.”
“Have you heard the latest?” Cindy asks you.
“I don’t think so,” you say. “What’s up?”
“Cthulhu and Idh-yaa split up.”
“No!”
“Yeah.”
“They always seemed like the perfect couple. Him with his tentacles and wings, and her with her giant pale worm form.”
“Apparently she caught him cheating on her with Kassogtha.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah, not cool. They have four kids.”
“Isn’t Kassogtha his sister?” you ask.
“I’m guessing when your whole deal is about being a cosmic evil entity who’s coming to devour us all, you don’t worry as much about sexual taboos,” Cindy says.
“How’s Idh-yaa taking it?”
“Not too good. She’s been rampaging through cities and eating her feelings.”
“Uhhh … eating … people?”
“Yeah, pretty much everyone she sees. Why?”
“Because that’s her now,” you say, as the massive gray-white worm turns down onto the street where you and Cindy are chatting.
10 Apr 2019
Today’s prompt: “You wake up by the side of the road lying next to a bicycle, with no memory and no wallet. What happens in the next hour?”
You’re face down in a ditch, dirt crusting your lips, deep scratches on your arms. You stand up gingerly and are about to dust off your clothes when you notice the paper curled into your hand.
It says, “Go anywhere but here.”
Where’s “here”? What does it mean? And who are you? How did you get here?
You clean yourself up as best you can, checking yourself for injuries and debris. You check your pocket for a wallet or id. Nothing. You check the ground around you. Nothing but a lone bicycle, a little the worse for wear but still rideable.
Somebody must have hit you. And now you can’t remember anything. It’s like you’re in a soap opera, except you skipped the coma and the hospital bed.
You’ve got to get help, but you don’t have a phone. All you’ve got is this bicycle. Best to start riding to the nearest house. Maybe they can get you to a hospital, or even jog your memory.
You pick a direction and start riding. You realize after a few minutes that your legs aren’t stiff. You can’t have ridden too long before your accident. There must be a house or something near where you woke up. It might even be past that hill.
You downshift the bike and make your way uphill. As you crest it, a house rises before you. You coast into the driveway, prop up the bike on its kickstand, and knock on the door.
A woman in a long black robe and black hood answers the door, then grows wide-eyed. “You were supposed to get out!” she whispers. “I told you. Anywhere but here.”
“Who is it, honey?” a voice calls out behind her. Footsteps approach. A man in a similar robe and hood appears. “Well, look who it is. You escape, and then you show right up on my doorstep. It’s like the Necronomicon says: The Dread Lord provides. The sacrifice is on!” He grabs you and carries you down to the sacrificial chamber.
09 Apr 2019
Today’s prompt: “You are a private investigator. You’ve been following a cheating husband for a month. Write the report to your client – an emotionally unstable wife – telling her what you did and what you’ve learned.”
“It’s all pretty straightforward,” you say to Mrs. Childress. “The photos are there in the envelope. I wouldn’t look at ‘em if I was you. No need to torture yourself. But yeah. They were necking in the movie theater. They walked into a hotel together. I’ve got a few of them walking downtown where he’s got his hand on her a–”
“But he–he wouldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t.”
“Mrs. Childress. I told you up front. Sometimes it’s better not to know. If you suspect, you’re almost always right, but nobody ever really wants to know. It’s no good. You’re just going to be mad–at her, at him, at yourself, hell, at me for finding it out for ya. And you might think you want to know one day, and then when you know, you’ll wish you didn’t. But it’s all there. In black and white.”
Mrs. Childress gestures to the envelope. “Are there any photos of them. You know.”
“No. But there is a recording I took from inside their hotel room. Audio only. I, uh, bribed their room service guy to let me switch places with him. Changed into his uniform and brought their champagne up. She had her shoes and pantyhose off. He’d taken off his tie and jacket. I tucked a recorder in the closet on my way out. Rescued it later. Lotta moans and dirty talk.”
“Oh, no, no, Jimmy, no! Not my Jimmy.”
“Mrs. Childress. I’m so sorry.”
She sobs a bit. You cough a little. You’re never quite sure how to broach the remaining payment after you’ve told someone their spouse is cheating on them. And that’s why you always get half up front.
She stares at the envelope through watery eyes. She seems surprisingly calm. “Do you have a letter opener?” she asks.
“Of course,” you say, handing her one.
She opens the envelope and flips through photo after photo of her husband kissing another woman, of her sitting on his lap, of him pulling her into a hotel entrance while she laughs.
“You faked these.”
“What?”
“You set this up somehow. You faked it. He wouldn’t do this to me. Not my Jimmy.”
“Mrs. Childress, you came to me because you were convinced your husband was having an affair. My pay’s the same either way, if he’s cheating or not. I wouldn’t make this up. I’m just calling a spade a spade.”
“He wouldn’t do this to me! He loves me! You’re trying to turn me against him! But it won’t work!”
“Mrs. Child–” you sputter out as she stabs the letter opener into your chest over and over and over.
“It won’t work! He loves me! He wouldn’t do that to me! He wouldn’t!”