12 Jan 2019
Today’s prompt: “You are looking down through the skylight as chefs prepare dinner for your ex-fiancé’s wedding.”
If you can’t be happy, then no one can.
That’s why you’re on the roof kitted out like someone in a spy thriller who’s about to be lowered through the ceiling and do a bunch of flips past the lasers surrounding a giant gemstone.
You watch through a skylight as one of the caterers arranges salad on small plates, while another chef double-checks the temperature on the prime rib. You pat the pocket where you’ve tucked a small bottle of potent poison and scan the room, looking for something clearly intended for the bride and groom – no, not the bride and groom. Your former fiancé and your former friend. Anyhow. Maybe a pair of specialty champagne glasses for the toast. Something like that. It would be nice not to have to kill everyone at the reception, but god help you, you will spike the gravy if you have to.
The brunette caterer in the ponytail has left the room with some salad plates, but now there’s another chef in there, a woman with a blond pageboy, who seems to be working on some rice pilaf. The remaining chef, a stout man with a shaved head, is now carving the prime rib. It looks succulent.
This is going to be tricky. You’re going to have to find some point in time where not all the food has been served to the wedding party’s table yet, but all the caterers are out of the room. You shift your weight and absently touch your pocket again. And that’s when you hear the crack. Then a crunch.
The glass shatters and you tumble to the floor of the wedding venue’s kitchen, to the great shock of the chefs. In other circumstances, the fall might not have been fatal, but this place got great Yelp reviews for, among other things, its high ceilings.
11 Jan 2019
Today’s prompt: “What could have happened to you in high school that would have changed your life?”
Everything would’ve been different if you’d never met Marla. If you hadn’t given her a second glance when she and her friends were lounging against the wall next to your locker. Hell, if you’d managed to be less obvious about staring at the back of her neck in science class.
One day you were walking to class past the sports equipment shed next to the track, and there was Marla, her black, frizzy hair framing her pale face. She held a lit cigarette between dark lips, the glow illuminating thick eyeliner and her nose ring. She was surrounded by a gaggle of friends in heavy boots and Slayer T-shirts, puffing jets of smoke and fiddling with lighters.
“Hey,” Marla said.
You glanced behind you, then gestured to yourself with a quizzical expression.
“Yeah, you. C’mere.”
You failed miserably at trying not to act awkward. A guy named Jordan offered you a cigarette, and he, a girl named Mo, and a guy the group called Shiv laughed at you when it made you choke. They talked about bands you’ve never heard of. You were pretty sure they were making some of them up. Antiseptic Monkey Paw can’t really be a band, can it?
You glanced at Marla, and she had a look on her face that was all I-know-you’ve-been-watching-me-and-you-could’ve-just-said-something. And then she gave you a quirky little smile.
“We were planning to go to the game this weekend and sarcastically cheer the team for a while and then see if we can get some beer,” she said. “You in?”
“Yeah,” you said.
“Great!” she said, flattening a cigarette butt with her boot. “Practice your cheers. You know. Rah. Rah. Go, fighting mascots,” she drawled sardonically.
Game night came and went, and even though you never felt like you had much to contribute to the conversation, the group was starting to treat you like one of their own. You met out by the equipment shed every day, and occasionally hung out at band practice for a local punk group (apparently, Antiseptic Monkey Paw was a thing). Sometimes you’d go to a convenience store for the five-finger discount. Most of the time you were just bored together.
Before you knew it, you’d been hanging out with the group for nearly a month, and you were eager to make plans for Friday night. “What do you guys want to do?” you asked. “Hang out at the Circle K? Maybe watch a horror movie?”
“Eh,” said Marla as she studied her nails. “Why don’t we just hang out behind the equipment shed?”
“What time?” you asked.
“I’m thinking around 10,” Mo responded.
“Okay,” you said.
There was a full moon out, and the sprinklers had been on earlier in the evening, so you could see blades of grass glinting in the moonlight, and then the familiar array of glowing embers next to mouths and hands. You hurried to the group.
“Hey,” you said.
“Hey,” said Marla. “So glad you could make it.” She gave you a sly smile. Giant canines flashed.
You sucked in your breath, then looked at the other members of the group. Jordan now had a thick beard somehow, and while you wouldn’t put it past Shiv to wear cat-eye contact lenses, you were pretty sure something was up. Mo started sniffing you. Sniffing your shoulder, your neck. Jordan tossed his jacket on the ground, revealing muscular, hairy arms. You looked back to Marla. Jet-black, pointed ears protruded from her frizzy black mane, and her face had contorted into a muzzle.
You turned and ran. You glanced behind you quickly to see a mass of ripping clothes and once-human features resolving themselves into fur, teeth, claws, and lean legs churning toward you. You ran faster, coming close to slipping on the grass a few times. But there was no outrunning the pack. As they tore into you, the sad thought entered your head: Marla probably didn’t even like you. You were just prey the whole time.
10 Jan 2019
Today’s prompt: “Describe the most recent moment when you couldn’t think of anything to say. Were you having a hard time making conversation, or were you simply dumbfounded?”
“Well, my loquacious friend, not so witty now, are we?” the mad scientist said. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
“You’d have a hard time being eloquent, too, if you’d just had your entire mind wiped,” is what you would have said, had your entire mind not just been wiped by the device he’s strapped to your cranium. But your higher language functions are long gone, along with your self-awareness, and pretty soon, your brain won’t even be able to handle respiration.
09 Jan 2019
Today’s prompt: “Write a short story that is set in Argentina in 1932, in which a teacup plays a crucial role.” [I’m going with minor role. The Argentina, 1932, teacup, 2nd person, death scene combo is restriction enough.]
“So when are things going to get better?” your friend Raúl asks.
“Let me just consult the tea leaves,” you say. You hold the teacup up to your ear. “What’s that? Not for a long while?” You set the teacup back down. “What do you expect? The military coup was only two years ago.”
“Yrigoyen had it coming,” Raúl protests. “He was completely blind to how people are suffering.”
“The whole world is suffering,” you say. “The Americans and their goddamned stock market. They’ve ruined the economy for everyone, including us. All my family in the country had to move to Buenos Aires to survive. I couldn’t take them all in. Some of them are in shantytowns.”
“Yrigoyen should have helped us,” Raúl says. “We used to call him ‘The Father of the Poor.’”
“We used to call him ‘The Hairy Armadillo,’ too,” you say, taking a sip of your tea. “No one man can fix everything. I know you supported Uriburu when he seized power, but he didn’t do shit for the economy.”
“Give the guy a break. I heard he has cancer.”
“You just like his moustache.”
“His moustache is glorious and I will not hear a word against it!”
“Anyway, now we’re stuck with Justo–”
“Shhh, not so loud, you never know who’s listening.”
“Now we’re stuck with Justo,” you continue more quietly. “Who screwed us with the treaty with the British and isn’t doing anything to help out the poor or fix the economy that I can see. You know he only got elected because of fraud.”
“I think you meant to say, ‘patriotic fraud,’” Raúl says.
“To patriotic fraud,” you say. You and Raúl clink your teacups.
“Anyhow, I miss the old armadillo,” you say.
“Yeah, you and the UCR revolutionaries gathering in the square,” Raúl says.
“What?” you say.
“You didn’t know? The revolt should be starting any minute now. How did you not hear about this?”
You frown. “I have to go through that way to get home.”
“It’ll probably be fine,” Raúl says. “Just consult the tea leaves.”
In December of 1932, the government of Argentina suppressed a rebellion by the Unión Cívica Radical and declared a state of seige. You didn’t make it home.
08 Jan 2019
Today’s prompt: “Write a scene in which a woman is fired after only a week on the job. Just a week earlier, the same person who is now firing her was very persuasive in convincing her to take the job.” [I’m going to be sticking with my format about being ambiguous about the reader’s gender.]
“I’m so sorry. It’s just not working out,” Mark says. “I thought you’d be the perfect candidate, but you just haven’t been a good fit.”
“Your want ad said nothing about ritual sacrifice,” you pointedly tell Mark.
“It did say, ‘Must be able to work well within a routine.’”
“Routine means like, an hour of managing inventory followed by a couple hours of meetings, interspersed with answering the phones,” you say. “Not leading victims into a room with a big pentagram on the floor and performing incantations over the Dark Priest’s daggers.”
“Agree to disagree,” says Mark. “Anyhow, you led me to believe you had a real knack for coming up with bold, creative new solutions to problems.”
“I do. I just don’t see a lack of exciting new torture techniques to be a problem.”
“That’s some limited thinking right there, I’m sad to say. I really thought you had potential. You said you enjoyed kindling relationships with co-workers and clients alike.”
“I do!”
“You refused to set a single person on fire!”
“I–.” You stop yourself midsentence, cross your arms and fume.
“The ad said, ‘Must be able to handle yourself in a chaotic environment,’” Mark says.
“You cannot reasonably expect anyone to infer from that that they’re going to be expected to help resurrect a Chaos Demon,” you say.
“And yet, it’s a crucial part of the job. I’m sorry,” Mark says. “But we’re going to have to fire you.”
“Whatever,” you say, standing up and walking toward the door of Mark’s office. “Let me just grab my things.”
A column of flame pours from the vent in the ceiling by the door and immolates you.
“That won’t be necessary,” Mark says.
07 Jan 2019
Today’s prompt: “Name the trees that stood in the neighborhood where you grew up.”
The cherry tree in your old backyard? That’s Kat. The maple in your neighbor’s front yard? Henry. The sycamore a couple houses down? Jerry. The horse chestnut across the street? Beth.
And the giant oak your body is swinging from on a noose? That’s Kevin.
06 Jan 2019
Today’s prompt: “A storm destroys your uncle’s shed and kills his six-year-old son. Describe the color of the sky right before the storm hit.”
You’d always had a pretty good rapport with your cousin. You were his go-to for tickle fights and playing with toy monster trucks during family gatherings. So that’s why your mom sent you.
“Something sketchy’s going on with your uncle. I don’t know what. He’s being really secretive about it. The last couple times I talked to him, he said some real creepy stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, stuff about end times. Sacrifice. ‘The coming darkness’ this, and ‘the things that the gods require’ that. I pushed back on him once, and now he won’t even pick up the phone. But I hear things. And I don’t like it. I got a real bad feeling today. There’s something in the air. Andrew trusts you. Why don’t you go get him and bring him out to our house? I just feel like he’d be safer here.”
Black clouds rolled in as you drove to your uncle’s, looking as solid and tangible in the sky as your own hand on the steering wheel. As you get closer, the storm seems to be closing in around your uncle’s old farmhouse. Green tendrils snake along the edges of the clouds. It’s like no storm you’ve ever seen.
There are about a dozen cars parked out at your uncle’s. There’s no reason for people to be out here this far into the country, unless your uncle’s having a party or something. And your uncle’s not really the party type.
Despite all the cars near the house, it seems eerily quiet. You don’t hear anyone outside, just the howling of the wind. You ring the doorbell, ready with some bullshit about wanting to take Andrew to a science museum, and you would’ve called, but Mom said you hadn’t been answering the phone lately maybe because of some service issues, ha ha. It’s a terrible excuse, and you’re standing on the doorstep trying to think of a better one, but no one comes to the door. You try the bell a couple more times. Nothing.
Maybe they’re in the back yard. You decide to wander around back. “Andrew? Uncle Leon?” you call out as you unlatch the gate. No answer. You wander into the yard. You don’t see anyone. But then the shed catches your eye. It’s the big shed, almost a barn really, where your uncle keeps a lot of his farm equipment. Except for right now, apparently, since a bunch of it is now piled outside along the wall. The shed door’s ajar. You walk closer. That’s when you start to hear the chants.
You peer in through the crack in the door. You see Andrew, tied to one of the load-bearing posts in the middle of the shed. He’s gagged, and you can see he’s been crying. He’s surrounded by nearly two dozen men and women wearing black robes and featureless white masks. They’re standing in a circle around the post, chanting. But one of them, across the circle from you, stares straight at you, stops chanting, and points.
You back away and start to run, but something hits your head from behind. The next few minutes are a blur of stumbling, spilling out on the wet grass, hands seizing you, arms hoisting you backward, scratchy ropes cinching into your torso and arms, a mouthful of cloth, and the muffled sobs coming from Andrew on the other side of the post.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” you hear a voice. It sounds like your Uncle Leon’s. “The gods have seen fit to ask for a second sacrifice.”
The chanting begins again, in a language you don’t recognize. The howl of the storm gets louder and closer. When it tears the roof off the shed, the circle of chanters backs up to the walls. But they raise their arms and keep chanting. And then the lightning hits.