05 Jan 2019
Today’s prompt: “Describe an electronic device in the future that you won’t know how to operate.”
You first stumbled onto the crash site a week ago. How long it had been there, you had no idea. The site looked like a naturally-occurring cavern. You were out hiking and were taking a short break, sitting on a rock beside the trail on the hillside. While you were resting your legs and sipping water, you picked up a few pebbles and began chucking them off the hillside. One hit thin air and ricocheted off to the side. That was odd. You aimed another rock in the same general direction. It, too, bounced off of nothing. Right near the mouth of the cave.
You hurried down the hill and toward the cave. You still couldn’t see anything, but now you knew what to feel for, and where. Now that you looked at the cave, you could see markings that looked more like they’d been made on impact with something. You held your arms out in front of you as you approached the cave, and at last you felt it. It felt metallic, but cold even on a warm day like this. Perhaps whatever cloaking device shielded it from your eyes also prevented it from absorbing any of the sun’s heat. It felt dome-shaped, until you got about two and a half feet from the ground, where it flared out in a sharp angle, then curved back in all concave to where it rested on the ground, like a fin around the whole craft. It must be some kind of spacecraft, right? A smallish one. It started about 20 feet from the cave.
You felt along the edge of the craft, and at some point the texture changed from metal to glass. Perhaps a window for when the craft isn’t in stealth mode? Or maybe whatever creature developed the technology for this ship can see it just fine, and still needed some kind of view out? You felt along more intently below the window. A catch of some kind. You pulled it. There was a sound like a release of air pressure. And suddenly you saw stairs lowering out of the craft, and looked up at a dead body.
Whatever creature it was looked to be about four feet tall, and was decked head to toe in some kind of space suit. You could probably reasonably cosplay the uniform with a lot of dark glass, chrome and black latex, but all the materials looked a little different than anything you’d ever seen before. The helmet was pointy, a little bit football-shaped, and the creature’s body was slender, with a long, tapered tail. Its right arm reached out, and a three-fingered hand appeared to be trying to grasp a jet-black object about the size and shape of a bracelet.
A far-off dog barked, and you suddenly panicked. You didn’t want anyone else seeing what you’d discovered. You lunged for the bracelet, grabbed it, then pushed the stair-door back in place. You took a few steps back to make sure you’d left no obvious traces of the craft’s existence, but it had disappeared again. You pocketed the bracelet and bolted for home.
Every day since then, you’ve turned the bracelet over and over, admiring it, trying to determine if it’s purely ornamental or serves some purpose. Whoever or whatever designed it embedded any functionality carefully, non-obviously, exquisitely. On the second day, you happened to run your thumb along the inside of the bracelet in a way that activated a thin line of light around the outer edge. After a few seconds, the light began blinking and then shut off. You couldn’t quite figure out how you’d done it.
By the fourth day, you could get the light back on pretty much any time you tried. By the fifth day, you discovered that when the light was on, if you squeezed both edges of the bracelet simultaneously with your thumb and forefinger, it would start to emit a low humming noise. Again, after a few seconds of this, the hum would cease and the lights would blink off.
Today, you decide to try something new. Once you’ve run your thumb along the inside, you put the bracelet on, then squeeze it to start the hum, and then start rotating your wrist. You’re holding the bracelet about six inches from your face, examining it closely. And that’s when the blades shoot out – sharp, lightweight, and massive, like a giant, toothy circular saw blade – and cut right into your head. Classic you. You were holding it wrong the whole time.
04 Jan 2019
Today’s prompt: “Describe something you wanted badly and, once you got it, never used.”
The New Year’s party roars in the background. Let them. They have no idea what’s coming. You hear the refrain from the other room: “I was dreamin’ when I wrote this, forgive me if it goes astray….”
You’ve worked so long for this. Read so many occult tomes, searching for any whisper of the Delphic Dagger. Books upon books upon dozens of dusty books. All that exhaustive research. That only got you so far as the right continent.
“But when I woke up this mornin’, could’ve sworn it was judgment day….”
Research only got you so far. Threats certainly got you farther. You found people who knew, or at least people who knew how to get to the next person who knew. You didn’t always have to kill their family members. Sometimes it was enough to show photos of people you had killed farther up the chain. But blood and threats got you so far as the right country.
“The sky was all purple, there were people runnin’ everywhere….”
You returned to your texts. Things began to fall into place. A dark cliff. A quiet wharf. An echoing mountain. A forest of illusions. You narrowed it down to the right town.
“Trying’ to run from the destruction, you know I didn’t even care….”
And so you found the leader of the resistance. She didn’t respond to threats. Not against her. Not against her family. You tried torture. She gave you false clue after false clue.
It was time to bring out the big guns. The real magic.
Your sorceror wove a spell. The leader of the resistance believed she was free, running from your guards, dodging behind trees, evading their calls. She was back in town, among her comrades. Someone had to take the dagger into safekeeping. Someone had to preserve it, so that even if she was recaptured, she couldn’t give up its location. Someone had to take it from its hiding place and keep it safe. They must never know where it is, no matter what they did to her.
And so she spoke its location. An address with a buried key. Another address with a buried box.
Your sorceror reported back. Your underlings found the key, the box. You unlocked the box. And there was the dagger, nestled safely inside.
And wouldn’t it be apropos to use the Delphic Dagger on this woman who has caused you so much trouble and delay? Who has slowed and encumbered all your efforts? Wouldn’t it be lovely to spill her blood with the very thing she spent all this time trying to prevent you from acquiring?
She’s only the start, of course. The Delphic Dagger will bring down cities. Countries. Continents. But what a satisfying start, to begin with her.
You walk to her cell, dagger in hand. You’ve long since released her from her spell. She knows she’s given up the goods. Her proud demeanor is gone. She weeps into her rags. Her body slackens in her chains. Everything she stood for is gone.
And yet, when the door opens, she locks eyes on you, and she speaks.
“Say say two thousand zero zero party over, oops, out of time.”
The dagger in your hand turns. You can’t control it. You can only watch as it plunges into your chest, over and over and over.
The music echoes out, sounding as though it’s coming from leagues away, as you crumple on the floor, the blood draining from your chest.
“So tonight I’m gonna party like it’s nineteen ninety-nine….”
03 Jan 2019
Today’s prompt: “Describe yourself in the third person–your physical appearance and personality–as though you were a character in a book.” [Note – I feel the second-person schtick is pretty integral to my format, so I’m just going to lean heavily into the description part.]
You’re dead, to begin with. But that doesn’t go far in the way of describing you. Let’s try to give you a lens on yourself, let you see yourself how others really see you. Let’s see. Uh, red, for a start. Very, very red. And kind of pulpy? Yeah. Mostly kind of a red mash, around the consistency of a cranberry chutney. Oh, sure, your bones are in there too, but even they aren’t fully intact. Your mandible’s a solid five feet away from the rest of your skull, and your femurs have been wrenched completely out of the pelvic girdle – what’s that? You don’t want to see any more? I guess I can’t blame you. Although it really is kind of a pretty shade of red.
02 Jan 2019
Today’s prompt: “Pick a small object to be given one day to your great-grandchild. Write a letter to that child explaining why you have chosen this object.”
“Dear Nathan,” you write, “The talisman enclosed in this package is called the Eye of Crathaad. It is said to be the key to unlocking the door between dimensions. That door must stay closed. That door is the one thing preventing the Old Ones from devouring all of humanity. Our family has been entrusted with keeping it safe from generation to generation.
“There are those who would use the Eye to unlock the door, those who serve the Old Ones and would destroy all of humanity in the process. This is a hard life on which you now embark. You will not be able to stay too long in any one place. You must never use your true name with anyone.
“Be cautious about who you get close to. Followers of the Old Ones are everywhere – the Order of Dagon, the Black Brotherhood, the Church of Starry Wisdom – and they won’t always be so obvious as to have pentacles tattooed on their foreheads or wear black robes with scarlet linings. They will seek you out your whole life. Keep the Eye away from them at all costs. If it should ever fall into their hands –”
You hear a dog bark. The creak of the gate. Rustling sounds. You peer out the window. There – just passing out of range of the streetlight – two figures in black hoods, with a hint of red lining. Neither of them was holding a scythe, so they must be bringing up the rear. It’s too late, then. The house is surrounded.
You hear breaking glass. The unlatching of a deadbolt. The opening of a door.
The Eye of Crathaad gleams up at you from the desk. You grab the talisman and furiously cram it into your mouth. The stone is smooth and about the size of a walnut, but it’s mounted on some jagged gold filigree. It’s not easy to choke down.
A man wearing a black robe and carrying a long scythe steps into the room just in time to see you take your last swallow. You know he knows.
He’ll have to cut you to ribbons to get the Eye. But you’re pretty sure he’ll enjoy it.
01 Jan 2019
Today’s prompt: “You have just swallowed your pride and done something you didn’t want to do. Your friend wants to know why. The two of you are driving around an almost-full parking garage looking for a space for the friend’s oversize pickup. Write the scene.”
“I thought you really liked Katie,” Tori says. “Wait is that – no, crap, there’s a Fiat there, couldn’t see past the bumper.”
“I do, but it’s just – she doesn’t want kids. I kept telling myself that it didn’t matter, that – Jesus Christ, why does everybody have to park on the fucking line – that it was fine to just be with someone fun, that I’ve got plenty of time, but I don’t have forever, y’know? But I’m definitely going to miss her.”
“Well, I’m sorry things didn’t work out. You guys seemed like you were good together, but I totally understand on the kids issue. You’re right – you have to do what’s right for yourself. Holy fucksticks, it’s like the whole town is parked here. Yeah, though, you can’t just put off things that are important to you. Life’s too short.”
You’re turning the corner to head up yet another ramp when a black Hummer going way too fast for a parking garage slams into your friend’s Toyota Tundra, plowing it into a row of parked cars. You have just enough time to register a few details before you black out: the broken glass and crumpled pickup cab from where you were T-boned; the blood seeping from your forehead; and, on the back of the Hummer that has forced its way past you, a “Baby on Board” sign next to vinyl decals of a bat-winged demon, a woman, and a tiny demon.
31 Dec 2018
Today’s prompt: “Tell a complete stranger about a beloved family tradition.”
“I guess it would have started back in 1997. Aunt Harriet slipped on an icy patch and cracked her head open on a wrought-iron fence. Bled out before the ambulance arrived.”
“Oh, my,” June says. June seems to be a nice lady. She was looking forward to Midnight Mass, a little eggnog, and carolers showing up on her doorstep. And then she struck up a conversation with you at the bus stop.
“The tradition continued next year with Grandma Emily. That was the year we had the big blizzard. It took out power to Grandma Emily’s house for hours. She must have been convinced it wasn’t coming back on. Her garage door was open, her driver’s side door was open, and her driveway was about half-shoveled. We think she started shoveling the walk and either gave up – maybe none of her neighbors had plowed the road yet by then either – or thought to try starting her car before she went any further, and the engine didn’t turn over. Whatever happened, she must have decided to start walking. It was a long way to town from her house. They found her body in a snow bank. She literally froze to death.”
“That – that’s just awful,” June says.
“Seems like there was one a year, every year after that, right around the holidays. Except for, I think 2003? Somewhere around there. When Uncle Bill and Aunt Connie’s car skidded on their way to a holiday party and hit a tree. Bill made it, but Connie and their daughter Nicole didn’t. So there were two that year.”
“Oh no,” June says. “How’s Bill doing now?”
“Oh, he died a few years later. Fell off the roof while he was hanging Christmas lights. I don’t think anyone was surprised. We all told him he shouldn’t be getting on the ladder for that anymore, especially not while none of us were around.” You shake your head, and smile a melancholy kind of smile. “He was always a stubborn old coot.”
“My God. It must be so hard around the holidays for you and your family. Everyone’s lost so many loved ones. Everyone must be miserable when your family gets together.”
“Well, that’s not really an issue this year.”
“Oh, no family gathering this year?”
“No. Well. It’s just that I’m the last one left.”
“Oh my God I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Do you – would you like to join my family for Christmas?”
“That’s nice of you to offer, June, but I already have plans,” you say. It’s cold, and you fidget with your scarf. You must have lifted your arms enough to raise your coat above the muzzle of the pistol at your hip. June notices.
“You don’t have to go through with it,” she says. “You’ve obviously been through so much, more than anybody should have to. But there are people who can help you. There’s the suicide hotline, there’s therapists, there’s – please don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.”
“June,” you say, standing up from the bus stop bench, “I’m sure there’s tons of people out there who want to help me out, and you could all come up with reasons for me to live. But if you think I don’t have to do this,” you say, starting towards the woods, “then you don’t know shit about tradition.”
[My goal with these stories is to entertain, maybe to creep out my readers a little. But depression is a real struggle for many people and I don’t want to just breeze past that. If you’re reading this and have been contemplating suicide, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.]
30 Dec 2018
Today’s prompt: “Write a scene where the only spoken dialogue is ‘Uh-huh,’ ‘Umm,’ ‘Urrrr,’ ‘Mm-mmm’”
The young woman in the black robe with the red lining picks up a small, awl-like instrument. “Umm,” she says, then glances to her mentor, a wizened old man in an identical robe. He remains silent.
The young woman cautiously holds the awl level with your eyes, the point about two inches away from your left eye.
“Mmm-mmmm!” you say through your gag.
The young woman looks at her mentor again.
“Mm-mmm,” he says, shaking his head.
The young woman lowers the awl to your throat. She palms the handle, making ready to stab with it. She looks again at her mentor.
“Mm-mmm,” he shakes his head again.
She lowers the awl again, this time to where your hand is strapped to the arm of the chair. She raises an eyebrow and looks at her mentor again.
“Uh-huh,” he says.
Her delicate fingers take yours for a moment, then insert the point of the awl below the nail of your index finger. You breathe deeply. Her left hand holds the awl in position. She draws back her right hand, then smacks the palm against the butt of the awl’s handle.
“URRRR!” you scream through the gag.
The woman looks at the man again. The old man nods his head and smiles his approval. He then points his finger at the next item on the table, a cage with a rat in it. Atop the cage sits a bowl with a knife in it.
You look at the table. It’s covered with a wide variety of objects.
It’s a long table.
The woman places the awl gingerly back on the table, and takes the knife out of the bowl.
It’s a long night.