…done anything bad to her, but come on! I watch enough true crime television to know it is totally always the husband. Always. Like, more than 80% of the time, at least.
Ann Margaret was Dr. Mandguard’s wife of twenty-three years. Not only did she by de-facto run the flower shop, she was also on the city council, volunteered at the soup kitchen, donated all sorts of money to local charities, and was well-liked by everyone she met.
Before she was all of this, she taught elementary school. Yes, she was my teacher at one time. I loved her in spite of her giving me a B+ in Mathematics. It was probably my fault. Maybe.
So the town was devastated when she went missing. I was heartbroken. However, the police did absolutely nothing about it. Not. One. Single. Thing. Oh my gosh I am so angry just thinking of their lack of response. I knew Dr. Mandguard had done something.
I told my BFF Julie about it, but she said, like, “Get over it Dawn, if the police say he’s clean, he’s probably clean.” But he’s not. I can feel it.
With Dr. Mandguard was busy at his doctor’s office–summer illness bringing people to their knees and his door–I decided to do a bit of investigating. As his neighbor, I have the benefit of knowing exactly when he is coming and going and his general schedule. I knew that on Tuesdays he wouldn’t get home until much later in the evening, so I would have plenty of time to check out his house. You know, for justice!
I put on my cutest dark hoodie in spite of the heat, grabbed a notebook (what’s a gumshoe without a notebook, even in this day and age of cell phones and tablets?), and I headed to the back yard.
The fences between our two yards were old wooden fences that needed to be replaced. Yeah, my bad. I’m cheap. So’s Dr. Mandguard though, apparently. It just created this fortunate avenue for me to quietly duck into his backyard to get into his house.
I knew for a fact, thanks to my trusty binoculars, that he kept a spare key under the welcome mat in the backyard. Tricky tricky not keeping it in the front. I quickly found the key, unlocked the door, and put the key back so I wouldn’t forget to do it later.
Once inside, I smelled something amazing: Someone had been cooking something with apples and cinnamon and the entire kitchen smelled of it. I smiled a bit but then remembered that the good doctor likely murdered his wife and this might be the smell to coverup decomposition or something like that.
I decided to explore the house a bit. I called out quietly, “Hello? Mrs. Mandguard?”
No response.
“Ann Margaret?” I tried, slightly louder. I heard a thump and movement from downstairs, in the basement.
Immediately my thoughts went dark: Oh no, she’s still alive but tied up for some satanic ritual or some sex thing or something nefarious.
My legs shook a bit but I steeled myself to find the stairs to the basement and check it out. No one else was coming by to save her.
I found the door, and thankfully it was unlocked. I quietly turned the knob and opened it. The light to the basement was on and it looked like the basement had been finished into a nice living quarter.
I crept down the stairs and sitting on the couch was Ann Margaret, but at the same time, it wasn’t Ann Margaret. This person had way more hair. And long nails. And a snout with fangs.
Dear god I was looking at a werewolf. A werewolf reading Bark Magazine. The irony was not lost on me.
“Ahh, Dawn Winchester,” the werewolf replied in a voice that was definitely Ann Margaret. “It took you long enough to get down here.”
My voice betrayed me and I could only respond in stuttering stammers. “How did? Wha? Oh my. You? Ann Margaret?”
Ann Margaret laughed and patted the cushion on the couch next to her. “Yes, dear. Come sit. Please. I can explain.”
I sat, nervous and wondering if werewolves only bit humans to turn them, or if they ate them for food. I mean, this isn’t exactly an episode of The Vampire Diaries so all bets are off.
“As you can see,” she began, “I am indeed a werewolf. I have been pretty much all my life.”
“Wait,” I said. “Even when you taught me in elementary school?” I was gaining a bit of my composure back, and was now a little indignant that our public education system was so bad they’d let literal monsters teach school.
“Yes, even then. It’s something that has run in my family for a long time now.”
“Is this why you’ve been missing?” I asked.
“It is, and poor Peter has been worried sick. He’s worried that the town thinks he’s done something to me, which apparently you have decided.”
I blushed and looked down. Ok, so maybe I was too harsh on the old man. Maybe. But he was married to a half wolf so he’s not exactly a saint, you know?
“Wait a minute,” I said, remembering my lupine lore. “Don’t werewolves only change during the full moon? That ended about a week a go.”
“Sort of,” she said. “We are compelled to turn during the full moon. During ‘that time of the month’ it happens whether we want it or not. We just have to be prepared with the right supplies.”
I snorted out a laugh, and to my surprise, Ann Margaret joined me in laughing at the bad menstrual humor.
“So you can change at will?” I asked, connecting the dots.
“Usually, yes,” she said. “But this time…”
She looked sad and paused for a second before continuing.
“Sometimes,” she continued, “when a werewolf gets old like I am, changing back becomes more and more difficult. Especially for someone who hasn’t bitten anything in a while. And even more so for someone like me who has never turned another living being.”
“So you’re stuck because you haven’t made any new werewolves?” I asked.
She nodded slowly, looking sad still.
It was then that I noticed the basement door shut and locked with a click.
Oh, shit.
The last thing I remember before blacking out was Ann Margaret apologizing to me, putting a Warren Zevon album on the turntable, and her fangs coming right for me.
Do I need to worry about flea and tick baths as a new werewolf?
]]>…seek out something stronger. Maybe even something illicit. That scared him, because he didn’t want to become like one of those dependent junkies doing anything and anyone for the next fix of pain pills.
The pain started shortly after the accident. A small explosion at work knocked him across the room and into unconsciousness. He woke up in a hospital bed with a nurse nearby and a staff of suits from the University carrying reams of paperwork. Apparently they were lawyers, both his and for the University, needing all sorts of signatures for liability-this, insurance-that, and god knows what else.
He worked as a research assistant for a distinguished and eccentric chemistry professor at the University. Prof had been working on something extra special that day, and it had gone wrong. Really wrong.
Damon rubbed his temples again, feeling more pain at the thought of remembering. He closed his eyes and saw the scene unfold before him again. He moved his hands to grip the side of the desk where he sat, and that’s when he heard it creak and groan under his grip.
Startled, he stood up, opened his eyes, and looked at the desk. It was made of a firm, solid wood. It wasn’t the type made of compressed chipboard, MDF, or the like. This was solid oak, handed down from his parents. And now the sides of it had massive indentations where his hands squeezed it.
“That shouldn’t be possible,” he said. The pain had lessened.
He scanned the room for more things to test out this burgeoning hypothesis. He didn’t see anything strong he didn’t want to lose, so he bolted out of his apartment and headed downstairs.
Parked in the street outside his apartment building, Damon saw a Ford F-150 pickup truck that had been parked for a week with a flat tire and tickets stacking up. A boot manacled the vehicle in place. It’d likely be towed in a day or two.
He looked around to make sure he was alone, and then went to the side of the truck and lifted.
The massive truck gave way and he was able to pick it up like it was no heavier than a sack of potatoes. You have to be kidding me, Damon thought. This is incredible!
On a whim and with a laugh, he decided to walk with the truck slung on his shoulder, the bed pointing up in the air as he flipped it a bit to hold it by the cab. The impound lot was only a few blocks away. No problem-o! Damon thought.
He passed a few people on the way. Invariably would stop, stare, gasp, and point. One man looked at the joint in his hands, threw it to the ground, stomped on it, and walked off the other way exclaiming, “no more, man. I’m done”. Damon laughed.
He made it to the impound lot and dropped the truck neatly into a parking spot up front. The attendant behind a desk shot up and ran out to meet Damon.
“Did you just?” The man began with a stammer.
“Yup,” Damon said with a grin.
“And that’s a?”
“Ford F-150? Yessir.”
“How?”
“Well, it was probably made that way at the factory,” Damon replied.
“No,” the man said with a flustered sigh. “I mean, how in the bloody hell did you carry that damn thing all the way here like it was… like it was…”
“A sack of potatoes?”
“Sure,” the man said. “That’s not possible.”
“Oh, I know,” Damon said. “As for how I did it, I have no idea. But that’s been parked in front of my apartment building for a week. There’s tickets and a boot and I’m positive it would end up here anyway. I’m just saving you the time of having to tow it here.”
“Um, thanks?” The guy said. He looked pale and in need of a chair.
Damon smiled, and turned to head back home. His head was no longer hurting at all.
]]>…dire. If you are listening to this: stay in your homes. Do not go outdoors unless necessary. If you have to, wear a mask and take precautions. If you see someone with symptoms, avoid them at all costs. Good luck, and Godspeed.”
The other anchor chimed in, “Angela, can you please remind us of the four stages that we have seen so far?”
“Certainly, Rick. The CDC has informed us that the stages appear as follows: Stage One manifests as flu-like symptoms, but they rapidly progress. Stage Two involves fevers that result in coma, at which Stage Three begins. Stage Three is what starts scientific bafflement: It is a chrysalis state that spins seemingly out of the hair follicles of the body. Stage Four results in either death or something worse: rebirth.”
The newscast went on, and Kyla only half-listened as she blew her nose for the fifth time that evening. She was suspecting her cold was more like this super flu that was mutating people.
Those lucky enough to emerge from the hair chrysalis stage ended up different. They emerged with different personalities than they had before, looking like Greek gods and goddesses in their beauty and build, and they had powers. Like actual, honest-to-goodness magical superpowers.
She patted the cocoon next to her, her boyfriend David. He had been in Stage Three for a week now, which put him at the time limit for either dying or emerging into Stage Four. As bad as she felt about wishing this, she hoped he ended up dying. It would be a kinder fate for him, and for the world.
Already those who emerged, The Evolved as they called themselves, started banding together, terrorizing cities and taking power where they could. It would be only a matter of time before they were fully in control and normal mankind would be subjugated.
Kyla shuddered at the thought, and drank her chicken noodle soup. As she sat there thinking about the inevitability of the future, she heard David’s chrysalis snap and pop. Looking at it, she saw a crack form in the shell, and she knew David would soon emerge.
In the off-chance this happened–as becoming an Evolved was only 10 percent opposed to 90% chance of death–Kyla had prepared. She grabbed a nearby shotgun and leveled it at the chrysalis, ready to end David’s misery.
She cried, in spite of all the practice she had letting him go and mentally steeling herself for the possibility of his emergence. It wasn’t fair, but she felt it was the right thing to do.
After a few moments, David sat up from the chrysalis and looked at Kyla. Gone was his long beard and long musician’s hair; instead he sported a smooth face with chiseled features, trim hair, and a distant, vaporous look. He regarded Kyla and the shotgun with a head tilt and a slight grin.
Kyla put pressure on the trigger, but before she could fire, David waved his hand and the gun just… disappeared. Then, with a flick of his wrist, Kyla was thrown across the room and landed hard against the wall.
David levitated out of the cocoon and flew over to where Kyla lay on the floor. Her head was swimming. She saw stars and her vision was fading. But the perfect, nude image of her boyfriend loomed over her, and she was suddenly very afraid.
As if responding to her thoughts, David said, “Don’t be afraid, Kyla. It is your destiny to join us. Evolve with us. Take your place with us.” With another wave of his hands, Kyla felt an odd sensation emanating from her body.
Every pore and hair follicle opened up at once, and she felt all her energy draining there as a hair-like substance spewed forth, wrapping itself around her body. It won’t be long now, she thought. She would soon be cocooned like the others, and join her beloved again, this time as one of The Evolved.
]]>…finally banish the demons of the day. When insomnia hits it is usually due to the hustle and bustle and stress ball that is life; the calming waters soothes the mind and heals the soul. Now, amidst the cool air, chattering birds, and the rhythmic plunking of my oar, I am finally at peace and can let my mind heal.
I sat reflecting on nature and decided to pull the oars into the kayak. I was far out enough in the lake to stop and commune, decompress, and relax. In the distance, I could hear the yearning honks of geese calling out for fish to come to the surface, and the fainter crash of water against the shore far away.
Another plunk. I checked my oars, and they were still in the kayak with me. What was that sound, then?
I scanned the horizon and saw nothing but the black water. But wait! There was something blacker than the water just a few feet in front of me. It was impossible, but emerging from the water was something monstrous. Something with several tentacle-like legs.
Was it an octopus? How is that possible? This was a freshwater lake in a land-locked state. Oklahoma wasn’t known for salt-water lakes, access to oceans, or anything like it. But here it was; a massive octopus the size of a large horse, coming up from the water beside my kayak.
Its dark face appeared to have a large beak, small beady eyes, and what looked to be an unmistakable smirk. As it smirked, it raise a tentacle up near my head and gestured like it wanted something.
“What?” I asked.
“Don’t leave me hangin’, ma’am,” the octopus said with a very fake and forced southern drawl. I wasn’t sure what he wanted, so I raised my own hand and gave it a high-five.
“That’s the stuff,” he said, smiled, and slinked back into the water. As it submerged again, he said, “No one will ever believe you.”
Was Bill Murray an octopus living in Lake Thunderbird?
]]>…gnawing at her. She had to find it. There was no other option. Now her entire forearm was inside the nasal cavity, and she felt around through slime, gunk, and who knows what all in there. But the thing she sought wasn’t there.
Did they forget to put one in here? She asked, feeling frantic. The energy of the situation was causing time to slow, but she could still hear the timer counting down. If she didn’t find it soon, there would be no salvaging the situation. She’d let her entire team down.
“Come on, come on!” She heard Jeffy say from nearby. He was getting impatient and she didn’t blame him. “Just grab it, Tiff!”
Tiffany rolled her eyes and stuck her arm further in. Finally her fingers felt something that wasn’t slime and she grabbed it hard, pulling her arm back out of the monstrous nasal cavity.
And then, she had it! A bright red flag covered in the green, foamy goo. She stood up in triumph as number six of the obstacle course, “Pick-It” was now complete! Only a few more to go to win all that Double Dare had to offer.
]]>…exclaimed, “Jinkies,” much like Velma in the Scooby Doo cartoons.
Mike blew forcefully on the folded pages and a thick layer of dust puffed up. Underneath, the map he had been searching for was revealed. It was surprisingly complete and intact considering how long it had rest in the moldering library of Sir Niles Cumberland.
Cumberland was an eccentric hoarder of pirate knowledge and lore. It was long rumored that he had a map leading to the treasure of Captain Hargreaves, a notorious pirate operating out of the Caribbean in the 1700’s. The map would lead to a vast fortune and now Mike had sole possession of it.
After years of chasing down leads, rumors, witnesses, family members, and hints leading nowhere important, he finally stumbled across the secret, hidden library of Cumberland. Here, hidden in an inconspicuous cookbook was the map that had eluded so many for years and years.
“I’ve found it!” He said, hugging the map to his chest.
“And now I shall take it,” a voice said behind him. “It’s rightfully mine, anyway.”
Mike turned slowly and found a burly man with wild mutton-chops and a stained, crooked-teeth grin pointing a revolver at him.
“What? Who are you? What do you want?” Mike stammered, fearing for his life.
“So many questions. I guess I should expect that for someone as inquisitive as the great Mike Mendel. I think you know who I am.” The man said with a raspy laugh.
“No!” Mike said with sudden realization.
“Oh, very much yes,” the man said.
“Victor Hargreaves?”
“The one and the same,” Hargreaves said. “That map belonged to my father.”
“Your father?” Mike said, puzzled. The map had been hidden and missing for hundreds of years. If anything it would have been several generations removed.
“My father. And I lost it on an… adventure… I had many years ago in The Caribbean. Along with my boat, and my crew.”
“Wait,” Mike said. “You’re Captain Hargreaves? How is that possible?”
Hargreaves laughed heartily, but kept the gun steady. “You don’t know what that map points to, do you? It’s the secret to my longevity. But I need it. You see, the effects of the fountain only last a limited time.”
“I thought the map lead to a treasure,” Mike said, baffled.
“Oh, lad,” the pirate said. “‘Tis true. The Fountain of Youth is a treasure of immeasurable value. But without the map, one could journey to the exact coordinates and never find it. There’s magic in that map, and I mean to take it, even if by force.”
He cocked the gun, and Mike blanched. “Wait!” He yelled.
“Why should I?” Hargreaves said.
“I have a boat. I can get you there. Just take me with you. It’s been my life’s dream to see this treasure.”
Hargreaves thought for a moment, then lowered the gun. “I do need a boat. We set sail immediately. Are you still in or do I need to shoot you and take that bloody thing?”
Mike grinned. “I’ve been ready my entire life. Let’s do this, Captain!”
]]>…destroyed the planet.
You think I’m joking? I’m not. I’m dead serious. It was almost a very bad, most awful day for the entirety of humanity.
Let me explain.
I was born with a rare mutation that only one percent of one percent of people in this day and age are ever born with: superpowers. My own super power is kind of lame by most standards. You see, I have the ability to affect my surroundings with my voice.
Whenever my emotions tilt a certain direction and I speak out loud, weird things happen. For example, if I’m happy and I start singing a Marvin Gaye song, flowers will start growing and plants bloom. I don’t know why, but it’s only with Marvin Gaye songs. Songs by Stevie Wonder or Al Green don’t do it; no it’s only when firing up “Let’s Get It On” or “Sexual Healing” that the plants really get down and grow. I think it’s a weird floral sex thing.
If I’m in a bad mood and sing “Ride of the Valkyries” but only Elmer Fudd’s rendition with the lyrics of “Kill the Wabbit” the weather will go from whatever it is (sunny, cloudy, whatever) to instantly raining. It comes in handy during droughts, for sure.
The problem came when I turned twenty-five. My friends thought it would be a great idea to throw a surprise party, knowing full and well that I can get a bit… explodey… when surprised. Because when I am scared, I instinctively start singing the chorus to “Cruel Summer” by Bananarama (hey! Don’t judge me!). And that’s when the explosions start. The more surprised I am, and the better my vocals get, the bigger the booms.
So when my friends all jumped out and yelled out, “SURPRISE!” I hit the floor in shock and awe, and started mumble-singing, “It’s a cruel, cruel summer, leaving me here on my–”
The cake they so meticulously prepared for me and brought out on a platter exploded into thousands of small cake shrapnel, covering everyone and everything in icing, fondant, and cake. That caused a chain reaction of startled fear in me and I began singing the next refrain, but fortunately my best friend Charlie tackled me and covered my mouth just in time as a POP! POP! POP! Was heard from across the street. I still don’t know what that was.
With my mouth covered the crisis was averted, and I saw what was going on clearly now. We all laughed, which triggered me to start singing the old Benny Bell song from the 1940’s, “Shaving Cream”. You don’t want to know what happened, but it caused a huge fit. You might say we were covered in big piles of… shaving cream! Be nice and clean! Shave every day and you’ll always look keen.
]]>Geese.
No, really, hear me out.
I was walking around the park one day in the spring time. The air was cool but promising hints of warmth from the sun, the plants were letting loose their pollen, the grass was getting greener, and the animals were doing things that animals do in the spring.
A family of geese sat on and along the paved trail going around the park. I walked by, minding my own business, when a goose on the path started honking at me. No, not just honking. He was braying at me. Practically yelling at me in a super judgmental and condescending tone that said, “back off buddy or you are gonna get pecked.”
I thought to myself, “oh how cute, he’s protecting his children,” as I noticed a mother goose laying by the trail. Not the old motherly story-telling variety, but a big Canadian goose perched on top of what was either eggs or freshly hatched goslings. It’s hard to tell because by the time I looked at the female goose, the mother fucking daddy goose stepped up and started getting all up in my shit!
The goose pecked and bit at my feet while he spread his wings to look bigger and more insane than a meth-ed up Walmart shopper with a mullet and no shirt on Black Friday. I kept walking in spite of the attack, and as I passed I swear the goose honked out, “That’s right! Run away like a little bitch!”
And that’s why I hate geese.
]]>Gia looked at him in disgust as she downed her wine in a few gulps. Donny sighed audibly and put his glass down.
“That’s easy for you to say, Derrick,” Donny said. “I’d much rather sit here in peace, drink my wine, and let this anxiety settle down before we begin anything.”
“Celebrating is relaxing, brother. And we earned it. We earned everything we got out of this.” Derrick leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet up on the table. Gia looked disgusted with him.
“Get those filthy feet off my table, you buffoon,” she said. “And what do you think is going to happen? Do you think we’re going to get away with it now that–”
“Now that what, Gia?” Derrick said, sitting forward in his chair now, intertwining his fingers and tapping his thumbs together. “Who was supposed to be on lookout? Who was supposed to be warning us if someone was coming? If anything, you’re to blame on this.”
“Go to hell,” she said. “You didn’t have to shoot the guy.”
“You know very well I had no choice; he was security, had a gun pointed at me, and he saw my face. It’s unfortunate, but it had to be done.”
“Why was your fucking mask off anyway?” Gia asked, standing up now and stumbling a bit. The wine was getting to her.
“Woah, woah, woah,” Donny said. “Let’s calm down.” He put his arm on Gia’s shoulder and she slapped it away.
“Screw you both,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”
Gia left the table, leaving the two brothers alone. Donny sighed in resignation and sat back down, refilling his wine glass from the open bottle on the table.
“So what do you think?” Derrick asked. “Split it three ways? Or two?”
“Derrick, that’s my wife, you’re talking about cutting out. Don’t be an ass.”
“I’m just saying,” Derrick replied.
“Look,” Donny said, picking up dishes from the table to take over to the sink. “I’m not convinced we’re in the clear yet. Are you sure we got away clean?”
“Yeah,” Derrick said with a little shake in his voice. “I’m sure.”
As if by cosmic irony, the kitchen was lit suddenly with the pale glow of lights from outside, alternating between blue and red. A cry of “FUCK!” From the bedroom affirmed to Donny that Derrick was wrong and they were not going to get away clean.
“Hell,” Derrick said. “Maybe I’m wrong. Well, it was nice being a millionaire for a few hours, anyway.”
And then the police swarmed in.
]]>I can’t promise you perfection as it would be daft for an amateur to write on the level of the masters from the start. I can promise you that I will be having fun, and hopefully spreading that fun and inspiration to you all.
What can you expect to read? I’ll be posting my responses to writing prompts found throughout the web, as well as one-shots, poems, and other random bits of fiction. Some of the posts will connect to a larger story, most of them won’t. Continuity will be tenuous, errors and mistakes will exist aplenty, and fun will be had.
I can promise you is that this will be real. This will be raw. This will be a ride. I hope you join me, and I hope it inspires you to write for yourself.
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