Category Archives: Fiction Abomination

What’s coming in the next book? Live nude girls!

Who Can You Trust?

On Friday, everything changed. I was answering the tech support line.

“This is Darrell.”

“Listen, Carol Kryzinski. That’s proof of my identity. You remember what she meant to you.”

It was my own voice on the headset.

“In exactly four minutes, Carol will walk into your office. It will be the first time you’ve seen her in twenty years, right?”

“She’s an evil witch. She’ll destroy our life, family, and career. Use the letter opener, two minutes.”

“You can’t date her, Darrell. Listen, she’s going—”


“If you’d like to place a call, please hang up and dial again.”

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100 words. For the (final ::sniff cry:: Flashversary bash)

If It Weren’t For You Meddling Kids.

The phone at the reception desk never ceased ringing after two. Her assistant Mike was doing his best to handle the traffic but he was fraying under pressure.

Dr. Morgenstern tapped her nails on the desk. The kids were out on the playground, parents would arrive at any moment. She felt only relief when the first news van stopped at the gate of Child Time Preschool.

“Mike, make sure that damned Jenny is the first kid out the gate today, won’t you? Let’s get in front of the cameras as quickly as possible.”

That little brat, of course she had a cell phone.

Behind the news vans came the minivans and family trucksters, carrying parents inbound from every direction. The staff passed the children off to angry and hysterical parents, and Sherry heard sirens wailing in the distance.

Meanwhile, she turned to face the press. Mike tried his best to be invisible.

“My name is Dr. Sherry Morgenstern and I am the director of this facility. I’ll take your questions now.”

Babble, twenty microphones shoved forward.

“One at a time, please.”

“Jim Stone, the Chronicle. Dr. Morgenstern, what’s this about tainted food in your lunchroom?”

“At noon today, one of our children had a spat with Martha, our cafeteria cook. The child objected to her meal. The child said, ‘This food tastes like death,’ or something similar. I’m afraid that Martha lost her temper after the child threw a lunch tray.”

The reported nudged, “So what happened?”

“Martha is an excellent cook who’s been with us from the day we opened. Her lunches are delicious. I’ve often shared lunchtime with the children.

“Martha screamed back, ‘That’s because it’s made from homeless kids.’”

The red and blue flashing lights were arriving now. Police vehicles came to crunching stops in the gravel parking lot.

“We had Sloppy Joes on the menu today. Except I think his name was Harold.

“I’m going to miss Mother’s cooking.”

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323 words. Inspired by old stuff hanging around on my ‘story snippets’ idea list.

(Day off, feel like I should write something, even if the prompts are uninspiring this week.)

Summer’s End

Alexavier Shaw paced restlessly while his Expert System recounted the details of the morning’s stock trading. He was worth another billion, just another day in the penthouse.

The bar was out of Scotch, so he happily clutched the excuse to take a walk.

While returning, he encountered an anomaly; an ancient wooden door in the concrete canyon. Through it, he could see a field of wildflowers and hear birds. A circus caravan wound its way up a hillside and calliopes played in the distance.

Shaw grunted and pushed the door shut. He’d return to counting, because nothing counts but more.

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100 words. Inspired by this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt:

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Admiring the View

Andrea carried her picnic basket down to the promontory to sit and enjoy lunch under her favorite oak tree. It was a beautiful tree, enormous and very old. Sacred to her people, it provided a fine shade from the afternoon sun where she could enjoy a book or even an afternoon nap.

She pushed the tire swing pensively back and forth with her toes while reclining on her back, munching her lunch basket apples.

A sail was moving in fast from the northeast. Andrea stood and watched the vessel accelerating into the massive wall of mist to the west. As always, she winced in horror as the captured vessel tipped forward at the edge. The thunderous pounding of the waterfall nearly obscured the screaming of the terrified sailors, and the ship was lost over the falls.

Andrea just shook her head. Someday, surely, the explorers had to stop coming.

She climbed onto the tire swing and kicked into a slow, broad sweep out over the edge of the world. At the apex of each big swing, Andrea considered the darkness of space and the twinkling of stars visible between her toes.

Now that would be an awesome vista for exploration.

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200 words. Inspired by this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt:


“Officer, I can explain.”

The county mounty leaned against the side of my car, tapping his pen on his ticket pad and giving me the standard “tough cop” act. The flashlight lingered on me and then passed along to my sister, Emily. She squinted, crossed her eyes, and stuck out her tongue when the beam lit her tangled hair.

“Ya’ll know how fast you were goin’, son?”

His cruiser’s headlights shined directly into the cab through our Chevy’s back window. Blue smoke from the exhaust crept over the asphalt of the state highway between the vehicles, adding a surrealistic B-movie vibe.

“Yessir officer, ah’m sorry sir.” I handed over my license. Honestly, I wasn’t going more than five miles over; business must be slow at the speed trap this week.

“Jackson. Ya’ll are Louise Jackson’s kids?”

“Yessir. Sam, and this here’s my sister Emily.”

“Had Miz Jackson for sixth grade. She’s a good teacher, always liked her. Well, ya’ll are locals, no booze or drugs or nothin. So I’m not gonna ring you up this time, just slow down and drive more careful, Sam, all right? An tell yo momma Billy Joe Ladeau said hey.”

“Surely will. Thank you.”

He waved one hand out the window as his cruiser passed us a few minutes later.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Emily?”

“I knew he weren’t gonna do nothin’. That one’s got a good vibe to him. A slap on the wrist wuz all you wuz ever gonna get.”

“But when those red and blue lights come on, I just about wet my britches every time that happens.”

Emily just grinned. She can be such a brat.

“Where to?”

“It’ll be comin’ up on the right in bout half mile. Gonna be a blue pickup pulled off to tha side, some guy fixin a flat, right before the turn.”

A few seconds of silence before the pickup came into view and I turned onto the dirt track.

“Ah been here before. Ain’t this the old Steadman farm?”

“Yep, couple miles up this way,” she said.

“Spooky old place, why we goin’ way out here?”

“You’ll see.”

She gave me one of her patented “I’ve got a secret” smarmy smirks. She has the smug superiority of any eight-year-old, only ten times worse because of what she can do.

There wasn’t much left of the Steadman farm, abandoned for at least eighty years. It’s just a collapsing barn and a couple of topless grain silos.

Emily led me by the hand into the rickety old barn.

“Is this ol barn safe?”

“Relax. It done stood for all this time. It’s good for a few more minutes.”

In the far corner she pulled away a dusty pile of straw, revealing six mewling kittens.

“Momma cat dun went and got herself et by a coyote. In my dream ah saw her kittens wuz left all alone and starvin. So here we come runnin.”

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490 words. Inspired by this week’s Finish That Thought (3-22) prompt. Say hello to Emily (and Sam) again

Joining the march

I vow to spend not one damned penny on National Rampant Consumerism Friday.

Instead of working, REI is paying workers to go outside on Black Friday.

#optoutside is a downright brilliant idea. It’s visionary, with just a touch of brand marketing (which we’ll politely do our best to ignore.)

Unfortunately, I don’t have any nice scenic views to share with the internet, nor am I the outdoorsy type. But I can totally join in, support, and appreciate the stop-the-madness sentiment.

So instead I’ll spend the day at home, try and churn out some writing, do the kind of thing that makes me feel at ease.

And if it stops raining, who knows, perhaps I’ll even take a little peek at the nature just on the other side of my front door.

I could make this a holiday tradition, I really like this concept!

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If you can’t beat them

The mercenary army appeared in the village at sunrise. The butchery didn’t take long, well-armed veteran troops against helpless peasants. In less than an hour, the last scream died away.

Magister Ho shook the sole survivor in his gauntleted fist.

“Where is my former apprentice, Tuan Ti?”

The terrified peasant indicated a monastic outbuilding. The Magister nodded briefly with gratitude, and then his hand erupted into flame and plunged through the peasant’s chest.

Ho’s boot kicked the door open on the North side of the building, just in time to see a familiar face disappearing from the far doorway on the southern end of the monastery.

“So, Tuan Ti,” Magister Ho bellowed, stalking into the simple chamber where she kept her sleeping pallet. Hundreds of recently lit candles lined the long, narrow hall on both sides. “I see that you’ve been practicing. There was a time when your childish magic could not light even a single candlewick. So many at once, I am impressed.”

Tuan Ti sprinted for the boulder just behind the south door and dove behind it.

“Those aren’t candles,” she shouted back.

Everything on the north side of the boulder vanished instantly in a massive explosion.

“They’re bombs,” she whispered, removing her fingertips from her ears.

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209 words. Inspired by this week’s Picture It & Write prompt:

Who let the dogs out?

“Astaroth, do you remember our original plan?”

“To siphon all of Mankind’s wickedness down here into Hell and concentrate its mystic energy, to power the engines and increase the suffering of our guests. We’ve seen a thirty percent torment boost!”

“Excellent. We do have one little problem. You’ve left the lid off.”

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52 words. Inspired by this week’s Shapeshifting 13 prompt at Grammar Ghoul Press:

Photo provided by Grammar Ghoul Press

The Visitation

I’ve passed through the doors hundreds of times, without ever really noticing the architectural details. Over the door is a heavy stone arch, supported at either end with stone corbels featuring carved lion heads.

When I climbed the stair this evening, an unusual movement caught my eye. Turning and looking up, instead of a lion’s head I was shocked to see the visage of my former college roommate, surrounded by a ghastly greenish glow. Harley’s eyes widened, before he moaned at me, with the most eerie and dreadful tone. “Beware!”

I hadn’t thought of Harley at all in nearly over thirty years, nor had I touched a drop with dinner. I’m not commonly prone to wild flights of imagination or visitations from spectral harbingers. Yet here was Harley, or at least his face was.

He moaned a second time, “Beware!”

I stood dumbfounded on my porch step and stared upward at what was once again an unremarkable stone decoration. Was some Dickensian nightmare haunting me with images of roommates past, or was I simply losing my mind?

While I fumbled for my keys with shaking hands, I felt the sharp point digging into my back. “I’ll be having your wallet.”

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200 words, inspired by this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt:

The Root of the Problem

I close my eyes and lean back on the couch, seeking that daydream state. Somewhere, in the depths of my racial memories, in the murky brackish water of my subconscious swamp, there must be the germ of an idea and the seed of a mighty creative work waiting to be discovered.

I dream of root tendrils seeking nutrients from the creative clay, the humus of ideas past, now fallen and decaying slowly. In my imagination, the leaves rot to form another, fresh layer of nutrients that will feed tomorrow’s ideas. My roots try to find some purchase, some magic blossom of a simple, brilliant epiphany.

Somewhere back there, in the buried creative remains of my own and other authors must be the rapture that daydreaming sometimes turns up.

I can’t find it, not today, not this week. The racial creativity myth is a fable. My ancestors cannot or will not help me.

I don’t taste the sweet honey of any fresh ideas.

The only flavors I can find are rotten acorns and blind grubs, and slimy, wet black mosses that taste like death. The root of the problem lies inside the author. He has character, but it must be rotten.

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200 words. Uninspired by this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt: