The tenth time we passed a trick-or-treater with the same monster costume, Fred stopped. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why did so many people have the same idea?”
“What’s wrong?” May frowned. “It looks cool. Who cares if it’s original?”
He rolled his eyes. “You dress up as a princess every year. Of course you don’t care.”
“This from the guy in an egg costume?”
“It’s good for us,” I said. “It makes us stand out. We’ll get all the best candy!”
We ignored the screams and the sirens. But when we got home, we couldn’t ignore the monsters.
Author’s Note: If monsters wanted to attack, the best time (for them) would be on Halloween.
Little Jimmy gave a bottle to Stephany. The girl smiled at him upon receiving the present. Jimmy smiled back.
Of course, Stephany didn’t know that he just gave her a love potion. Soon, she would be his. Forever.
As the two of them walked together on the sidewalk, Stephany finally opened the bottle. Jimmy’s heart raced. C’mon, drink and you’ll be mine, he thought.
Then, Stephany screamed. “Oh my god! There’s a wasp’s nest in that tree!” She threw the love potion on the nest. It spilled its content all over it.
Only one word came to Jimmy’s mind: run.
Author’s Note: They say that love gives you wings. Unfortunately for Jimmy, wasps already had some.
Deirdre was looking for a wealthy husband and had her sights on a drooping faced old man named Marcus. The only downside was the geezer had two kids from a previous marriage. He insisted that she visit with the children before they married. So here she was standing in the dimly lit nursery, trying to ignore the smell when she felt something bite her ankle.
“What the hell?” She stumbled and fell to the floor. Deirdre saw the two children crawling towards her – milky white eyes, rotted flesh, bloody mouths.
“I’m sorry, dear,” Marcus said. “The children are very hungry.”
Author’s Note: I wrote this as a longer short story which didn’t take off but thought it “bit” deeper in a shorter form. Forgive the pun.
I rolled over in bed. Yellow eyes glimmered from the shadows. I couldn’t sleep while it was there. Not out of fear—it stole my ability to sleep.
Just like every other night, I got up. My legs wobbled and I staggered into the wall. My focus was scattered, hazy. The first few nights, I’d tried to drive. Not tonight.
I stumbled downstairs, outside, and across to my neighbor’s house.
“Of course you can spend the night here,” she said, when I explained.
I collapsed onto her couch and stared up at the ceiling.
Into a pair of yellow eyes.
Author’s Note: While brainstorming ideas for unique monsters, I tried to imagine a creature that fed on a person’s ability to sleep.
“Sensei Omuzaki!” said the little boy. “I have discovered that time travel is impossible.”
“And how did you do that?” asked Omuzaki.
“I now make the solemn promise to dedicate my life to discovering time travel. Also, if I do invent it, I promise to appear right here in front of us in five seconds.”
After five seconds, the boy said: “You see? It’s impossible!”
“You’re a very clever boy. Why don’t you go play with your friends now?”
The boy darted away.
“You’re a very clever boy, Ikazumo,” said the sensei with a grin. “A very clever boy indeed.”
Author’s Note: This would be a great way to prove or disprove time travel, but no one bothers to dedicate his life to it.
At 18, we choose a power. I chose levitation to my mother’s dismay.
“Why not a healer? A light-bearer? What about-”
“I chose my own way. Why aren’t you proud?”
“You cannot help this way.”
“I can. I can help.” My words were hollow. She was right – I was selfish.
I float each day, regretting my choice. Today I’m over the square watching a toddler explore. He walks to the fountain.
“Baby! Fountain! Stop him!” I barely recognize my own voice.
His mom hears, turns to find him, and pulls him away.
I am lifesaver. Mom can be proud.
Author’s Note: You always hear the question, “What super power would you pick?” Well, what if we all actually had to pick one?
Fotini had worked for years, fruitlessly, to develop a matter transporter, and was haggard from overwork. Worried friends rented canoes, mock-kidnapped her from her laboratory, and drove three days northward to a national park larger than many countries.
Two weeks later, fit, tanned, and fifty kilometers from anywhere, Fotini took her smuggled notebook – old-fashioned paper – from her pack, and began to scribble.
At the evening campfire, she announced: “Once this device is built, anybody will be able to travel anywhere, instantly!”
From the lake came the unearthly call of a loon.
Wordlessly, she dropped the notebook into the flames.
Author’s note: Be careful what you work for… you might get it!
Max laid the net at Lily’s feet. “See? I trawled the whole world for words of love. It’s my gift to you.”
Lily shivered. “It’s a net, Max. I’m not a fish.”
He stared at her.
“Max, listen. All words trap meaning, and all nets trap, but your love’s a noun, a need, a list, a demand: dead, Max. But love’s a verb, living, giving. I told you before, I love someone else.”
“Believe me, it’s over, Max.”
He filled it with stones and tossed it away. Next day a cop knocked.
His net had hooked a corpse.
Author’s Note: Dorothy L. Sayers inspired this story, some passing comment on words made by her witty detective Lord Peter Wimsey.
I started to come round after the operation. I was in the recovery room and feeling rather groggy.
I noticed the patient opposite was staring at me. His gaze seemed horrified and I suddenly realised he looked exactly like me.
A nurse approached him followed by a lady. It was my wife.
“Mr Smith. Here’s your wife to see you.”
He gaped and blinked. “That’s not my wife. And my name’s Jenkins.”
I began musing on the weird effects of anaesthetics when a hand touched me lightly on the shoulder. It was another nurse.
“How are you feeling Mr Jenkins?”
Author’s Note: I’ve recently had an operation and was determined to get some writing ideas out of the experience. As far as I know I haven’t switched bodies with one of the other patients.
“They’re at it again,” George called to his wife in the next room. He heard her coming to stand behind him at the living room window that overlooked the wooded front yard.
“That’s beyond disgusting. I wish the president had mentioned in his speech that this would be happening,” she said before she went to retrieve her rifle from the mantle.
George nodded sadly, his forehead creased in revulsion. The president had said to shoot zombies. The president had said these creatures were at the mercy of their base instincts. The president had never told them that those included mating.
Author’s Note: I’ve always wondered why that wasn’t one of a zombie’s expected behaviors since they’re slaves to instinct.