Please, you have to help me. He knows where I live, he knows how to find me.
We were in the lab, all five of us, finishing our latest experiment, but something went wrong. The thermal reactor, I think, but I had my back turned, I can’t be sure.
Simmons and Goldstein were killed instantly. The force of the explosion threw me into a wall, and when I regained consciousness he was methodically dissecting Harlow, a sadistic grin on his face. Flecks of metal glittered underneath his skin — the chemicals must have fused with his DNA.
He’ll be unstoppable now.
Author’s Note: RUN!
Pyraxis knew he was invincible.
Like all Class-3s, he could only suffer injury when strict environmental conditions were met. His rEvolution would heal him, otherwise.
Pyraxis gloated on his throne. His trigger was too obscure for discovery. Not like Anhelia—undone by her name: A droplet of sunlight, then blammo.
The Throne Room’s lights began to flicker horrifically—resolving into patterns of flashing. Then funky music began to play—and dancers leapt out from the shadows!
Pyraxis tried to flee too late. The bullet was already in his bowels—he shrieked:
“NOOO! A disco party! My ONE weakness!!!”
Authors Note: We see many stories about newly evolved strengths, but rarely about newly evolved weaknesses. Genetics can swing both ways, however. And sometimes it can get rather silly.
Brent McPherson was sentenced yesterday to twenty to twenty five years for the publishing of Necromancy for Dummies. When giving her verdict Judge Goldberg said “We don’t allow people to practice brain surgery without years of schooling, a degree and a license, why would we allow necromancers to do the same?”
Mr. McPherson is suing the Federal Magical Safety Board for impinging on his first amendment rights when they banned the book as illegal use of magic and a safety hazard.
Finally, the publisher of the “… for Dummies” series is suing Mr. McPherson for copyright infringement.
~L.A. Times article
Author’s Note: The masquerade is a common thing found in many urban fantasy stories. So, what if there was none? What sort of things would people have to deal with? What sort of books on magic would they write? “… for Dummies” series seemed to be ripe for the picking.
Grandduchess Cherrybim was crying on a stump when she met Apple Satyr, the goatman.
“But why are you crying, tiny sprite?” asked Apple. “Tis Fae on a fullmooned night!”
Cherry sniffled. “The Grumpkin said manlings attacked Princess Blossomtoes and told her ‘We don’t believe in you!’. He said she vanished away on the spot—that’s why nobody has seen her!”
“Grumpkin is weaving lies again, child. Manlings are nothing to fear—you know this…”
Tears dampened Cherry’s frightened face. “But what if they don’t believe in me?”
“I believe in you, Cherry,” said Apple. “I believe. This is enough.”
Author’s Note: Humans can be pretty scary sometimes. I wonder—if magical peoples were real, would they maybe tell stories about us?
Red Riding Hood grew up mean. She’d go down to the meadow, picking flowers. When the wolves came she smiled and lured them to grandma’s house. She killed them slow. You could hear the howling late into the night. Next morning, a bloodied daisy-chain hung above her door.
Last night, she came into the bar, sank her hatchet in the table, demanded ale. I loved the way the satin lining curled against her thigh. “Mind if I join you?”
She made room, but not conversation. We drank. She took me home.
This morning, a bloodied daisy-chain hangs above her bed.
Author’s Note: One of the characters in a novel I’m working on has a Little Red Riding Hood phobia.
“Bloody Mary!” the three girls yelled for the third time, staring into the bathroom mirror. Strange swirling shapes began to form within its confines. They clung to each other and held their breath. Slowly the amorphous forms became a face: pale and cruel looking with … mud dripping into … a beard?
In a trembling voice one girl asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m Muddy Harry!” The muddy and bushy bearded man roared. The three girls cowered at his voice, clinging fearfully to each other. “Who were you expecting!?”
“Bloody Mary?” one girl asked hesitantly.
“… Damnitall. Heard it wrong, again!”
Author’s Note: My mom has a hearing loss that causes her to mishear words all the time. And I just like playing around with the idea that Bloody Mary isn’t the only spirit to be called in the girl’s bathroom.
“Dude, we just scored a human. Want in?”
“No thanks. I’m trying to quit.”
“Human. I’m trying to quit. They’re just not healthy, you know?”
“You’re a vampire….”
“Exactly, man. That’s exactly it! If I’m gonna live for the next ten eternities, I don’t want my arteries clogged. Have you seen what they eat? Gluten. Trans fats. GMOs. They inject themselves with viruses and mercury! Viruses and mercury, dude—did you know that? Screw that. I’m switching to antelope.”
“Dude, she’s vegan.”
“So, what? You want in?”
“I want in.”
Author’s Note: When the organic craze finally finds its way vampward, the vegans will be the first to go.
The last piece in place, he sits back smiling. It’s finally finished: a town compact enough to fit on his card table, complete with multi-story buildings, parks, even working streetlights.
Now for the best part! He fetches a box from his porch. Inside are fifty tiny packages.
Unzipping each one, he gently shakes their contents into the town. The Minnies stretch their limbs as they stare at their new home.
They seem docile enough, but you never know. Hopefully this batch won’t do anything to make him burn down their town.
He’d hate to have to rebuild a fourth time.
Author’s Note: Nothing to see here folks, just a man with a god complex and his Minnie humanoid (human?) pets.
Well, you know, I always thought he was being silly, talking to animals all the time. Imaginary friends, maybe. Ever since he was a baby, barking at dogs, chittering at squirrels–and me thinking, well, kids will be kids. He always got along better with animals than people, but really, who could blame him?
All of a sudden one day, there he is rescuing little Barty, the Weston’s youngest, claiming some stray cat came along and told him where to find the boy, who’d broken his leg while in the woods, all alone. Hell of a thing, don’t you think?
Author’s Note: If I could have any superpower, being able to converse with animals would probably be the one I would choose. That or flying… do I have to choose?
“Next,” the Administrator called out. A lumbering mass shuffled in.
“Have a seat.” She studied the file in front of her while the thing ponderously settled itself. It was common courtesy to wait a few breaths to see if the chair would hold.
“Name?” she asked.
The Administrator dutifully scrawled Dur in black ink. It was the twelfth Dur she’d encountered that day. Another two and she’d beat her record.
Unemployed, she wrote.
“Tell me what interests you in the Troll Bridge Rehabilitation Project.”
The Administrator sighed. She closed the file. Another dud.
Author’s Note: This drabble is based on a longer story that has been on my “to write” list for a while. It will be about a troll re-settlement program, similar to the re-settlement programs that saw “invalids” being granted lands in Canada.