Hundreds had gathered for the smart mob, and Ginny congratulated herself again on the genius of the conceit. Her @magichealing Tweets had garnered thousands of followers over recent years. She stood on the riverside boulevard and watched as hundreds of them threw personal effects associated with painful memories from the bridge, hoping to be cleansed.
The collective trauma of the group shone in Ginny’s eyes as they unwittingly made their offerings to the ancient water spirits.
After a time she raised her hands, and the skies darkened. Ginny smiled in anticipation.
Ritual mass sacrifice was so much easier these days.
Author’s note: Social media surely makes life easier for the modern villain.
Sometimes her day job was not as much fun as she had previously been led to believe. She swung her scythe, harvesting another soul, number forty-seven. This one was a real asshole. She could tell.
“What the hell?” He turned on her angrily, or at least his soul did. The body pretty much stayed where it was underneath a now shrieking hooker. Poor thing was going to be traumatized.
“I can’t be! I’m blah-blah…” she stopped listening.
He started cursing the same time he started fading. Not her job to know what happened next. God, she hated Mondays.
Author’s Note: Stories about death are often cliché, and somewhat emo. I like to write them a little tongue in cheek.
The vampire sharpened his teeth with a nail file as he waited.
A knock on the door.
“Your Bloody Mary, sir,” the bellboy said.
The vampire dragged him inside and pounced, but his teeth chipped on silver.
The boy grinned. “Sorry, sir. You old-timers are so predictable.” He sighed. “Did you have to break the glass? Tomato juice is hard to get out of the carpet.”’
The vampire blushed a pale pink.
“Perhaps a carafe of pig’s blood? You need only ask, sir.”
The vampire mumbled something and shoved a fifty in the boy’s hand.
Room service was so expensive.
Author’s Note: You lose enough bellboys, you start to wonder.
The statement from his friend, physicist Matthew Ebbard, was wrong. “If time travel were possible, the time travelers must eventually go back to before their birth and change up the timeline just enough to ensure they never existed to build the time machine in the first place. That’s why we’ve never met one.”
Thousands of trips between the present and future, and 42 years of relative time later, Evan—who was meticulous and precise with every aspect of his time travel device—scoffed at this idea, even as his sleeve caught on the controls, sending the machine hurtling toward 1612.
Author’s Note: I love time travel stories and the inherent paradox problems. With only 100 words to address it, I try to capture the idea of a paradox, how it might be resolved, an approach to overcoming that undesirable resolution, and how fate sometimes plays a role to ensure that the universe operates as it should.
A blinding flash, a surge of heat, and then an explosion. At first I thought it was a plane, but it didn’t look like one. It looked like….something else.
A small figure, apparently unconcerned by the heat, walked out of the smoke. I saw green skin and wide eyes. First contact.
“Get the kids out of here,” I told Mary.
I clenched my fists, ready for an attack. I saw Independence Day. I knew.
It raised its arm. I made myself stand still.
“Hi,” it said in perfect English. “What’s your name?”
The world went black as I fainted.
Author’s Note: What if aliens were friendly?