The Shrine Of The Bloody Flower features a blood-soaked flower, taken from a girl who was shot during the uprising.
What the shrine doesn’t say is that the girl wasn’t shot by the soldiers.
She was shot by the rebels.
“Carry these flowers to that checkpoint,” they said. “Or we kill your parents.”
So, she did, but when she reached the checkpoint, she dropped the flowers and began screaming.
That’s when the shooting began.
How did they preserve the flower?
It was plastic. Because they needed it for the shrine they were planning.
Just needed the blood.
Sick, bloody bastards.
Category: My stories
Robby
We trained Robby to never leave his teddy bear behind.
So, years later, every time we tried to throw the thing out, Robby would rescue it from the garbage.
We dumped the horrid thing in the neighbor’s trash can, but somehow Robby found it there and dug it out.
One block down… two blocks down…
He always found it.
I sent him to his room, and as I tore the thing apart, something fell out:
The waterproof GPS tracker, in case Robby ever got kidnapped or ran away.
Oh. Right.
I went to Robby’s room and…
He was gone.
ROBBY!
Loss For Words
I forget words… starts with a v… vocabulary.
I lose vocabulary when I am tired.
I reach for words like… like I am… digging through a discount bin… a bin full of… DVDs… looking for a good one… one that’s not an Adam Sandler movie…
One that fits just right.
Starts with a v…
But, it’s not there.
Another fucking Happy Gilmore
Little Nicky.
Shit.
It’s late.
I can feel myself… losing focus…
But for Christ’s sake, you just… won’t… shut… up.
So, I just nod. I say
“Yes.”
“I understand.”
“Go on.”
I’m hearing you, but I’m not listening.
Mr. Beepy
Commander Ross created Mr. Beepy last week.
Mr. Beepy is a simple crawler-robot that beeps.
“I added beeping so I could find it,” said Ross. “How was I to know it would crawl into the ductwork where we can’t reach it.”
So, Ross created Mr. Crushy.
Mr. Crushy was programmed to find and crush Mr. Beepy.
Except that Mr. Crushy also crushed power conduits, and he shorted out most of the life support systems.
We had to use the lifepod to abandon the station. We rendezvous with the shuttle in a week.
Wait… hold on… what’s that beeping?
Uh oh.
Forgotten
Most wizards agree that the Armageddon Spell is the rarest spell.
As the High Mage of The Byzantium Library, I know that it isn’t.
The rarest spell is The Lost Spell Of Forgetting, of which the only copy is in the Library.
Why is it The Lost Spell?
Because I lost it.
I have no idea where the spell is in all these shelves and cupboards and desks.
I’m surprised I even remember there’s a Forgetting Spell.
Just reading it makes you forget what it is.
Hey… that’s strange… what’s this in my pocket…
It’s a scroll.
Of… um… what?
Wander
We put WANDER INDIANA on the license plates as a warning.
That place… there’s no describing it.
It’s a gateway to Hell, the purest evil.
But some people never listen.
Another stack of battered license plates arrives at the office.
I look them up in the system, checking Missing Persons reports.
Damned.
We tried to call Washington, but they said “We tore up the roads and fenced it off for a reason. Stay away from there” and hung up.
Google blanked out the area on their maps, but it just tempts the curious.
Damn fools, wandering Hell for all eternity.
This Is
The hospital room has yellow notes on everything. I read them as I drag the drip stand around.
This is a chair.
This is a door.
This is a mirror.
I stare at the bandaged and bloody figure in the mirror.
A horror movie monster, putrid and burned. It shocks me when it moves.
This is a nightmare.
This is an abomination.
I read the bag on the drip stand:
This is retromutagen.
The door opens; This is a robot enters.
The staff cannot risk exposure.
Again.
I wasn’t careful. One bit me.
Now, I understand why.
This is… hunger.
The Dust
We hide down in the dusty catacombs of the old city, huddling tighter with every thud and shudder when the bombs fall.
The museums… the palaces…
They are all empty, and I look around at the few treasures we managed to rescue.
And then, a loud blast, and part of the ceiling caves in.
Screaming. Shouting.
People yelling ARE YOU ALIVE IN THERE and HELP, but it’s just too heavy to move.
More screaming.
I try to dig, and I pull out an arm.
It is from one of the catacomb’s ancient residents.
More thuds. More dust falls.
More screams.
O’Meter
Paddy O’Brien slammed down his mug and let loose a loud belch.
“That be an eight on the burp-o-meter!” he shouted to the rest of the bar.
The bartender tapped Paddy on the shoulder. “That be a four.”
He held up a small device which showed a large red 4 in LEDs.
“Balderdash!” sneered Paddy, pulling out his iPhone and proudly showed the 8 on it.
The bartender took the iPhone, closed the app, and read the icon.
“Fart-o-meter,” he said. “That’s a whole different scale, Paddy.”
Paddy frowned, but brightened up when the bartender filled up his mug again.
Poe
For decades, a stranger in a long coat, scarf and hat would leave three roses and a half-empty bottle of cognac at the grave of Edgar Allen Poe on the writer’s birthday.
But recently, the stranger has failed to show up, and people are starting to worry.
Has the stranger gone forever?
What happened to them?
I’m sad about the loss of another of life’s romantic mysteries.
There’s no more Bermuda Triangle.
Or Bigfoot.
Or Loch Ness Monster.
No miracles, no monsters.
All of the things we knew not to be true but still believed in are fading away.
Gone.