Doctor Frankenstein told Igor to throw the switch.
Igor was good at throwing the switch.
As a child, he practiced throwing the switch all day and all night.
Got merit badges in throwing the switch when he was a scout.
He majored in throwing the switch back in college.
And apprenticed in a switch manufacturing factory as a tester to get practical experience.
Just for the moment when he’d be asked to throw it.
“I DON’T NEED YOUR WHOLE DAMN BIOGRAPHY, IGOR!” yelled Frankenstein. “THROW THE SWITCH!”
Igor said “Yes, Master!” and pressed the button that had replaced the switch.
They say that you can only kill a werewolf with a silver bullet.
But any silver will do.
Parson Reginald used a silver mirror like a knife.
He also used a silver knife.
Maxwell used a silver hammer to bash in their brains.
Perhaps you’ve heard the song?
Silver arrow heads, silver cigarette stems, silver serving platters.
They all work.
We’ve tested it all, here at the lab.
We obtain werewolves, and we kill them with all kinds of silver things.
Why do our guards carry guns with silver bullets?
They’re easier to use than all that over weird crap.
Bob came up with the best costume for Halloween.
“This is going to be hard to make,” said his mother.
“I’m going to make it myself,” said Bob.
He studied all kinds of books on fashion and design.
And he watched a bunch of tutorials on Lynda’s website, free through his library card.
But Trick or Treat was cancelled that year because of the pandemic.
Still, he was able to get his mother to take photos and he posted them on TikTok and all the social media, and he texted them to his friends.
They texted back photos of candy.
If you’re feeling sick, don’t go to bed.
Sure, when you’re sick, the bed you’re in is a sickbed.
Are you sure it’s a sick bed?
It could be a deathbed.
And that’s where you’ll die.
Yes, you’ve been sleeping in that bed for years.
Not knowing that it’s actually a deathbed.
What about a daybed? Can a daybed be a sickbed or a deathbed?
Yes. Yes it can.
You won’t see it on the label, though.
And there’s no testing for it.
The only way you’ll find out is if you get sick.
Or, I suppose, if you die.
I love to plant flowers and herbs and vegetables.
This house has a big yard. And a bitch of a neighbor.
She rips out the herbs. She thinks they are ugly.
She rips out the rose bushes. She thinks they are too showy.
So, I planted climbing roses, the ones with thorns.
Let her try to pull those out.
And I invited her over for a visit.
Pointed to my garden.
And told her when she dies, I will plant all of this on her grave.
And she’s welcome to reach up from Hell and pull them down with her.
They call it the phone booth of the winds.
A phone booth set on a cliff in Japan by the ocean.
People come to the phone to call the dead.
They tell the dead not to worry about them, but they should.
They tell the dead that they miss them, and they should.
They tell the dead they will see them again soon, and they will.
And they hang up the phone, cry their tears, and step out of the booth.
Then they run to the cliff and leap over, to lose themselves in the ocean.
The phone never rings.
I swore that I would write one story a day until the day I die.
But, lately, I haven’t been writing them every day.
I go a few days without writing a story, and then I write a few stories to make up for the shortfall.
They’re not good, and I throw them in the trash.
Okay, so I’ve written a story every day, so technically that counts, right?
Or maybe I’m just dying a little inside every day, and time is finally catching up with me.
I’d write more, but this is another one to throw in the trash.
“October is coming,” said the ghost.
The room smelled like burnt hair.
Arthur lit a candle and looked around.
Torn, moldy wallpaper.
Rotten wood furniture, a table and a chair.
A rusty knife on the table.
Was that rust? Or was it blood?
Arthur looked for a door, but couldn’t find one.
He felt the walls for a seam.
How did he get here?
Had he been drugged, and put in here, and the walls sealed shut?
Dropped from the ceiling? It looked solid enough.
A trap door? None under the carpet.
“October is here,” said the ghost.
Henry was never meant to be king.
He was the seventh son of the king.
But one by one, his brothers died.
Sickness. Accidents. War. Assassinations.
Six graves in the royal graveyard.
And, surrounded by guards, Henry standing over them, laying a flower on each.
“Get back inside,” said his father, pushing him.
Being exposed to the outdoors and the risks there was too much.
He stayed inside the castle, no windows, no sunlight.
When his father died, he threw open every shutter.
“Let the sun greet its king!” shouted Henry.
And he fell, an arrow buried in his neck.
It was 3 days ride from Skara Brae to the castle.
The town priest had soaked our horses’ shoes in holy water, and the weather stayed clear, no bandits crossed our path in the deep woods.
“They fear the red pennant,” said our tracker. “One does not steal from those who ride for the crown.”
The ghosts of the green swamp respect no banners, so we camped on the second night, waited for their wailing to end with the sun’s rise, and crossed the gloom on the third morning.
All was for naught.
The castle had burned to the ground.