Ecksmas Prompt: Man of Snow

This is proof positive that I'm bugnuts, by the way. Enjoy! And happy Solstice Rites Of Your Choosing!

~~~

When he woke, he was blind and cold and deaf and could not scream. He couldn’t move, either, but he could feel their hands.
Sensation returned first to his arms; his fingers felt cold and brittle.
Sight returned, then smell. The world was shades of grey, but he could see it and was thankful, even if it did smell of carrots.
They stuck a corncob pipe where his mouth was supposed to go, before they gave him the hat and scarf. It didn’t charm him; he was as cold as death.
They wanted holly-jolly laughter. Instead, he took their souls.

EDIT: I tried putting the damn picture at the end. It won't let me. I blame the shitty computer. And I'm totally adding this after the story's been up for a few moments. Hah! Also, there are waaaaay too many pics of creepy snowmen out there. They're coming for us.

Speaking of Chuck Wendig...

Well, we weren't, but I was poking around on his blog to day (it's awesome...I'm putting it in the links to the left because he's hilarious and brilliant and a free-lance writer and a figure worth learning from)...

Anyway, he's doing a Flash Fiction thing. Details HERE, but basically, he wants 1000 or less words of vacation-oriented horror stories...by which I mean, monsters and shite, not "my plane was THREE HOURS LATE and all I had to eat was these horrible peanuts and then the kid next to me wee'd himself and rolled in it". Whole other genre, that.

I figured it was right up our collective alley. We should all do it. He wants them by the 11th of Feb-October.

Best part: He's going to put them on his blog, as is, which means (you guessed it): Exposure! Fame! Fortune! Someone in "The Business" might read it!

Also, prizes may be involved. But, apparently, us Canucks will have to pay the shipping if we win.

Blood & Hot Sauce

Y’know, it’s surprising what you end up missing the most.

Take me, for example. When I was first infected, I steeled myself for endless nights of angst. Never seeing another sunrise, never seeing my old friends and my family again, becoming a monster who had to kill to sustain my own existence, possibly being damned to an eternity in hell...I got over it. None of the old clichés really gave me that much trouble, to tell the truth. No, what got me was the hot sauce.

I’ve had a bottle of hot sauce in my fridge since forever. Hot sauce goes with everything. Everything. And that’s exactly what I ate it with. You ever had cold Chinese from last night – no, Chinese takeout from a fast food place – look, no one thinks that’s funny, so give it a rest, will you? Have any of you ever had cold Chinese food from last night with pickles and hot sauce for breakfast? Let me tell you, it is a feast fit for...well, okay, for a twentysomething male college student. But anyway. If it was possible to survive on nothing but hot sauce, that’s what I would have done.

And then I was infected.

And I discovered that there is, in fact, something that hot sauce does not go great with. And that would be a stomach that’s adapted to handle human blood and...that’s it.

Yeah. It’s fucking boring. Ignore all that romantigothic bullshit about ‘the sweetest bitter nectar ever to cross his lips’ blah blah blah. Blood tastes like blood. That’s kind of the point.

Sure, the first few nights I didn’t notice. It’s kind of a kick for the first little while, as I’m sure all of you know. But then one night I went to the fridge without thinking. And there was that one lonely bottle of hot sauce staring accusingly back at me.

That was the first time my condition actually made me cry. That’s right, I curled up in a ball in the corner and bawled and angsted until the sun came up and knocked me out. Not over my soul, or the family I could never see again, or the people lying dead in dumpsters because of me. No. Not me. I cried over hot sauce.

Oh, now you’re all laughing. Like you haven’t done it too. Every last one of you had a favourite food, I can almost guarantee it. And then one night, when you’d successfully got the big questions out of the way, when you were feeling pretty good about yourself, you realised, “Oh. My. God. I will never eat crackers and cheese again.”

No? Okay, maybe it was realising you can’t go on day-long shopping sprees anymore. Or how in summer, you can’t go shopping at all, because your favourite stores close before the sun sets. Or maybe...I dunno, you can’t go to waterparks anymore. Look, all I was trying to say is that those old clichés aren’t the big deal here. We all thought about them, all the time, even back when we were human. Especially you – you were a vegetarian, right? When it comes to stuff like, like, metaphysical or moral issues, they’re just too big. It’s easy to pick a side, or decide to stay undecided, and then forget about them. No, it’s the little things that get under your skin.

Like hot sauce.

I’m rambling? Oh, I’m so sorry. Take the floor. Angst about how you tried to survive on rats but nearly died again, we all love to listen to that story.

I’m never coming to one of these meetings again.

Here's A Thought...

How would people feel about having a series of prompts for short stories/long stories/novellas/whatever?

For instance, I (or whoever) would post a picture or a phrase or a link to a song, and whoever wants to can write something to go with it...any length, any genre, any rating, all that. And, when the stories/whatever are complete, whoever finishes first posts the next prompt...

Or we can do it another way, if you'd rather. Or not, if you rather that too.

Just a thought...

Oooo...and the prompts can be used for pre-existing stories too, if you have a WIP and are stuck on a scene. I won't limit your creativity ;)

Because no one has posted for a while...

...here is a short story, quite honestly inspired by the Rick Springfield song "Jessie's Girl".


Well, the night was pretty much ruined now.
I caught Jessie giving me dirty looks as I walked her home. Like it was my fault that Ollie’d shown up and glommed onto us? I love my best friend dearly in that weird way guys have, I really do, I just sometimes don’t like him that much.
The walk up to Jessie’s front door was much too short. We stood there, under her porch light, an awkward moment made worse for Ollie’s presence, not so much seen as felt.
“So, uh, thanks,” Jessie muttered, ducking behind her short, straight hair. ‘I had...fun. Yeah. I had fun.”
“Yeah. Uh, me too.” I felt the need to clarify.
“Yeah. So we should go out again, hey?” Jessie mumbled through the curtain of her hair.
“Yeah. Sure. Sometime soon.” And then, partly because I wanted to and partly to spite Ollie, I leaned down and kissed her.
Her lips were surprisingly cool, probably due to the night air, but really soft, and she tasted faintly of strawberry-flavoured chemical jelly. It was kind of nice.
She looked about as surprised as I felt. I hadn’t known I was going to do that, either, until I’d done it. But now it was done. No going back.
“So I’d like to, uh, see you again,” Jessie stuttered, and pushed open the door, scurried inside, and shut the door, only to poke her head back around it. To say, “I'll call you!” She ducked back inside, only to reappear around the door. “Um, what’s your number?”
I gave her my cell number, and she flashed me one of her brief, rare smiles that was like finding gold in the sock drawer. “Thanks, Jared,” she said, and there was no uncertainty in it. Then she shut the door.
‘Oh man, she likes me,” I whispered to the porch light. I felt like skipping down the path back to the sidewalk, but managed to restrain myself. I mean, Ollie’s seen me being a doofus before, but Jessie hadn’t, and might have got the wrong idea.
‘Man, she likes me,” I repeated for Ollie’s benefit. He sort of scowled at me. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye – he didn’t seem too happy. Well, tough luck. He was the one who’d shown up and ruined my date. Let him sulk. I wasn’t going to waste time or emotion on him.
Still, my dad’s always said I have curiosity enough to kill five cats in one go and maybe a few parakeets in the bargain. Once something gets me going, I just can’t leave it alone. And I’d noticed something had been eating at Ollie for a while now. So I ploughed into it headlong. “What’s the deal, dude? Did I do something that pissed you off more than usual?”
Ollie sort of grunted. Not terribly helpful.
“Okay, so what did I do?” I tried to think of every dick move I’d made in the past week. Nope, nothing came to mind. What had even happened this past week? Nothing at all, unless you count Jessie and me having our first pseudo-date. “You showed up in the middle of our date, so I’m gonna guess it has to do with Jessie.”
Ollie grunted again, and kicked at a rock in the street. He’d kind of hunched his shoulders up, and that made the collar of his jacket stand up. Since his head was down, I couldn’t really see his face for collar and shoulders. So it was pretty hard to read his expression. That might be part of why I continued to operate so obliviously. “Look, I’ve been out with girls before, and it didn’t cause any problems. I mean, you know I’m not one of those losers who gets all caught up in a girl and forgets about everyone else. We’re still friends, so I don’t really get what -”
Ollie drew back a foot and kicked the rock across the street, where it bounced off someone’s tire. “God, Jared, you really don’t get it.”
And then, and only then, did it hit me in a blinding flash of the obvious. ‘Oh my God. I’m so stupid! Ollie, why didn’t you tell me you liked Jessie?”
Oddly enough, this did not provoke the reaction I’d expected. I don’t even know what I’d expected, maybe for Ollie to lighten up and go, “You got me,” like just knowing what was wrong would solve it. Or whatever. But instead, Ollie burrowed deeper into his coat. It looked like he was a tortoise, hunching up in his shell.
Then he took a deep breath, let out a long sigh, and dropped his shoulders, bringing his head back up and turned and looked me in the eye. “God, Jared,” he said, and then he grabbed me and kissed me.
It was nothing like kissing Jessie. First, Ollie’s as tall as I am, so I wasn’t leaning down. Second, he kissed harder than she did. I mean, he was kissing me, so there was more pressure, but his lips weren’t as soft as hers. They seemed stronger, somehow. And third, Ollie was my best friend since forever. That added weirdness.
And there was no strawberry lipgloss involved.
After what mustn’t have been that much time but felt like too damn long, he pulled away. I guess it must have shown how stunned I was. I don’t know. Ollie looked me in the eye again, and said, deadpan, “Do you get it now?”
Then he turned around and walked away.
Seconds later, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. It was a text from Jessie. The whole message was you could have just told me no.
Well, the night’s pretty much ruined now.

Titleless Story Chunk

Another short story, ish. The first line of this came to me yesterday, and I thought it would be perfect to start a short story with. By the time I'd finished writing this scene, I'd come up with an entire novel's worth of ideas that lead up to it... I think it might even be my next big project; Lacie and Chadwick might have to wait a while.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You're smiling. Why are you smiling?”

The girl shrugged her shoulders. “Because I like to see horrible things come to an end.”

“Does that include that smile? I'd like to see that come to an end.”

Her features straightened. “Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir. Returning to emotionless professionalism now, Sir.”

The man looked at her uneasily. “That's not what I meant. And you can cut it out with all of that Sir stuff; You're—”

“Dying? I know, Sir.” As if proving her right, her legs buckled under her. She fell forward onto her knees. “Sorry, Sir. You were saying?”

“Damn it, girl, stop calling me that, d'y'hear?”

She started to sigh, but it turned into several long coughs. When the fit subsided, she said, “So what do I call you?”

“Name's Polgrave. You can call me—”

“Polly?” the girl suggested, her smile returning.

Polgrave looked positively livid, then annoyed, then resigned. “Fine. Polly. What'd' I call you?”

Her smile faded. “You know my desi—”

“Yeah, and I'm asking your name.”

She smiled again, with tears in her eyes. “It's Sky, Sir.”

“What did I tell you about calling me Sir?”

“Sorry, Sir. It's a habit.”

Polgrave gave a short nod.

“And you know what they say about old habits—” She looked at his face. “Come on, it's a joke.”

“Not a funny one... Sky.”

“I thought it was funny,” she mumbled. “You mind coming a little closer, Sir? I can't see you very well.”

“Stop calling me Sir!”

Sky laughed. “You're kind of a blur,” she went on conversationally, half-ignoring the interruption.

Polgrave took a few steps through the long grass toward her. “Any better?” he asked, stopping a few feet away.

“Eyes are fading fast, S—Polly.”

“Come here,” Polgrave said, walking toward her. “Gimmie your hand.”

Sky held her hand out blindly. He took it and held it to his chest.

“You feel that? I'm right here.” He paused for a moment. “You're hands are working, right?”

“Well enough. Your heart's beating kind of fast, Sir.”

“Well, heat of battle and that,” Polgrave said uncomfortably, not sure whether or not to let go of her hand. “Listen, Sky... would you be more comfortable lying down?”

She thought. “Would you be more comfortable if I was lying down, Sir?”

“A bit,” he admitted. “But if you're okay on your knees—”

“Can you help me down?”

Polgrave let go of her hand, slipped an arm behind her back and levered her down onto the grass. A moment later, he lifted her head up and let it fall back into his lap. “Alright?”

“Perfect, Sir, thank you,” Sky said.

“How're your—”

“Completely blind, Sir. It doesn't bother me much.”

Polgrave let out a long sigh. “Shouldn't have happened, this war. It's stupid. And you shouldn't have been caught up in it.”

“I wasn't caught up. I'm meant for this, Sir.”

“You weren't meant to die in a field,” Polgrave snapped. “No one deserves this.”

“Sir.”

“Sky?”

She smiled. “Horrible things, Sir.”

“What?”

“I've been waiting for this for as long as I can remember. I want to die.”

“But—”

“It's natural,”

“So're lots of things. Plagues, diseases, even slavery. Horrible things—”

“Dying puts an end to all of those, Sir,” Sky said, with just a hint of smugness.

“Not slavery.”

“It does for the slave.”

She reached up a searching hand. Polgrave took it without a word.

“If it makes a difference—”

“It won't,” Polgrave bit back. His voice sounded choked and strained.

“I can't think of a better place to do it.”

Polgrave looked around at the golden grass and watched a missile arch soundlessly across the cobalt sky, trailing thick, dark smoke behind it. An endless flock of fluffy white seeds floated past.

“It's an alright place,” he agreed. A tear escaped his eye, rolled over his cracked, red face, dripped off his chin and got lost somewhere in Sky's yellow hair.

“What I meant was, I can't think of a better man. To have with me... Sir.”

White Hood Red - A Short Story

Here's my contribution to E's Short Story Revival! Hope you like it!

~~~

White Hood Red
By Rhiannon McCormick

White hoodie glowing in the twilight, cut-off shorts, flip-flops flapping, her hair still damp and smelling of the sea. Her towel bunched under her arm, bathing suit a wet lump between terrycloth folds. Woodsmoke and pine in the air. Mosquitos buzzed around her head, but none landed.

When he stepped from the woods, she stopped, surprised. The camp sites were further up the road, hidden amongst the second and third growth pines and maples and birches; she couldn't even see the lights of the campfires. There were no paths here, save the road she was on.

He was big, and tall and gorgeous. His ears were hidden in his dark brown hair. His eyes sparkled with charm and curiosity. His smile exposed perfect, white teeth, and she found herself looking up at him through her eyelashes. She flipped her hair over her shoulder, and was pleased to note that his gaze drifted to her neck.

She hesitated when he proffered his hand, but she took it anyway. His fingers were long and thin and strong and warm. She flushed and shivered and blamed the shiver on her wet hair and the deepening twilight, and he smiled and knew she was lying. This way...his voice was warm too, soft and warm and safe.

She stepped into the trees.

~~~

When they found her, much later, her hair was finally dry, though matted. Her flip-flops no longer flapped, and her hoodie was dark red-brown, as dark and red-brown as the puddle she lay in. She was pale and clamy and rigid.

Her wounds, the authorities said, were teeth-and-claw marks. The tracks around her were canine.

A constable made a joke about red hoods and wolves. He was told to leave.

They followed the tracks, later, but lost them on the road.

Among the spectators behind the cordon was a young man. He was big and tall and gorgeous, with longish hair and charming, curious eyes. His smile, as he watched, was the slow burn of a predator's joy.

A girl noticed him. She smiled up at him, shyly. She was wearing a shirt that read, Who's Afraid Of The Big Bad Wolf?

He winked, and offered his hand.

~~~
ETA: Fixed spelling mistakes. June 28, 2009

To kick off the short stories...

This could be considered a shameless self-plug. Hope you enjoy anyway!
___________________________________________________

Her hand flashed out. “What’s behind that, anyway?”

“No – don’t -”

Too late. Her fingers, those slim white fingers he’d admired as they wove the balls back and forth, had gripped the edges of his mask, and, in one swift motion, she’d pulled it away. Almost like sleight-of-hand. She’d make an excellent conjuror.

He flung up his hands to try to hide his face, in vain, in vain. Her brilliant eyes, almost the same light turquoise of a depthlessly clear alkali lake, widened in shock, and her conjuror’s hand dropped weakly to her side, his white mask slithering from between her fingers. “What – why on earth do you wear that silly thing? There’s nothing wrong with you, nothing at all!” She sounded breathless, her voice becoming shrill on the last three words. He couldn’t quite see, but he thought a blush had risen to her cheeks.

“Did I say there was anything wrong with my face?” He dropped to his knees, trying to find and lift the mask without dropping his hands. “I don’t wear that mask out of vanity!”

“Why? Why not let the world see your face?” She knelt too, her long, dishwater-blond hair falling down and obscuring her eyes. Impatiently, she pushed it back behind her ear, and turned those bright eyes on him. “You’re…you’re really handsome.”

He laughed, a laugh which seemed to sear his throat like bile. “Exactly.”

She regarded him for a long moment, eyes boring into him like augurs. Finally, she said, “I don’t understand.” She sounded frustrated, pushed beyond the limits of her experience. “Why would you want to hide yourself, if there’s nothing wrong with you?”

He gave in at last, letting his right hand drop to the sawdust on the floor below, groping for the mask even as he stole a glance at the huge, mottled purple-red birthmark disgracing the right side of her lovely face. She cringed back, whether from his careless stare or the glimpse of his face, he couldn’t tell. Immediately, he averted his eyes, turning all his attention to the finding of his mask. “I want to hide from the world, want to hide this face, because…”

There weren’t words. How could he explain the long years, the young women (and men) falling at his feet, only to find their hopes dashed and their hearts crushed the very next day, discovering he was not the same person they thought he was, or worse, thinking that he’d moved on and forgotten them? How could he explain the betrayal he – or, rather, his traitor face - had dealt to so many naïve faces in the crowd, so many bundles of hopes and dreams and fears and wishes who made up the Audience, the great faceless, seething, demanding mass that had stolen his hopes and dreams and still ate a little more of him every night? “Despair.” The word was an apt description of what he’d finally succumbed to, what he’d found living on the coattails of that thing that had driven him to the circus in the first place. “And desire.” He had no other explanation. “It’s just easier this way.”

She stared at him, not angrily, not accusingly, not longingly like so many girls before her, just blankly and for so long that he became uncomfortable sitting there and busied himself looking for his mask again. And just when he thought he couldn’t bear it any more, she spoke.

“Easier?” Her voice sounded flat, dead. “It’s easier for you? You don’t have to bear the burden of having a beautiful face?” And now a touch of venom leaked into her words, a deadly poison mixed of tears and bitterness, with just a shred of hardy hope. “You don’t know what a burden is. It’s easier for you to hide? So it is for the rest of us. But some of us have more guts than that.”

She stood, her hair falling back over her face. He stood too, fixing his mask back in place as he did. It settled into place like a welcoming embrace. They stood looking at each other for another long moment, a sort of silent battle boiling the air between them. Finally, he turned away. “You would make an excellent conjuror.”

Her voice was soft, but there was a shade of reproach in it. “Some of us are brave enough not to hide.”

Bring back the short story!

Basically, I want to do just that.
The short story has, in recent years, been much maligned and/or ignored by the literary community. But since I think short stories are both fun to write and read, and since writing short stories is an great exercise in character-building and plotting that I never look down my nose on, I challenge you all: write short stories!
Share them if you feel like it. Or don't. Start them with "Once upon a time..." and end them with "The End." Or start in the middle and leave the ending ambiguous and unresolved. Just write them!
*ahem* I sound like my grade three teacher. Oh well. I think it'd be fun. Who's with me?