Anything Please, a (Horror?) Short

DISCLAIMER: Graphic violence, some may find disturbing. Please keep this in mind if you chose to continue reading, though I doubt it’s any worse than your average TV show. (Walking Dead anyone? Num num.)

This is a short story that I started working on 9 months ago and rediscovered just today. The ending is cheap I know, it’s still a WOP… mostly because I have no idea where to take it from here, especially after losing it for so long. Anyway, hope you enjoy regardless, and as always, I welcome comments.

“Anything please.”

“Fine. We’ll go with the broken finger, let’s say.. the sixth one from the left, counting from your pinky.”

“Fantastic.” I spread out my hands in front of me. They rested like miniature pink sausages on the chilly metal counter top. The spindly veins fascinated me.

“One, two, three,” he made a show of counting each digit starting from my left pinky, touching lightly, “four, five,” the blue plastic gloves he wore left traces of fine white power, dusted like ash on the fine hairs of my fingers, “six.”

“Ah, here we are. Ready?” He grinned at me. I couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark round glasses he wore.

I shivered with excitement. “Ready.” My shoulders tensed. My fingers spread further apart. Tendons jumped up from their fleshy beds.

Bending from the waist, he reached below the desk separating us. His hand explored an area I could not see, his chin hovering near the edge of the desk. His nostrils left damp circles that appeared and receded with every breath. After a moment he withdrew a hammer, made of the same shimmering metal as the surface my pale hands now flexed upon. He examined it momentarily, testing the weight, feeling what texture he could behind the gloves and opaque glasses.

Satisfied, he rose up, over six feet in height, muscles coiling, hammer high above his head- and brought the instrument savagely down upon my finger, sixth from the left, counting from my pinky.

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A Single Day in Any Cafe, A Short Story

written 6/2015 First Draft. Still trying to find the proper “voice” for this character, so please be forgiving of the eye-rolling “noir” bits. (They will eventually be edited out.) As always, I welcome your thoughts.

by Megan Blaney aka wiedienacht

Lip syncing to a popular song doesn’t make you hip. Just like posturing doesn’t get you noticed. Yet, I found myself watching her as she worked. The sway of her hip as she nonchalantly cleared a table for the next customers, the rhythm of her lips as she mouthed “We Will Rock You,” the way she kept glancing in my general direction. I noticed her blue cap, knit with a red M, clashing with the frilly white and yellow skirt she wore over plaid shorts (a lesson in hipster outfitting 101.) She seemed too tall for natural grace, yet she could still glide through the room.

I sipped my coffee and watched her for a while- when she paused to pick up a book, dust a table, or check her phone. I looked away only when she looked my way, and one other time when she bent to dust the railings. I was curious, not leching.

My wrap was bland. While I’d been finishing it, she had retreated up the short steps to the other side of the building, where I couldn’t watch her anymore.

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White Sheets, A Short Story

This was a writing prompt. (Using an image of an unmade bed.) It needs cleaning up, I’m sure, but for me prompts are just little things you use and throw away after.. like tampons. I likely won’t do anything further with this, but it was fun to write. Let me know what you think. (About anything really, although for the sake of cohesion it ought be be a thought about the story itself or of writing prompts in general.)

She stared at the unmade bed, her arms folded, hair hanging down to her exposed breasts. White sheets. White pillows. Tussled, still body warm. Or so it looked, but she didn’t reach out a hand to test that.

Curtains had been drawn, but light still slipped through cracks in the barrier. One bright line split the room in two, standing as a divider between her bare toes and the foot of the bed. Another cut across the floor behind her, stopping just before it hit the closed wooden door. Motes of dust floated, suspended in the sea of air, an otherwise invisible current the light had exposed.

She ran her tongue over cracked lips, tasting salt.

No one else was in the room with her.

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“Slow Down” Tentative Title, a Short Story

    I wrote this over the past couple days. It’s a rough draft, as such it needs a little work. Feel free to offer comments, suggestions, corrections, or just read for the pleasure of it. (For some reason, the formatting is not working properly and paragraphs aren’t indenting like I want them to. I had to put a space in between each paragraph, and even that didn’t work at first. I apologize for the appearance.)

Written 5/28/2015

By Megan Blaney aka wiedinacht

     “Slow down, “she said.

He drummed his fingers against the wheel, then squinted down at the speedometer. “I’m only going five over.”

They’d been driving for over two hours, and had at least that to go.

“We’re not out of Worcester yet.” She bit at her nails, crimson red, inch and a half, $30 with a generous tip at Nail Top back home. “It’s a heavy cop area.” She looked out the window. A cyclist in a tight red bodysuit tried valiantly to come up along side them, but failed. She watched him for a bit in the side view mirror.

“Who says that?” He asked, putting on his blinker with a lazy flick of his hand.

She replied as he slid into the left lane, just ahead of a truck adorned with some landscaping logo, a grinning sunburnt face hovering over a lawnmower. “Says what?”

“A heavy cop area.” His eyes shifted to her briefly and a half grin flit across his face. When she didn’t respond right away, he slapped a hand to her thigh. A gesture meant to be playful, but was just a little too forceful.

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