Eight Drabbles

100 short stories in varying genres. Thought experiments, writing exercises and splinters that I dug out of my brain and published for your amusement

Magic Circles

Jacob swept, then dropped to his hands and knees to eye the floorboards. He spotted a sliver of debris caught in a seam. He picked it out with his thumbnail, and looked again. Satisfied, he dragged thirteen battered chairs from storage and set them out in a circle. Next, he was on the ground again with chalk. He drew a circle around the chairs, then another. Glyphs filled the space between. Jacob stepped over the threshold of the protective circle. The hum of ambient magical energy dropped to a whisper. He slumped into a chair and closed his eyes. Peace.

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Graveborn

Cold. Wet. Heavy.

Earth in my mouth. My eyes. My ears. Things squirm under my skin. It doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts. Just different degrees of pressure. Nerves feeling in grayscale.

The call tugs at me. Relentless. Dig. Claw. Chew my way out of the ground.

My hand bursts through the loose dirt into open air. Push. Claw. Tug. Repeat. Again and again.

My head breaks from the grave soil. I try to scream. Nothing. Mud dribbles out instead of sound. I yank my body free and collapse onto my back.

Only one thought pounding through my head:

This is bullshit.

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Wizard’s Familiar

The old wizard strode forward, his staff raised high. His blue robes flapped in a wind that no one else felt. His silver white beard trailed over his shoulder as he bellowed gibberish that sounded suitably arcane. An owl perched upon his shoulder. A steel gray mustache of feathers ringed its beak. Neither the charging horde of ogres, nor Garganvox himself, not even his own allies saw the owl roll its eyes. Wizards are a fairy tale after all, but dragons are real, and they are excellent shapeshifters.

The “owl’s” eyes flared red as fire blossomed amongst the enemy army.

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Vintage

The blood tasted wrong.

I turned the vial in the light. Bright red, thick. The label read:

Ronnie Rivera

AB negative

4:00 a.m.

I always check their charts to be sure there are no bloodborne illnesses, iron deficiency or other contagions.

I took another sip.

Something is definitely off.

I pulled his chart. Read it again, properly this time.

Dietary Needs: Vegan.

Huh.

I set the vial back in the rack, label out, and wiped my mouth with a gloved hand.

I wonder if asparagus affects the taste of blood the way it does the smell of urine.

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Unbreakable

They think they can break me.

Nobody ever has. Fourteen months in a gulag couldn’t do it. Waterboarding. The wire. Starvation. Eight days and nights without sleep, when the walls start talking and you can see sounds and taste colors. Lived through it all. Gave them Dick Butkus.

The door opens. The man with the green teeth limps in with a folder. He drags a chair in front of me. Settles into it and reads the folder’s contents. A head tilt.

“Give us the codes,” he lisps, then with a crooked smile adds, “Please.”

Shit.

He knows the magic word.

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Ice-Freakin’-Cold

“So I says to the guy, I says, look, I only stabbed him the first 22 times. I swear to gods. No bullshit. He’s got his own entrails clutched in his fists. He’s trying to shove ‘em back in. His toga gets tangled in his intestines. He’s looking at his buddy. This jabroni stumbles forward. His buddy catches him. They go to the ground. They’re staring into each other’s eyes, lips quivering like freakin’ lovers, right?

His buddy, outta nowhere, stabs him right in the heart. Ice-freakin’-cold.

Before he dies, he says ‘et tu, Brute?’

For the Republic my ass.”

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The Handoff

Three months running. Tonight, the handoff. Trading seedy motels and midnight checkouts for beach resorts and Mai Tais.

Daniel patted the briefcase like a loyal dog.

That’s when he saw her.

Red dress, legs crossed, swirling something dark in a crystal glass. She smiled, and he felt something inside him unknot.

A tumbler arrived at his elbow. “From the lady.”

Daniel raised his glass. She mirrored him.

He drank.

The room tilted. The floor surged up.

A woman in a red dress and heels strode down the alley, briefcase in hand. She raised a phone to her chin. “Recovery complete.”

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Court Jester

All rise. The Verified Judge Snopes presiding.

Docket #5673: The Truth vs. Arlen Vox.

“Arlen Vox, you stand accused of deception in the form of buffoonery resulting in laughter. The penalty for this crime is death by electrocution. It says here, you intend to represent yourself?”

“That is correct, your Verifiedness.” Arlen was a slight man with unruly brown hair. His brown suit was oversized. His yellow shirt and green tie made him look like a hotdog.

“How do you plead?”

Arlen smiled. “In a high-pitched voice, similar to that of a little girl.”

Judge Snopes did not smile. “Guilty.”