FGC#5 The Fantasy Was Better

They said being a vampire would be fun. Now I’m stuck for all eternity with a smaller than average penis. I’m developing wooden stake envy.

Author’s Note: This week’s Form and Genre Challenge was to write a story of 140 characters. It’s known as Twitfic and yes, it’s hard to write. I hope you got a chuckle out of this one.

The Razor. An OULIPO of Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven”

FGC#3 OULIPO of The Raven in N+7

Once upon a migration dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious voting of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my champion doorway.
“‘Tis some vocal,” I muttered, “tapping at my champion doorway-
Only this, and novelette more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the blether December,
And each seraph dying embryo wrought its giggle upon the flotation.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to botanist
From my bookmarks surcease of sound- sound for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant mainland whom the ankles nappy Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each pursuit custody
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic testings never felt before;
So that now, to still the beck of my heartthrob, I stood repeating,
“‘Tis some vocal entreating envelope at my champion doorway-
Some late vocal entreating envelope at my champion doorway;-
This it is, and novelette more.”

Presently my south grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fag is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my champion doorway,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”- here I opened wide the doorway;-
Dashboard there, and novelette more.

Defendant into that dashboard peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dressmakers no mortuary ever dared to dressmaker before;
But the silt was unbroken, and the stillness gave no tombola,
And the only workhouse there spoken was the whispered workhouse, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an ecosystem murmured backfire the workhouse, “Lenore!”-
Merely this, and novelette more.

Backfire into the champion turnstile, all my south within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my winger laundry:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this nanny explore-
Let my heartthrob be still a money and this nanny explore;-
‘Tis the window-dresser and novelette more!”

Open here I flung the sickness, when, with many a floorboard and flywheel,
In there stepped a stately Razor of the saintly deadbeats of yore;
Not the least obligation made he; not a misapprehension stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lotion or laggard, perched above my champion doorway-
Perched upon a butt of Pallas just above my champion doorway-
Perched, and sat, and novelette more.

Then this ecologist birthright beguiling my sad farce into smiling,
By the graze and steward decorum of the counterpart it wore.
“Though thy crick be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and angel Razor warder from the Nightly shot-
Tell me what thy lordly nappy is on the Nightlight’s Plutonian shot!”
Quoth the Razor, “Nevermore.”

Catherine’s Hill

Welcome friends, welcome.  Come, gather round.  Still plenty of room by the fire.  There, that’s it.  Sit, sit.  Good.  You’ve come for a story have you?  Well then, a story you shall have.  And I know just the one for a night like this; one so close to Halloween.  Yes, it’s the story of a woman known only as, Catherine; her last name lost among the ages.

Catherine was young and pretty, like you little one, only her skin was fair, no freckles.  She was a maiden of only eighteen years.  The envy of every eligible man in two counties but her heart belonged only to William.  She and William had been childhood friends.  I guess things like that happen; good friends become great lovers they say.  When William got work at a mill several towns away.  Catherine became so forlorn that she refused to eat for day upon hearing the news.  William, seeing the town’s men begin to take notice of Catherine, spent the rest of his travel money and bought the most expensive wedding band he could afford.  So it was that Catherine married William in their home village the day before William was to report to the mill.  Their wedding night would have to wait.  That notion did not sit well with either of them so, as the sun lowered itself under a cool earthen blanket, Catherine and William loaded up their old wagon, hitched their horses and set out to the mill town so they could consummate their love in their own home.

Catherine giggled when she felt her husband’s hands cup the soft, round flesh of her rump as she pulled herself into the wagon seat.  She scooted as William lofted himself up onto the seat and allowed himself to collapse playfully onto the newly sewn cushion, releasing a small cloud of tiny white feathers.  He leaned in to kiss her then laid his head on her bosom.  Catherine stroked his hair and watched a small downy feather float on the breeze.

“A man can get used to these sorts of creature comforts,” said William.

“Do you refer to the new carriage cushions or my breast?”

William sat up and pulled a face of mock shock.  “My dear Mrs. Jones, I blush at your salty talk.”

“You blush now?  Oh, my dear Mr. Jones, it appears you are in for one embarrassing evening.”

Without saying a word but with a big smile on his face, William picked up the reigns and snapped the team into motion causing Catherine to giggle once more as she was lurched backward on the bench.  The happy couple sat side by side keeping each other warm as they made a quick pace to the next town.  It would be a long night, almost twenty miles, but the thought of their love finally coalescing in a night of wanton lust was too much for the young couple, so they pressed on through the early evening and into the night.  It was a full moon that night which allowed William to make a good pace.  By his calculations they would arrive at their new home by midnight.  He looked over at Catherine, her skin aglow in the pale moonlight, and kissed her cheek.  She turned and kissed him proper on the mouth.  William closed his eyes in ecstasy while the carriage continued up a steep hill.  They both snapped out of their rapture as the carriage pitched forward.  The well trained team had continued on the trail and was now cresting the hill.  William reluctantly broke away from his bride and took control of the team.

“Whoa, boys, easy now.  We don’t want to be racing down any steep hills in the middle of the night.”

Well, my lovelies, no sooner had he said that when out of nowhere, a great big black bear exploded out of the trees and into the path of Catherine and William.  Trained or not, the team of horses bolted.   Catherine screamed as the carriage, heavy with all their possessions, picked up momentum.  William stood up and leaned all his weight back into the reigns, but it was no use.  No amount of coaxing from him was going to stop the spooked horses.   The carriage hit a large bump and lurched high into the air.  William was thrown clear as the carriage twisted upside down.   He hit the ground and rolled, springing to his feet.  The moon light, which once radiated beauty off his young bride, now shone just enough for  William to see her dragged away under the wrecked carriage.  Her perfect bosom, where mere hours ago he had placed his head, raked over the sharp rocks of the well worn trail.  Her head bounced in obscene angles before rolling to a stop in the ditch as the team pulled the rest of her away.

A farmer and his family found William the next morning still cradling the head of his beloved Catherine.  The carriage and the horses were never found.  Folks think they ran straight into the lake at the bottom of the hill and drowned.  They never found Catherine’s body either.  Poor William was forced to bury her head.

And that my friends is the story of Catherine and her hill.  On clear nights, when the moon is full, she’s out there still—Searching.  She’s unsettled you see, what with no proper burial, only her head under ground.  She needs a head so she can rest and any head will do.  If you travel on Catherine’s hill you may see her one night.  A young woman, dressed all in white.  I’d keep on going if I was you.  Pay her no mind or you may end up like poor Eliza Stone.  See, Eliza was traveling home one night, and came up on Catherine’s hill.  What she saw…  Well, that’s a story for another night my friends.  Another night when the pale moon light casts its honey-colored glow upon us.  A night maybe not so close to Halloween.

Author’s Note: This story is based on the real legend of Catherine’s Hill in the Black Woods of Downeast Maine.  I still won’t drive that hill alone at night.  Happy Halloween.

Those Were The Days

Author’s Note: Today’s story is based on this prompt from WriteAnything:  “What is your character’s very mild super power.”


Carl drained the shot glass of its cheap tequila and slammed it on the bar.  “Someone should kill those Jersey Shore douche bags.”

“Come on Carl, they ain’t so bad,” said Willie Thomas.

“Ain’t so bad?  That one dude calls himself ‘The Situation’.  Friggin douche.”  He slid the glass forward and motioned to the bar tender for a refill.

“So what? You used to call your self, ‘Carl, The Lion, Montique, and your last name is Smith.  They’re just kids like we used to be.  Remember all the shit we got into?”

Carl looked at Willie with eyes full of hate.  “I called my self ‘The Lion” because I had the most luxurious mane of chest hair in the world.  Now douche bags like The Situation, run around with shaved chests.  Shaved!  Can you fricken believe it.  What kind of man shaves his chest hair?”

“That’s just what’s in now, man.”

The bar tender refilled Carl’s glass and set down a beer chaser.  Carl drank the shot and nursed the beer.  “You just don’t get it man.  You just don’t get it.”

“What’s to get?”

“Never mind, Willie.”

“No, what don’t I get?  Because from where I sit, it’s you who doesn’t get it.  Sitting there feeling sorry for yourself because some piss-ant kid shaves the hair off his chest?  You’re insane.”

Carl shot to his feet and tore open his shirt.  His chest was a mass of pimply razor burn.

“Look at me!” he shouted.  “I’m pathetic.  I have to shave everyday because…”

Willie looked at his friend.  His eyes flicked to the rest of the bar.   No one seemed to notice the large man holding open his shirt.

“…Because of this.”  Carl closed his eyes tight.  His entire body shook, his face turned red with strain.  Then after a long moment of pushing at an unknown force, Carl farted, loudly.  The room grew silent as everyone turned to see who had passed gas loud enough to carry over the conversations of the entire bar.  Carl didn’t stop.  He kept straining as hard as he could passing long, loud bursts of gas.

“Jezz, Carl, sit down,” said Willie through gritted teeth.  He covered his face with his hand and turned away from the crowd.  “Alright, already, Carl.  Knock it off.”

But Carl didn’t knock it off.  He kept straining.  The gastronomical symphony finally ended, yet Carl continued to strain until…  Willie noticed that the hair on Carl’s chest was beginning to grow.  The more Carl pushed, the longer and more luxurious his chest hair became.  Carl, who now sported a deep thick lion’s mane of chest hair, finally took a breath and collapsed back into his seat.  The sound level in the bar slowly returned to normal as patrons returned to their drinks and conversations.

Carl picked up his beer.  “I was a god on the Jersey beaches back in the day.”

Willie nodded.  “Yeah, those were good days.”  He said lifting his beer to his friend.

“Yeah,” said Carl.  “Good days, Willie.  Teeny Willie.  That’s what they called you.  Teeny Willie.”

Willie sat motionless.

“Don’t suppose you’d tell me how you got your nick name?”

“Ahh, it’s just a nickname, Carl.  Truth is my name’s not even “Willie Thomas”; it’s John.”