Short Stories / The Medicine Thief

(INSPIRED BY THE PROMPT: “You’re convicted of crime and, as customary in society, you are sentenced to “death by black hole.” You expect death as your capsule approaches the event horizon. After crossing, everything is silent and dark. Then you hear someone say, “Sir, I’ve found another one.”)

Sean cursed his luck again that the Commodore had caught him stealing meds for his mother. Overpopulation had made life on the station unbearable and Sean never did well with following the rules for long. Resources were tight, but theft was punishable by death. Strapped into the seat of his capsule, Sean also cursed that the majority had won out to keep people alive in the capsules to think about their sins and starve to death. During history lessons, Sean knew the people of Earth used to ensure no death was “cruel and unusual” but that kind of thinking had fallen out of favor centuries ago. Sean found himself wishing they’d just ejected him out of an airlock and be done with it. But humans were still all for making an example out of others and with shortages this year as the food generators and 3-D printers failed repeatedly had made theft of any kind akin to murdering someone else on the station.

Sean’s capsule had entered the black hole what felt like months ago. He was feeling stretched and out of sorts and kept waiting for death to come for him. 

Suddenly, Sean heard something bang into the shuttle, a resounding boom shaking through the capsule and rattling his seat. 

“Sir, I’ve found another one!” he heard a voice shout. 

Sean found his body suddenly under unbearable pressure. If felt like he was being squeezed into a tiny box that he couldn’t possibly fit into. Gritting his teeth and scrunching his eyes shut to try and stave off a scream, he suddenly snapped back into himself. Sean felt a lot better and not as wrung out. 

The door to his capsule opened and he was blinded by light and sudden bird song and crashing waves. “Welcome to Neverland Quadrant 52467” the voice shouted down at him as he tried to get his bearings. “You’ve been conscripted into the eternal war against Lord Peter Pan and The Lost Boys on behalf of his most royal Majesty, Captain Hook!”

Short Stories / Blackout

(INSPIRED BY THE PROMPT: “You don’t remember what you do for a living. You black out for 8 hours 5 days a week and a paycheck appears once a month..”)

Sometimes you’re not sure if it’s worth the paycheck. When you come back to yourself on Saturday mornings more often than not you’re covered in splatters of blood and covered head to toe in glitter. And after all the years of doing whatever it is you’re doing, you’ve never gotten a straight answer from the agency about what it is you’re doing. While you’ve gotten particularly good at getting out the bloodstains, it’s nigh impossible to get glitter out of your clothes. It’s gotten to the point that you feel like you’ve become best friends with the plumber you have on call to help you unclog your drains of glitter every two months like clockwork. She never mentions anything about the blood, but maybe she is too polite to ask.

You spend your paychecks on carefully chosen random things and dive into the world of competitive couponing to cover up the suspicious amount of bleach and glitter that makes its way into your Amazon cart every Monday. This weekend you choose to order an incense fountain, bid on some abstract art on eBay, and purchase more construction paper and glue. 

Whatever you end up spending is always added on to the total of your paycheck. When you first signed on to this job, you quickly became worried you were somehow a hired assassin due to all the blood, but there were never any suspicious deaths in the news and you rationalized you were too clumsy in your every day life to really qualify as “stealthy.” 

Calling in for your weekly check-in with the agency from the payphone down the street, your supervisor asks you how you’re feeling and surprises you by saying, “Since you’re almost done with your contract, do you want to extend?”

Short Stories / Six Rules

(INSPIRED BY THE PROMPT: “What happened when you broke the rules to follow at sea.”)

Christian had always wanted to be a sailor even though his mother was adamantly against him sailing the galaxy. He was in love with the stars. He wanted to immerse himself in the night sky and felt like their twinkling lights called to him. He wheedled a compromise out of his mother to have his graduation trip be his chance to see the stars up close and explore, as long as he returned home after to help her out around the farm.

A friend from school helped him charter passage on a boat setting sail the following moonrise, so Christian eagerly counted down the months to the next one. He had never been so impatient for the Westward sun to completely set before. Normally this was his favorite time of year, but sailing had long been proven to be more efficient when the boat launchers were powered by moonlight rather than sunlight. It was much more common to find moons to recharge in deep space than it was to find any old sun lying about between the outer reaches of any given galaxy. 

As he was departing for his new and possibly only adventure to the stars, his mother grabbed his hand and whispered feverishly to him that she was going to give him advice he needed to take to heart and always keep in mind. Never having seen her so worried before, Christian took her hands and faced her in an attempt to calm her down. 

“Always remember the rules you must follow when at sea,” she whispered to him, eyes wide and imploring. “One - Some lighthouse stars will move, so don’t depend on them. Two - Sometimes in the fog of a new galaxy you will see eyes in the fog, but do not trust them to guide your way. Three - It is possible to lose track of time and yourself at sea, but try not to worry as you will come back to yourself and remember eventually.”

“Mother,” Christina began in an attempt to humor his mother, “These are the whisperings of old wives tales. Space travel these days by ship is one of the most surefire ways to travel.”

“Recite the rest back to me then,” his mother gripped his hands eager to make sure he had the rules at sea memorized. 

Giving a long suffering sigh, Christina smiled at her fondly and dutifully recited, “Four - If someone shouts my name from the dark recesses of space, do not reply under any circumstances. Five - Occasionally I might get a distress call from the Atlantic, but I mustn’t turn the ship towards it. Six - If my chest feels strange I must endeavor to make as little sound as possible until the feeling passes.”

Relief washed across his mother’s face. Christian chuckled as it was nigh impossible to forget the six rules when his grandmother had quizzed him on the rules before she left on her voyages. While Grandma Marie had passed away from lung disease when Christian was sixteen, he was enamored with her stories of adventure on the High Seven Seas galaxy and her encounters with space whales and pirates. While all the pirates had been rounded up centuries ago, it was always fun to know what her turn of the century upbringing was so very different from his own on land bound, on the farm. 

It was curiosity more than anything that caused Christian to break the rules his mother and grandmother had tried to set in stone for him. But perhaps, when you lay out rules for a child, you should always explain why you’re laying the rules out, rather than just dictating them with no explanation. Because in Christian’s mind, how bad could things really get? 

He’d seen the eyes his first fortnight into the voyage to Whisk, the first stop along his journey. They were haunting and enticing. Long eyelashes of delicate starlight dusted with the blue light of the moon. He’d never seen them blink. He knew they were staring contests he would never win. He was so entranced by them in the evenings, he didn’t realize that no one else seemed to see the eyes, caught in the mini galaxies he thought he could make out in the irises, if he just leaned forward far enough. 

A month into the voyage he heard the whispers of a song, a siren call into the unknown. The music built to a soaring peak by the end of the day and he heard a soft whisper over the side of the boat say his name. Frantic to find the source of the voice, Christian spun around on the deck, heart pounding, searching for the source of the voice that suddenly stopped whispering. 

Christian felt anxiety rise in him, that he would never hear the voice again.

Suddenly, the voice boomed out, “CHRISTIAN!!”

Tears sprung to Christian’s eyes. “Mother?! Is that you?” He called back. 

The night sky seemed to crack and split, the purple and indigo streaks of a comet that had passed overhead looked like they were glitching, patches of code and static running rampant above and below the boat. 

Time seemed to stand still. The sails above were no longer creaking, the snores of his fellow crew members were suddenly silenced. All Christian could hear was his harsh breathing and feel his heart pounding, sweat breaking out across his forehead with the abject certainty he had done something very, very wrong. 

Short Stories / Simple Favors

(INSPIRED BY THE PROMPT: “Write about how you became the world’s most powerful person...by accident.”)

In retrospect, offering to get groceries for the old lady next door wasn’t an accident. While the rest of the kids in the neighborhood thought she was crazy, Bailey never understood why. It seemed like something that they had just adopted as the truth even though as far as she could tell the old lady next door had never done anything particularly suspicious. She was definitely someone her parents would consider eccentric with her penchant for adding a gargoyle or two to her roof every May instead of only having them up for Halloween, but the old lady always waved to her when she got home from school from her front porch. 

All of eight years old, Bailey had started taking on more responsibility around her house. Her parents were pretty busy and she wanted to help so she volunteered to go to the store to pick up some essentials for her parents. Since there was only really a need for eggs and milk, she was confident she could get everything in one trip but knew she’d have time and energy to spare. She realized she never saw the old lady leave to get groceries but figured she could do something nice for her and asked he if she wanted anything from the store. 

The twinkle in the old lady’s eyes as she asked “What do you want in exchange?” did strike Bailey as a little odd but she just shrugged and said she didn’t need anything in particular. She was curious why the old lady seemed surprised, but ran along to the store to get her some chocolate she’d asked for. 

Bailey dropped off the chocolate on her way home and the old lady kissed her on the forehead and said “I give you my blessing.” Bailey smiled and nodded, albeit setting her confusion aside and merrily went on her way home to drop the milk and eggs off in her family’s fridge before heading off to play with her friends. 

Over the years, Bailey continued helping those in need. Every so often she’d encounter other slightly eccentric people who continued to give her blessings and forehead kisses. Young and old alike, they always seemed to be a little in awe of her. Throughout her life, Bailey always felt like she was extraordinarily lucky -- from the schools she was accepted into easily, to the jobs she took that rarely ever felt like work and she thoroughly enjoyed. 

When she turned 25, Bailey was approached by two young men with twinkling eyes. They introduced themselves as Sebastian and Avery and said they were volunteering to act as her knights and would stay by her side to protect her against those who would seek to take away her blessings. At first, Bailey thought they were just being funny and accepted them into her friend group, but once she started explaining the Fairie hierarchy and proved to her the amount of blessings she’d amassed made her the most powerful person in the world, she had to take them a bit more seriously. After all, there were some immortal beings arriving in the mortal realm next Tuesday that were anxious to meet her -- and some of them weren’t happy that a mortal was owed so many favors from some very powerful Fairies.

Short Stories / Selfish

(INSPIRED BY THE PROMPT: “You have the ability to see into the future but each time you do you lose an important memory.”)

Henry tried not to look into the future anymore. He learned from a young age the cruel reality of life when his own parents tried to take advantage of his ability. At first it started off sweet, a trip to get his favorite candy at the corner bodega while his Dad asked him about what he thought about lotto numbers for next week’s millions jackpot. The bodega cashier Juan Pablo laughing a deep belly laugh in amusement at seeing a father take his son’s numbers seemingly spouted at random very seriously as his son was more serious about debating the merits of Peach Ring gummies vs. sour patch worm gummies. It started off with his mother taking young Henry to visit the New York Stock Exchange and pick random stocks for weeks and months down the line. 

Throughout his schooling, Henry’s teachers often scolded him for not completing homework assignments and missing questions on his tests they knew he had mastered in previous lessons. They started accusing him of not trying hard enough and looked at him with disdain when he insisted they had never learned about those subjects.

Henry realized something was wrong when he woke up the morning of his 15th birthday and realized he somehow couldn’t remember the name of his school and how to get there. Henry prized his education and intellect above all else. It was with logic and reasoning that he realized his parents egging him on to look into the future for their own benefit was detrimental to his mental acuity and promptly got himself emancipated from their care as it was clear they were taking advantage of him and he would end up with early onset dementia and never reach the heights his intellect could carry him to if he stayed with selfish parents. 

Having successfully removed himself from a stressful situation, Henry became hell bent on proving himself without the aid of what he had come to think of as a curse. He moved across the country and fashioned a new life for himself void of anything familiar and put down roots in Southern California. He happily puttered about between Universities and became an esteemed and respected professor. 

As news of COVID-19 virus continued to spread, Henry cringed. Each day the quarantine dragged on, he felt more and more tempted to look into the future and see if he could find a cure. Each day he delayed, unsure if he could make himself when there was no telling what memories he would lose. He was terrified of losing himself. Of losing the memories he cherished with new friends in SoCal who had become so much more than family. Of losing the memory of the first time he said “I love you” to his best friend. Of losing his memory of the freedom he felt when he ran into the Pacific Ocean for the first time, fully clothed for the sheer joy of it, hand in hand with his friends as the sun set into the water, cotton candy colored skies streaking purple, orange and pink as far as his eye could see. Of losing his memories of the long drives up and down the Californian coast, windows rolled down screaming songs from his childhood out at the top of his lungs. Of losing the memories of each of his students’ faces as they came up to thank him at the end of the semester and some came back to visit him, with some new topic to debate or a silly meme to share. 

It might be selfish, Henry reasoned, but to him the memories he had left were precious things. And if anything he’d learned selfish tendencies from selfish parents who became greedy. Henry grit his teeth and pretended to be normal, for now. He’d try to reevaluate come summer. He’d try to keep on with this new “normal” he found himself living in with the rest of the world, helpless to the path of a virus that refused to discriminate based on age, class, race, or gender.  

When his friends joked about how diligently he was about washing off his hands these days when he came back to the house they all quarantined in, he forced a smile. Each moment at the sink these days made him feel like all he was doing was continuously washing the blood off his hands of the thousands of people he was choosing not to save.

Short Stories / 11:11

(INSPIRED BY THE PROMPT: “Wishes made at 11:11 always come true, except someone always wishes for nobody’s wishes to come true. This is the first day that no one has made that wish.”)

The world erupted in a frenzy at 11.11am. Skittles poured from the sky flooding the Skidmore’s newly renovated pool, colors swirling together as the pool boy looked on in horror. Ms. Skidmore disappeared with a crack and reappeared in the arms of her Argentinian lover she’d had the pleasure of encountering during the Spring of ‘79 when she was studying abroad. Mr Skidmore was horrified to see his bank accounts drained and all the funds wired to an Argentinian baker he recalled his wife being fond of during their trips around Latin America once the kids had all left the house and left them empty nesters with too much time on their hands. 

Rachel Skidmore looked on in horrified to delight to see her bullies being torn to shreds online, as classmates ragged on their appearance and outfit choices and flooded their latest TikTok posts with vitriol that would make her conservative Christian grandmother bless herself and pray to the Lord above to forgive the youth, misguided and lost. 

Between one blink and the next Benji Skidmore found himself transported out of his bedroom and behind the desk at the Oval Office. A secret service agent composed himself and handed the young boy a giant red button and asked him to verify the launch codes to dismantle all nuclear weapons in the continental United States. 

It is a curiosity that the Skidmores were the only family to have anything unusually strange happen to them. Experts who have since analyzed this date and time for historical records have concluded that the rest of the world cancelled out each other’s wishes, or the other wishes might not have been granted...yet.

Short Stories / IKEA Order

(INSPIRED BY THE PROMPT: “You accidentally summon a demon trying to pronounce IKEA furniture names.”)

Beth was excited when she got home from work and all her IKEA furniture had arrived. She had just moved into her new apartment the day before and was new to the city, so the enormous mounds of packages were not something she found daunting. The excitement and anticipation of breaking out her toolkit she’d finally located in one of her 10 boxes labeled “Books ONLY” last night was something she treasured. This exciting delivery was something she was sure was on par with her excitement as child waking up on the morning of her birthday to fresh chocolate chip waffles and a warm hug from her mom in the kitchen. 

Taking stock off all the furniture she was about to tackle, Beth breathed deep and took stock of all the pieces she ordered. Docksta table. Check. Ektorp sofa. Check. Poäng armchair. Check. Kallax shelving units. Check. Billy bookcase…

“What the heck is a Billy Bookcase? I swear I didn’t order that! Where is my Lommarp?!” Beth muttered to herself, whining. “The Lommarp bookcase matches my aesthetic!!”

She pulled her phone out of her back pocked and searched her email for the receipt. She was going to have words with an IKEA customer service agent. How was she supposed to unpack all her beloved books that were treasured friends without her bookcase?

“Lommarp, Lommarp, Lommarp” Beth hummed to herself.

A crack echoed through Beth’s empty apartment and she felt a sudden gust of wind blow around her. Startled, Beth looked up to see a demon perched on top of her boxes smirking. 

“Hello again, Beth! Lommarp, demon of chaos and mischief at your service! You called my name 5 times, sweetheart. Were you missing me that much?”

“Again?!” Beth asked. She was so confused.

Short Stories / Clumsy

(INSPIRED BY THE PROMPT: “You’ve always been clumsy, One day, you wake up tied to a chair and in front of you is the best hitman in the world, who has been trying to kill you for years.”)

Jackson groaned, arm twitching from having fallen asleep, cursing that he’s somehow slept on his neck wrong. Muttering, he swore he would never again let Jed subject his Saturday mornings to the aftermath that inevitably occurs with just the right mixture of vermouth and mezcal over the course of one evening. Bracing himself for the bright light of day, Jackson attempted to raise his right hand to cover his eyes but couldn’t lift his arms.

Eyes snapping open, he winced and heart racing, began to hyperventilate as he realized he was tied to a wrought iron lawn chair surrounded by pink hydrangeas. Flaky white paint peeled off the chair as he tugged his arms frantically trying to get out of--were those Hermes scarves?! Jackson leaned down to get closer and inspect the material.

Leaves crunched behind him, and Jackson straightened and tried to breathe. He saw a young brunette woman wearing sky blue Oxfords and bold red lipstick step around from behind him. Biting his tongue in caution they stared at each other. Jackson waited for her to speak.

The young woman sighed. “Hello,” she said quietly. “Just so you know, this is incredibly unusual for me to really meet people like, well, you face-to-face.”

Jackson was amazed and more than a little put out that it appeared the lovely creature in front of him had spirited him away in the early hours of the morning when he was drunk and comatose. 

“In fact, it’s incredibly unprecedented,” the young woman pouted, “You’re absolutely ruining my name--this is a black mark on my otherwise stellar record!”

Jackson attempted to clear his throat and get a word in edgewise, but the young woman seemed to be winding herself up into a state. “In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were some sort of sleeper agent robot the Ops team is testing in the field to drive us up the wall for pranking them all at the holiday party last year! We only released a handful of squirrel at HQ while they were grabbing donuts from the break room, which I honestly think shows restraint on all the agents parts. Katterman wanted to go full out with dead puppies, but I insisted we had to draw the line somewhere.”

Eyes wide, Jackson determined the woman in front of him was clearly unstable as she started screeching, “And anyhow! There’s no way anyone could be quite that clumsy. How you manage to circumventing poisonings by knocking teacups off counter tops, surviving fatal stabbings by mere inches, and crouching to tie your shoes just as I’ve pulled the trigger! I’m the best sharpshooter in the entire North Eastern hemisphere and it’s been years--YEARS--since you were assigned to the Agency and none of us have been able to touch your bloody arse, hard as we might try!”

“Pardon me!” Jackson interjected. “I don’t quite know how to put this, but I honestly think you have the wrong person. Who are you and who do you think I am?! And this bloody bush you’ve got me next to! Do you know how much I hate pink hydrangeas? They really do wash me out with my complexion.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but--” she frowned and yanked a manila folder out from the hydrangea bush off to the side of the room, strode back over to Jackson, and dumped the entire contents worth over his head. Polaroids upon polaroids of Jackson puttering about his day with a coffee cup and spread out across the ground and spilled across his lap.

She cleared her throat and recited “--Jackson Finnegan Green. 6’5” and fancies himself a budding young talent on the West End primed to overtake his uncle’s theater legacy with his rousing turn as--blah blah blah--I have the right person.”

“But who hired you to take me out?! And more importantly, what is my life worth monetarily speaking?!” cried Jackson in disbelief. 

“Well, I sort of owed a no-questions-asked-take-no-prisoners-show-no-mercy favor I’ve been trying to get off my plate for ages. Quite a relief when it was finally called in. So, really you’re my get-off-scotch-free card. But bloody hell have you been the most frustrating assignment to date. If you would just bugger off already, I could move on!!”

“Well then,” Jackson shook his head, grinning ruefully, “I sincerely apologize for the inconvenience this may have caused you, but do you think we could press pause for a tad bit. I suspect this is as good a situation as any for a spot of tea. Let’s get the kettle on and we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Whatever the assassin was expecting, this wasn’t it. “I suppose tea’s as good of an idea as any,” she muttered as she stooped to slash at the scarves holding her victim in place, “but I maintain if you’d just die and quit bloody well reincarnating when I get a direct hit in we wouldn’t be in this mess and I could finally go on holiday!”

Short Stories / Homeless

(EXCERPT WRITTEN DURING APRIL 2018 - STAGELESS ARTS: WRITING CIRCLE SESSION)

They trudged along the overpass, burning their belongings as they went. Limping along with nothing but their children’s hands clutched in their own. The wreckage of satellites torn apart upon entrance back into the atmosphere scattered in sharp, twisted pieces, glinting in the sunlight. Several pieces were still glowing hot, smoking and giving the air a hazy sheen. 

He heard children wailing, their tears running in clear tracks, muddying the dirt and soot on their faces. A man pulled a young girl along by the straps of her pink overalls, one of the ribbons holding her hair in pigtails trailing behind her. Her light up shoes scrabbled uselessly against the dirt as she screamed, words lost amongst the cacophony of grief and outrage.

They came from miles around, trudging along towards an unknown destination, just feeling the need to get away. To crawl into whatever shelter they could find further south along the interstate and lick their wounds. There would be no bodies to mourn. No possessions to clutch tight in comfort beyond their own flesh and blood. And some wouldn’t even have that. 

He watched an old couple sit down next to a rusted blue truck, eyes glazed over as they clutched a picture frame. The old man tilted his head back and sighed, closing his eyes - head pounding faster than his heartbeat. After a few moments, the woman gently shook his shoulder, but he shrugged her off, he couldn’t bring himself to be bothered or disturbed. Smoke billowed out of a convertible three lanes over, a slight breeze blowing the smoke into their faces. 

After a few seconds, the old man opened his eyes, watching the smoke and looked around. His wife had his hand clutched within her own, but was deathly still and everything around them was silent, the air clear of smoke. Glancing around in confusion, his tired eyes made eye contact with vibrant blue eyes, serenely staring out of the depths of a dark hood.

A gentle hand caressed the old man’s face face and pried his fingers open, away from his wife’s hand and helped him stand. The old man clutched this new hand, a strong hand, and they walked back up the interstate together, into the distance. 

Time unfroze and the smoke continued to drift. Next to the body, the old woman silently cried. 

Short Stories / Place Your Bets

(INSPIRED BY: A down-the-rabbit-hold search on the rules of BlackJack)

Stevie gleefully made his way past the whirring slot machines and blinking lights. He was feeling lucky and it took no skill to perch in a chair, insert a coin here, pull a lever there. Utterly boring without a smidge of a real challenge. Cross your fingers for good luck and be done with it. 

The poor sots who let themselves get entranced at the machines were easy prey. He scoffed at the foolish women muttering prayers to the godless chrome casino as he made his way towards the tables.  

Knocking back his double shot of bourbon, Stevie slid into a plush seat and winked at the dealer. The dealer greeted him with a blank stare. Unfit for customer service that one. Not even a nod to acknowledge an honest gambler’s presence. Stevie glanced over at his fellow gambler three chairs over and rolled his eyes, but only received a suspicious glare from his beady eyed table-mate. The villainous little man looked him over and proceeded to aggressively stack ten chips and push them forward towards the middle of the table. 

Stevie pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket and flung it across the table, narrowly missing the small tower of chips. The dealer swiftly converted the cash to chips but before he could hand them over, Stevie held up his hand to the dealer and maliciously grinned at the man across from him, hissing “I’m all in, mate. Are you?”

The dealer remained silent, shuffled the cards, and dealt.

Stevie had black jack mastered. He wasn’t counting cards, mind you, he just considered himself blessed with extraordinary luck and an affinity for math. The glossy cards just sang to him. 

Hit, split, stand, double-down. Red, black, white. Suite after suite flipped past, flying back and forth between Stevie and the dealer. He was smashing the competition to bits. Stevie found it particularly entertaining to watch the man’s face across from him deepen from a blotchy red to a ghastly shade of purple.

“Breathe, mate. Lack of oxygen won’t help your game any,” Stevie mock whispered and tried to look appropriately sympathetic. He promptly abandoned the effort as another tumblr of bourbon was plunked down to his right. 

Three or four drinks ago, Stevie had decided the pretty, pert waitress with curly brown hair was an angel. A complete saint! She was Mother Teresa herself with the way she kept swinging by with bourbon just for him. The kisses on the cheek didn’t hurt either. He slyly slipped her a couple of chips each time for her attentions and patted her on the bum. 

Glancing down at the table, he was delighted to discover he’d accumulated more chips than he knew what to do with. He couldn’t possibly stuff the lot in his trousers and he didn’t want the shifty man across from him to get any ideas about nicking a few of his chips. 

Signaling the dealer, Stevie prepared to depart from the table. As the man passed him a plastic bucket to hold his earnings, Stevie looked at him with distaste.

“My good man, do you really expect me to carry my winnings in this garish monstrosity? A coin purse or something discreet if you will!” 

Stevie patted himself on the back when he thought he saw the dealer’s eye twitch before he passed him a blue coin purse. Finally a response from what he could only assume was a robot!

The man across the table sighed and stared into his drink morosely as Stevie scooped his chips into the bag, tugged the zipper shut, and tucked it under his arm. Grinning at the men, Stevie nodded to them and spun to leave, eager to track down the waitress who’d been keeping him lubricated with whiskey all night. 

A man in a tailored grey suit stepped into his line of vision. Stevie had to crane his neck back to quirk an eyebrow up at the towering giant. The man’s name-tag swam in and out of Stevie’s vision, but he could make out that he was the FLOOR MANAGER. 

“Could I interest you in a more challenging game, sir? You seem to be having a particularly lucky night. We only offer a buy in to our most intriguing guests.”

Stevie attempted to wave the drunken haze away from the front of his mind and squinted at the manager. He seemed blurred around the edges and the only clear thing about him were his bright eyes and shiny, white teeth. 

“Not sure that I’m in top form at the moment, mate. It’s been a rather brilliant night on my part, but I think I should turn in before my luck runs out,” Stevie said. “Perhaps we can pick this back up tomorrow.”

“As you wish, sir.” The manager nodded. “We’ll extend an invitation to you tomorrow night. Please be here at half past nine and I’ll personally escort you to one of our VIP rooms.”

Stevie grinned and clapped the man’s shoulder. “It’s a date! Till tomorrow!”

As Stevie turned to go, the room started to spin and Stevie lurched forward towards the manager. The man gripped his arm to keep him upright. 

Embarrassed, Stevie righted himself and and started to apologize profusely before glancing around in confusion. Gone were the plush carpets and bright lights of the casino floor. They had been replaced with a black and white linoleum floor, cracked with age. Bright fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. 

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re trying to pull here?” Stevie spat at the manager. 

The manager smirked at him and moved towards the corner of the room and pulled open a door with a small window that was practically seamless with the surrounding grey walls. 

Stevie charged after him, intent on throttling him for kidnapping him, but he wasn’t able to reach the door before the manager slammed it shut. As Stevie pounded his fists against the door and screamed obscenities and promises of retribution, the manager looked at him with pity through a small window in the door and mouthed, “Good luck.”

The small window shrunk rapidly until a small pop signaled its nonexistence and left the wall smooth and blank. 

Stevie spat at the wall and cursed. 

“Hello.” A gravelly voice reached Stevie’s ears.

Stevie turned around slowly, eager to vent his anger on whoever they’d foolishly locked in the room with him. 

A large man sat hunched over a wooden table with a rectangular metal plate in the center of the table and a small pulsing red light. His grey beard was long and matted and his suit was wrinkled, tie askew. He looked terrible. Stevie met his red rimmed eyes with disgust. 

“You have to play,” he stated in a heavy Russian accent. 

“Play?! What do you--are you insane? Where the hell are we? Who the bloody hell are you?” Stevie had completely lost his patience and began to yell at the man, “You had better--”

“You have to play,” the old man interrupted. “Only one can win. Only one can leave. Sit.”

Something about the man’s tone gave Stevie pause and he crossed the room and sat in the cheap wooden chair across from the grizzled behemoth. Stevie crossed his arms and glared at the man and ground his teeth in frustration. 

Two cards appeared face down in front of both men and two cards appeared next to the metal plate. They lifted their own cards discreetly and looked at each other appraisingly. Stevie licked his lips in anticipation. He already had a 20. This game was in the bag. 

The old man lifted his hands to the ceiling, crossed himself and muttered a prayer. 

“Place your bet here.” He indicated the metal square in between them. 

Stevie looked around for his coin purse, intent on thrashing this man in whatever twisted approximation of a game he was being forced to play. He had enough to outlast the old bat. This chap was clearly on his last legs!

When he couldn’t find the coin purse he cursed. That slimy manager had probably nicked his winnings when he’d kidnapped him and spirited him away to this room. He reached into his suit coat, pulled out his wallet, and rifled through his bills. 

The old man sighed and rubbed his hand over his eyes. He removed a chain from his neck, laying it on the metal square reverently. 

Stevie scoffed at the off color chain and removed a few hundred dollar bills and tossed them toward the metal plate. The bills settled in front of the metal. Frustrated, Stevie tried shoving the bills forward but was met with resistance. 

“Your bet must match the value of mine,” the old man said as he watched Stevie. 

“What? Your bloody old chain can’t be worth that much,” Stevie pointed at the dull object accusingly.

The old man shook his head and didn’t answer him. 

Stevie reached into his wallet and yanked out a black card and tossed it onto the table. It slid across the wood and onto the metal. “Unlimited company card, my good man. Key to my livelihood and evidence of my good fortune and business sense. You can’t offer more value than that.”

The old man shook his head and sighed. “That was a mighty foolish move on your part. You won’t be able to take that back.” 

“Don’t be daft, you mad man. It’s easy to take back with no dealer present,” Stevie hissed and reached for his card. He attempted to pick up the card but couldn’t budge it from the metal plate. It was like it was glued down and nothing he attempted could dislodge it. 

Stevie pounded his fist against the table in anger. “What have you done? Magnetized the table? I’ll have to put in a request for a new card as you’ve completely ruined it. Give it back!”

“This is not my doing. I cannot remove your card even if I wished to.” The old man stroked his beard and crossed himself again and stared morosely at the table. 

“The light is still red. It seems we have not bet enough.” The old man bent forward and held his head in his hands. “Forgive me,” he whispered to the ceiling. He reached into his suit and pulled out a folded piece of paper and laid it on the table, unfolding it reverently. It was a black and white picture of a woman with dark hair and a little girl grinning around her missing front teeth. Ever so gently, the old man placed the picture on the metal square and closed his eyes. 

Stevie glared at him, angry that this man was able to bet a measly photograph when he couldn’t place bets in cash. That bloody floor manager. Completely illegal and ruining what could have been a fruitful night of celebration with a pretty bird. 

“I must win.” The old man said and opened his eyes, determination evident in his steady gaze. “I cannot lose them. You must understand.” 

Stevie felt his stomach drop and thought he might be sick. He wanted to wallop the great lump, but felt frozen in his seat.  He whispered, “You’re betting your own family? How can you bet your own family?” 

The light turned green and the metal plate sunk into the table and disappeared from view. 

“Hold,” Stevie choked out.

“Hit,” said the old man through gritted teeth. 

The card flipped. Steve stared in disbelief. 21 to his 20. Rage began to bubble up, flooding his pale face with color. 

“So it is,” the old man said closing his eyes and lifting his hands towards the ceiling reverently.

Stevie’s desperation built. His chair scraped over the floor as he stood up, hands planted on either side of the table in front on him. “Come off it now, mate. This is nonsense. Let’s get that bloody floor manager back in here. He’s probably laughing his arse off that shiny-eyed monster.”

The older gentleman in front of him stood slowly, bones creaking under his weight. He opened his eyes and looked down at Stevie, eyes watering. He turned his face away and sighed heavily. 

“I hope that luck is with you next time,” the old man whispered. A soft bell chimed. He turned and shuffled towards the far wall, where a door appeared and began to silently swing open.

Stevie attempted to storm after him, but his face twisted in horror as he realized his feet were stuck to the floor and wouldn’t move. 

“Help me!! You have to help me!” Stevie started screaming.

The old man hunched his shoulders around his ears and moved toward, shuffling through the door.

“Wait! I don’t have anything left to bet! I can’t do this--I don’t understand” Stevie shouted at the old man. 

“We always have more to lose,” the old man sighed. 

The floor manager suddenly appeared to the left of the old man out in the hallway and gently laid an arm on the old man’s shoulder. He smiled at Stevie through the doorway. 

“You still have your heart, your memories, your very soul.”

The door slammed shut behind him as Stevie screamed and flailed about trying to move away from the table. 

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered.

A digital countdown appeared on the wall.

21 years, 21 hours to go. 

Short Stories / Fire Cannot Kill a Dragon

(EXCERPT FROM THE PROLOGUE OF “FIRE CANNOT KILL A DRAGON”)

Flannel sheets pressed down, almost stifling in the heat emanating from the whistling radiator in the corner of the room. Winter chill still nipped through their creaking house. Drowsy, she tugged the ends of the sheets up till they covered her nose and sighed, eager to slip back into unconsciousness and hopefully dream. 

As the feeling of floating slowly spread, she waited for that last minute knee-jerk reaction hauling her back to the real world. She was surprised to feel petals and leaves brushing against her legs. She started to relax, eager to embrace a dream filled with flowers, until something sharp scratched her side and startled her into full awareness. 

Yanking the sheets off her chest, she saw stiff vines wrapped around her legs and creeping across her stomach. Horror tried to claw its way up her throat as she tried to sit up and she felt fingers and hands latch onto her arms and cover her mouth, forcefully pressing her back into the mattress. Her arms pinned to her side, her fingers scrabbled uselessly over large hands. Nails bitten to the quick, she was dismayed that she couldn’t even scratch her attacker.

She began to thrash in earnest against her restraints and tried to bite the hand over her mouth, but only succeeded in rocking her bed back and forth. The headboard smacked against the wall and one of her pillows knocked into her bedside table, sending a mug of cold tea careening over the edge of the table and smashing against the floor. 

She heard her stepmother shouting at her father down the hall, annoyed that her sleep had been disturbed. 

“Harold! Harold wake up! I think something is wrong with that girl of yours. She’s keeping me up again with her damn racket.”

Her father grumbled half heartedly and the floorboards creaked as he rolled out of bed and stumbled out into the hallway, flicking on the hallway lights. The light shone under her door and she allowed herself a moment to hope that this was just another waking nightmare, a crazy panic attack. As soon as her father appeared in the doorway, he would intervene and save her. 

The hands and vines around her tightened considerably and yanked her backwards, through her mattress. She braced herself for impact with the floor, but was swept through it as wind rushed past her ears - darkness quickly overtaking her field of vision as she descended into the unknown and her cracked white ceiling faded into the distance. 

She felt an immense pressure around her head and heard something snap before she lost consciousness…