Ding-Dong Crunch
Welcome back to Stock Fiction, the heart-fired story forge of a lost soul on a dark night in the second act of her epically compelling heroine’s journey.
Artists, amirite?
But I digest.
I have a hot slab of holiday flash fiction for you today, but first, I’m going to flip the standard posting format and turn my after-story-thoughts into fore-story-thoughts.
BEHOLD!
A Cover Reveal
Say what?!
You heard me.
If you caught my valiant attempt at an emotionless video update the other day, you already know that I plan to bring two independently published “books” into the world over the next several months. The first is a solo project that will hopefully be landing in select retail spaces in time for the holidays. That slim little darling will look something like-a-this …
… and will feature fourteen of my most soul-revealing poetics and mood-slamming beat narratives. More on this passion project in the coming weeks! And more on the second publishing project in 2025. Stay tuned.
Master(class) of Feels
Sunday, November 10th, I will FINALLY be leading my short fiction Masterclass with Retreat West. The Online Short Story Festival was originally planned for September but had to be rescheduled. I have been OBSESSIVELY DILIGENTY building my presentation (and my courage) for this first-time-I’ve-ever-done-anything-like-this event. Here’s my class pitch:
Hooked on a Feeling
World ending, life or death stakes may grab our attention, but it’s the emotional experience of the people facing those stakes that keeps us glued to the page.
In this session, you’ll learn how to reel your reader in from paragraph one by giving them what they desperately need to stay hooked on your story: A reason to CARE.
We will explore why emotional stakes are just as important as physical stakes in our stories. And why we should set them firmly and as early as possible to keep our readers engaged.
We will highlight the importance of “voice” for setting the emotional tone of our stories.
We will learn about the “promises” we make to readers with our opening lines. And why we should consider breaking those promises. Sometimes.
We will engage in an exercise to help us find the emotional heart of our story before we even start writing it! Participants are encouraged to bring an idea for a short story they’d like to start writing, OR a first paragraph from a story they’d like to infuse with a stronger emotional hook.
Registration for the full day of workshops is still open! You can buy a ticket for the whole lineup, or purchase classes a la carte. Bear in mind, the schedule is on UK time, however video replays will be made available for those who still want to support my teaching debut … at their convenience. 💜🙂
OKAY!
I wish I could dim the lights for this one.
Whatever happens … just remember … Halloween made me do it. 👻
Ding-Dong Crunch
Ding-dong.
“READ THE SIGN, DUMBASS!”
I lay back and re-spoon my Honey Bear, nuzzling his scruffy neck for reassurance.
“They’re just kids, Babe,” Brad says. “Maybe they can’t read.” He reaches for the bowl of Cool Ranch Doritos, sets it on his chest, and fishes one out with his tongue like a dog.
Crunch.
“But they can see there are no lights on in here. Or outside. I’m going to disconnect the doorbell.”
I start to sit up and he pulls me back down, planting a Cool Ranch kiss on my pursed lips. I grimace at his breath and try to pull away. He slips me the tongue and I surrender to his over-seasoned advances.
Ding-dong.
“Seriously?!” I un-spoon and snatch Brad’s phone off the coffee table. I tap open the door cam and growl. Nothing to see but the stunningly crafted, glow-in-the-dark, “EAT ME” sign I erected for the night’s unwelcome festivities. “There’s no one there. The little bastards are ding-dong ditching us.”
“Can you blame them?” Brad says, grabbing a fistful of Doritos and shoveling them into his mouth.
Crunch, crunch.
He sits up and wipes the Cool Ranch powder from his fingers onto the couch.
“Let’s just ignore them and watch the movie. They’ll get bored and then we can get busy.” He sets his hand over my thigh and squeezes a swarm of sex-starved butterflies into my mid-section.
“Fine,” I say, throwing my eager thigh over his and sliding my hand under the bowl of rapidly vanishing Doritos in his lap. “But one more ding-dong, and we’re done.” I pluck a chip from among the survivors and bring it to his mouth. He opens wide and I set it on his tongue. His eyes roll back in his head as he closes his salt-dusted lips lustily over his favorite pre-game snack.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Three ding-dongs later and we’re done. Well … he’s done. I’m just flushed, covered in sweat-congealed Dorito dust, and ready to murder the libido-sucking vampires on our doorstep in the spirit of Halloween.
Ding-dong.
“ARRGGH!! YOU LITTLE PUNKS!” I storm to the front door wearing nothing but Brad’s oversized T-shirt and my resting bitch face. “When I get my hands on you, you’re going to wish you were never—”
I stop short in the hallway. A damp chill wafts across my bare legs. My breath catches at the back of my throat as a low rattling creak crescendos into the high-pitched whine of a dry hinge.
A hollow thud.
Then nothing.
The hallway is dark, except for the semi-circle of moonlight spilling through the wide-open door.
The skin on my limbs erupts into gooseflesh. My senses strain for a sign of movement on the doorstep. A half-sized silhouette. A shit-eating giggle. A rustle of candy wrappers inside a pillowcase.
Nothing.
“What are you doing in there?”
I startle bite my tongue and bring a hand to my injured mouth.
“Nothing,” I manage to call back to Brad. “I’ll be right there.”
“Okay,” he garbles over a mouthful of chips.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.
“Hey Babe … my head hurts.”
I roll my eyes and shiver as another waft of cold air rolls into the hallway. “Idiot,” I mumble.
“What?”
“I’ll get you something,” I recover.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
“Dumbass.”
I wrap my arms around myself and move cautiously to the doorway.
I lean my head and shoulders outside, just far enough to confirm the ditchers have officially ditched, and that my stunningly crafted “EAT ME” sign hasn’t been removed. Or defaced.
I turn on self-righteous heels and shut the door behind me. I shuffle past the living room, the flickering hum of the TV and Brad’s incessant crunching, and into the kitchen. I blindly sift through the junk drawer contents for a flashlight and head to the utility closet. There, I quickly locate the breaker for DOORBELL/DOORCAM and cut it with a satisfying flick of my middle finger.
I wrangle a glass of water and two Advil from the kitchen and shiver my way back to the living room. The TV is still on, but Brad is out cold, the sleep timer ticking down from a minute and thirty on the screen, his head tipped forward onto his chest, the empty bowl of Doritos on the table.
I take the Advil myself and slam the glass down on the table, bitterly. He doesn’t budge.
“I fucking hate Halloween.”
I drag a blanket from the armchair and settle in next to Brad. He’s warm, but otherwise useless. I curl up tight against him and close my eyes. I listen for his heartbeat.
Crunch, crunch.
My eyes snap open and dart to the table. The bowl hasn’t moved.
“Honey Bear?”
A low creak.
My heart pounds in my ears as I cling to Brad’s rigid torso.
A high-pitched whine.
The TV goes dark.
A hollow thud.
I nuzzle against Brad’s clammy neck for protection as my hand drifts into a hot mass of wet, sticky, mush where his left ear should be.
My stomach turns over and I forget how to breathe.
I sit up and wipe Brad’s blood and brains from my fingers onto the couch.
I jerk my head toward a rustle in the hall.
Blink twice over a half-sized silhouette in the doorway.
I shut my eyes and try to wake up. Wake up. Wake up! WAKE UP!!!
I bite through my tongue at the flesh-eating giggle against my ear.
“Ding-dong.”
I regurgitate a fistful of Doritos and choke out a skull-splitting—
CRUNCH.
Happy Halloween.
Until next time,
I’ll leave the lights on for you. 💜
Euuw! Ick!
If that is the reaction you were going for, you WIN! You win BIG. ha ha ha
I can't say I felt nothing ... but what was it?