13 Days, 13 Shorts: Zombies

Hello! We are exactly a week away from Halloween which means 7 great shorts, including this chilling chapter by the brilliant Imran Najam, our youngest writer yet. But enough of me talking, I'll let him introduce his short.

Okay, so this is my zombie short, and as you can see, it is short. But that's becuase I split it into two parts, and the second part is continuing in my vampire block, even though I wanted to make a comedy about Twilight, I think continuing the serious story will be good. It may not be that good, but just wait and see in the continuation. (Sorry it's a little late) Here it is:

ZOMBIES by Imran Najam

I crouched down as a fragment grenade blew the ground next to me. I tried to reach my arms up, to grab the flesh that my body ravenously ached for, and only to realize I had no arms. I continued running, driven by my hunger and attacked the first man I saw. He clutched his throat as blood splattered over his hands, and fell to the concrete floor screaming in affliction. I advanced my rampage with a new comrade, striking everything we saw living. Our progression stopped when I stepped over a landmine obliterating our bodies to bits. In the last few moments of consciousness, the craving for meat and blood slowly died down, and I fell into a deep slumber. Death.

The man woke up breathing heavily and drenched in cold sweat. He rubbed his chest through the plastic bio-suit and his rubber gloves. He marked an X on the calendar next to him, dating August 6th 2012, got up off the scratchy cot he had been lying on and sluggishly walked to the computer monitor, hooked up to one of the latest “biological warfare technology.” The five screens showed the heart rate of each “experiment” though they were well into the “release” period, as their government had called it. The five monitor feeds matched each corresponding containment unit. Their new form of warfare was simply a virus, spread through human activity, set through five stages to destroy towns to entire civilizations. A new popup appeared; this one was of people outside the door requesting entrance. The man clicked yes and a squad of the government’s Tactical Defense Unit entered through cold metal sliding gate. The man looked up and sighed.

“Finally! You’re here. Good, good. As you all know this is cla-“

“Classified. Yes.” The squad leader nodded and showed the man his badge.

“We’ve already been pre-briefed on what we are about to see, but please show us in person.” He and his patrol of men walked up to the first storage tank.

“This is the first, containing a specimen called ‘drone.’ These gather in hordes and simply attack for meat. They are brain dead and can only think of the hunger they feel. The next tank…” The men walked over to the next window.

“Holds what we called ‘crawlers.’ These infected have a very high heart rate and have adapted to climbing walls. Where is it now?...” The scientist started muttering, peering into the unit.

“Ahh there!” He pointed to the top corner of the receptacle.

“Now.. Our next specimen has been affected to even more by our virus. He shows similar symptoms as the Ebola Virus and Marburg Virus. You see that slimy residue on the sides of the tank? That is his vomit. Anyone who comes in contact with this will start to show signs of the first stage of our virus. We like to call the next one our ‘body guard’ although many of us refer to them as ‘bulldozers.’ He is the toughest out of all of the infected, and is very hard to take down.”

The scientist moved to the next container, and started excitedly.

“This is my favorite specimen!” He clapped his hands together.

“We like to call him, the ‘Sage’.” A handsome looking man sat there in a metal chair strumming a guitar. He looked up and winked.

“For some reason, when you use a lot of our virus, it affects the brain area in a positive way. These infected retain their human appearance, though they still hunger for meat once in a while, but they are incredibly intellectual. As you can see, they are the perfect weapon; they blend in with humanity and can control the infected. Now-“

He made a gesture.

“You can take your leave.” The men started to shuffle out of the room, but the leader turned around.

“What are the protocols if you were to be attacked.. by these… these... Zombies?”

“What are you asking?” Replied the scientist.

“Is there an antidote?”

The scientist smiled.

“Of course, of course!”

And gestured again. As the metal gate closed, the scientist unzipped his suit and started to type in the codes to release the seal on the containers.

“But it will never be used.”

13 Days 13 Shorts: Banshees

Hi! Apologies for the late post. No one was signed up for yesterday, but after some last-minute haggling, here is "Banshees" by Mia Resella! Check back again soon for today's story by Imran!

BANSHEES by Mia Resella

In the misty hills and mossy woods
By the Irish town of Kiflyngood
All was calm and well, except one thing:
When Mary would come out and sing.

At night she stepped from Otherworld
(so said the little boys and girls)
Her banshee's song all but enslaved
and sung some sad soul to his grave.

She prophecized when death was near
And haunted dutifully each year,
The families always sobbed and frowned
when lovely Mary came around.

One night a group of tourists came
to take pictures and play drinking games
when in the bar that fateful night
They heard her song of woe and fright.

"What's that?" asked one, his name was Bob,
fat, drunk, and something of a slob.
Dear reader, don't blame him for this--
He worked the entertainment biz.

"Aye, th'banshee's wail," the barkeep said,
The other patrons bowed their heads.
"Ah don't think ye'll hear it fer too long.
'Swhat we like tae call yer final song."

"Remarkable! Ooh, what a treat!
This young woman I must meet!
It's so unique, almost divine!"
Then, panicking, "Wait, is she signed?"

Bob trekked through the woods, checkbook in hand,
He managed some successful bands,
But this one really took the cake--
He drooled and bit at his "big break."

Mary stood by a moonlit creek,
She wailed at the approaching geek,
"Ooooh!" she cried, but she could tell
Her haunting wasn't going well.

"Hallo!" said Bob. "Hey babe, hey doll!
Your singing, it's phenomenal!"
Mary's ghostly cheeks blushed pink--
This was easier than Bob could think.

"Well, ah do git rave reviews,"
said Mary humbly, all P's and Q's,
"They'll follo' me thru fog an' rain,
And ne'er has one lived tae complain."

"It's haunting, tragic, fills a void,
It's like that one song by Pink Floyd!"
The manager was all abuzz,
He pushed aside his budget cuts

and drew a contract on the spot;
Come on, this deal was hot, hot, hot!
She'd be "bigger than Radiohead!"
But by next morning, Bob was dead.

His assistants mourned their passing boss,
As one might mourn a pen they'd lost.
"Wait!" they said to Mary, "Stay!
He left you tickets to L.A.!"

Mary took the tickets, packed her bags,
Said goodbye to her fellow hags,
But the assistants worried that this Irish lass
in the corporate world would never last.

"It's dog eat dog, it's cat eat cat!"
They warned, "And harder still than that!"
But Mary smiled and chuckled ghoulishly,
"Oh, ah think there'll be a vacancy."

13 Days 13 Shorts: Spiders/Bats/Attics

So in case you are wondering exactly what 13 Days, 13 Shorts is, I'm gonna break it down. Every day during the 13 days leading up to Halloween, an esteemed writer quickly types up a short story inspired by one of thirteen subjects that were posted in our Facebook group. These subjects are your typical Halloween attire: ghosts, goblins, gnomes, so on. All of the writer's are to exercise their creative muscles to bring something new to these typical Halloween topics.

With that said, I hope you are enjoying 13 Days, 13 Shorts and with just a little over a week left to Halloween, we have some fantastic stories coming up. As for today, the spooky subject is spiders/bats/attic. I tried to do what I could to bring a new spin to these three Halloween archetypes but I also had only 10 minutes to write this story because I procrastinated reading about Jewish immigrants running Nickelodeons. None the less, I hope you enjoy and stay tuned for more stories!

And don't be afraid to comment either on the Facebook post or the blog itself!

SPIDERS/BATS/ATTIC by Omar Najam

"I dare you to go in the attic," laughed Craig.

"I double dear you, bro," retorted Darren.

"Bro, if you do that shit, I'll fucking get you fucking anything you want, bro," said Craig.

Darren considered this carefully.

"What the fuck else you gonna do, bro? It's a Saturday and I'm bored as shit, man. Plus, we're out of beer," argued Craig.

"Shit man, if you get me anything I want....fuck, I'll get you any shit you want, man," replied Darren. He put down his bong, shook hands with Craig and they descended from their web onto the floor and continued to scurry under the door to the attic. Craig and Darren had grown up together and, as they bragged at parties to female spiders, they have "been through a lot of shit". For spiders, they were pretty well off. They were currently squatting in a pretty nice house, or "pad" or "sex mansion" as they referred to it, and had ample access to water and flies. Their parents had encouraged both of them to go out into the real world and get a real job clearing up mosquitos in a barn somewhere but Craig and Darren were content living off of family estate. They high-fived each other and adjusted their visors as they crept under the door into the attic.

Craig shielded his 8 eyes as they peered into the darkness. They agreed that what they were doing was "fucking crazy" and that they would get massive layage after they told their friends about this. Unfortunately, this was not going to be the case because by the end of this story, Craig and Darren are going to be dead.

Darren pulled out his lighter and looked around. He saw a scrap of paper rolled up in a corner.

"Hey Craig!" Darren yelled, "check this shit out! Four!"

He pulled one of his front legs back and let it hit the ball of paper with as much force as possible. It flew up into the darkness.

"Haha," Craig chuckled, "golf is so retarded."

"Seriously, man, and your dad is a jerk for trying to get us to play when we were kids."
"My dad's just a jerk in general, bro! He's always on my back about the lamest shit!"
"Not legit, bro."
"Not legit at all, bro."

Their deep conversation was interrupted by the soft pounding of air. They both looked up just in time to see a pair of leathery wings descending upon the pair. Racing against high hell, Craig and Darren sped away from the creature, ducking under a sheet of cardboard.

"What is that bitch's deal, dude?!" asked Craig.
"Man, I have no idea, that was a fucking buzzkill, bro!" replied Darren. "If I see that kid again, I'm gonna-"

The cardboard was lifted as the bat stuck its nose under the sheet and head-butted it upward. Craig and Darren screamed and crawled towards the door.

"What the shit is that, man?! It's like the shit from Cloverfield!" gasped Darren. Craig was about to reply about how much he thinks J.J. Abrams "kicks ass" when the bat shot towards the floor and landed on one of Craig's legs. Craig howled in pain and tried to slide out from under the bat's foot.

"CRAIG!" bellowed Darren, "BRO!"

Relying purely on adrenaline, Craig pulled his mangled leg from under the bat's foot and hurled himself under the door out of the attic. Darren threw a string of web at the closest surface and the two huddled in a corner of the floor.

"Shit, bro! I thought you were done-zo!" sighed Darren.
"Shit was crazy, Bro," agreed Craig, "did you get that shit on video?"

Darren held up his iPhone. The video was being uploaded to YouTube as they spoke.

"Come on, bro, let's get some ice from the freezer so your leg stops bitching out," suggested Darren. Craig nodded and they made their way towards the hall.

Suddenly a shoe came down onto the two spiders. A 4-year-old blonde child looked down at the splattered bodies under his sole and cried Yuck! After a few seconds, he grew bored and went and made faces in the mirror downstairs as his mother searched for sprinkles for her Halloween cupcakes.

A funeral was held for Craig and Darren. Both of their families were catholic so it wasn't that difficult to combine both services. A scholarship was named after both young adults and there were a few candle lit vigils to end such senseless violence, but the families were never truly consoled.

The scary thing is that two people just died and you don't really care, do you? What does that tell you about yourself, huh? Think about it.

13 Days 13 Shorts: Werewolves

Building up our spooky steam, here is the 3rd installment of 13 Days 13 Shorts. Today's short is written by the lovely Mia Resella and it is going to take you places you never thought you'd go in a werewolf story. Soon to come are some tales about zombies, demons, ghosts and spiders so stay tuned!

WEREWOLVES by Mia Resella

I had no idea who these men were or why they were chasing me.

I scrambled through the underbrush, weaving in and out of
trees, leaping over rocks and ditches and fallen logs with
tiny spiders living in them, completely unaware of my flight--
I even let the thorns rip at me as I scurried past, not
bothering to change course, wishing the men would follow me
straight through and imagining the little pointed sticks
tearing at their eyes and skin. But they were smart, fast,
and relentless. They shouted foreign-sounding words I barely
understood, as if I would suddenly turn around, stand up, and
regurgitate the gibberish back at them. "What do you want?"
And "Leave me alone!" were two things I'd start with, if I
only knew the language. Maybe Cynthia would know. I'd ask her
tonight, if I ever got home.

At an especially sharp turn I saw my chance and dove behind a
tree, worming my way under the root, hoping they wouldn't see
me. I lay still, panting, out of breath, willing my lungs to
calm down and be quiet. I was bleeding. Not sure why. Truth
is, I didn't remember. I didn't remember any of it: why I was
running, how I'd gotten here, or what had happened to make
these annoying men so loud and offended. My memory had been
failing me lately, and I felt as though someone was stealing
large chunks of my life, but there was nothing I could do.
All I knew was that I woke up on the forest floor, my head
full of fog, and within seconds of consciousness received a
smart whack on the head with a walking stick. It was
embarrassing to think of it now, and I blushed at the thought
of trying to explain.

"Hello? Henry? Come out, Henry!"

The men had stopped running, and started using a few words I
could understand, my name being one, the others I could
barely pick out from the thick accent.

"We won't hurt you, Henry. Come out here."

I almost laughed. I could smell the sulfur and torches. I
wasn't coming out. But one of the tiny spiders living in the
wood became suddenly aware of my existence and had begun
crawling toward my open wound, following the trail of blood.
Without thinking, I exhaled loudly through my nose, sending
the spider flying back home in the wind. But the men must
have been sharper than I thought. A hush fell over them and I
could hear the leaves crunch under their footsteps, closer
and closer.

"Do you remember your parents?" Cynthia had asked me one
night, as we lay curled up under the moon. But I didn't. I
didn't remember them. And from my silence, she knew. "I can
remember mine, but only a little," she admitted sadly. "I
can't even remember their faces. But I know I had them, a
mother and a father."

"A brother," I remembered suddenly. "And an old man. My
father. But I don't know them. I don't know if they are even
alive." Cynthia smiled. This is what I loved about Cynthia, I
could say sad things, and they would only make her smile the
warmest of smiles, because the sad things made us the same.
"You're like me," she said, burying her face in my shoulder
playfully. "No," I had corrected. "You are like me."

A sharp burst of pain interrupted my memory. One of the men
had shoved a torch straight into my hiding place, and the
flames licked at my hair. "Ouch!" I yelped and darted out
from under the then tree now oven. In the forest clearing I
was surrounded by the two men. One was younger and agile, he
held the flame. The other was elderly, he held a rifle but
didn't intend to use it. Instead of lunging at me, the men
began talking again, too fast and too hard to understand.
They rambled on and on, the old one doing most of the
talking. I simply stared, frightened and confused and alone.
I hated these men. I hated their loud voices. I hated their
sounds. I hated their smell. I hated the sulfur and fire. But
somehow something began to stir in my subconscious.

"Now, Henry, we don't want to harm you and you don't want to
harm us. We just want you to calm down and come home with us.
Then we can talk in the morning," the old man said, gripping
his rifle but refusing to point it at me. "We've been looking
everywhere for you. I'm afraid you gave us the slip."

"He doesn't understand you, Dad," insisted the younger,
waving his fire menacingly. Dad? Something was nagging at the
back of my brain.

"Sure he does, don't you Henry? Dig deep inside you." The old
man was nervous. I cocked my head to one side, confused. But
that thing in the back of my brain was still there. I tried
to dig deep. It was becoming clearer and clearer, trying to
tell me something, and suddenly, I remembered:

I was hungry.

Starving, in fact. I lunged at the man, digging my claws into
his chest. I longed for the taste of human flesh. As I sunk
my teeth into dinner (which had somehow fallen right into my
lap) I wagged my tail happily. Hunters had made deer scarce
in the woods, and the farmers had moved their cattle away in
fear. But now, finally, I had plenty to eat. I slopped up the
meat and howled joyously at the sky. In my excitement I must
not have noticed the younger man sneaking towards the fallen
rifle. "You son of a BITCH!" He yelled, swinging the metal
stick into my side. It sent me back a few feet. Back off, I
growled. I'm busy. The man, pale and white and shaky, pointed
the rifle, fired, and missed (of course)-- but I smelled
silver in the bullet. I grabbed a mouthful of whatever I
could carry and decided to disappear into the woods. "Henry!"
He shouted desperately after me. "God dammit Henry! God damn
you!"

It's funny, with all that I am forgetting lately, I recalled
perfectly the last night before I had met Cynthia.

It seemed just a few nights ago. I had woken up to the moon
streaming through an opened window. I was in a cage, a thick
iron cage with a cold floor and humansmell everywhere. I
looked around, bars looming at me every which way, and I
began to panic. How did I get here? Last I remembered, I was
running free and happy in the forest, chasing a rabbit at the
break of day, the funny little burs scratching at my legs and
never the rabbit's. Now, my heart was pounding, my stomach
turning. I smelled old stale sheep's meat laying next to me
and couldn't bring myself to even lap up the blood. This
world wasn't mine.

"H-Henry?" The voice calmed me. I looked up, and through the
bars saw a young human woman, a girl really, looking scared
and frail as the rabbit, with legs as pure and soft. Pretty
young thing, I remembered thinking, my head still in a fog.
"Henry, is that you?" It was then I noticed something
sparkling in her hands. A big, heavy lock. I pushed my snout
against the cage door and it swung open effortlessly; she
must have removed it just prior to me waking up. Now she was
petrified, unmoving. I stepped out of the cage delicately,
eying the girl, growling under my breath, looking for a door.
I knew only that I wanted to leave. I would be quiet, and she
would be quiet, we established with our eyes-- and I would
leave this place. It would have happened that way, too, but
just at that moment a man had burst into the room, shooting
silver bullets from a shotgun into the air. I snarled and
barked madly, darting for the window. The girl screamed and
hurled the lock at me. I snapped at her ankles, her blood was
sweet, and she fell to the floor just as I leapt out the
window. The ground was hard, smooth rock under my paws and
walls were everywhere. This place was stupid, and I was so
hungry. In the distance I could smell the forest and followed
its scent faster than I had ever run before, no one chasing
behind. It was soon after that I met Cynthia in the very same
woods, with her soft silvery coat, howling at nothing. Pretty
young thing, I remembered thinking. Nothing was making sense
in my world, but she wagged her tail and told me she was lost
and hungry. "We'll find meat," I said, and she smiled. I
never told her about the cage. I never told her about the
bullets, or the man, or how one minute I could be happy and
free with her and the next I could wake up in a place I had
never seen before.

I was heading back to her now, with a mouthful of fresh meat.
This would make her happy. She would smell the blood on me a
mile away-- just once I wished I could surprise her. I
wouldn't tell her about the men and their words, and how I
woke up with a blow to the head. Slowly but surely, all of
these things were adding up, these strange happenings and
faded memories, and more and more I felt something was wrong
with me. Why could I understand the humans' words? Why did I
keep forgetting? Why did the woods seem to be in a different
season every night? I felt I was close to something horrible,
and worried Cynthia would rather not be close to it.

"Henry!" I heard her barking and running toward me. "Henry!
We'll eat and hunt! I'm starving! I missed you! Is that an
arm? A whole arm? For me?" She came bounding out of the
underbrush, howling and jumping. I dropped the flesh on the
ground and she gobbled it up, then began licking the drying
blood from my fur. She sniffed me all over, circling and
wagging her tail. But suddenly she stopped. Cynthia was
stronger than me, younger and healthier, and always hungry.
When she was tense I always felt a tingling of fear, a
reminder she could overpower me at a moment's notice. "What's
wrong?" I whimpered submissively. She began stepping
backwards, fear dancing in her eyes. "Henry... there's
something on your back." I, too, smelled it suddenly, and
felt it on my fur. Bits of cloth, some kind of shirt that had
torn and stretched. Only a few patches of it remained, but I
could tell I was... wearing it. I tore at it frantically with
my teeth, ripping it off, and ripping into my own skin in the
process. I didn't care. This thing was wrong. It smelled of
man, but my scent was all over it-- they were one and the
same. I felt tears springing to my eyes but I wouldn't let
them fall, I bit at myself mercilessly until the last of the
garment lay on the ground. I could only stare at it in
horror.

"What was that?" asked Cynthia breathlessly.

"I don't know."

"How can you not know?" She cocked her head to one side,
daring me to tell her I couldn't remember, I hadn't been
remembering, that my world was coming undone every time I
came in contact with a human. I didn't need to tell her. My
silence said so much.

Graciously, she decided to ignore it. She came over to me and
licked my new wounds. She was more gentle than I even knew
she could be. We said nothing, both glad not to be standing
so far away. She pressed her body up against mine and I felt
the feeling returning. She gave me a warm smile, a nice
present considering I hadn't even said anything sad, pressed
her nose up against mine, and lead me into the forest. The
rest of the night we hunted and talked about silly things,
like the little bugs that try to eat the rotting meat if we
don't eat it fast enough. "As if they can beat us," Cynthia
had laughed. We killed a deer and this put us in a brilliant
mood.

That night I lay with her once again under the moon. She
curled up next to me and I felt safe listening to her
heartbeat, feeling her lungs rise up and down. "I wish it
could be like this forever," I told her, nuzzling her fondly.
Sleepy, she nipped at me to stop. "Like what?" she mumbled
grumpily. "Like this," I said. "I wish we never had to fall
asleep. I never have enough time with you." This time she
smiled and bit my ear playfully before burying her head under
her paws. I let her rest a moment, but the thoughts of the
evening still plagued me.

"I love you," Cynthia muttered. I gulped nervously.

"If I were human, would you bite at me?"

"Not in a million years," she said gently, the end of her
sentence dropping as she drifted off to sleep.

"I think you would," I whispered into the darkness. "I really
think you would."

The next evening I felt groggier than ever as I awoke. My
body ached and my eyes were heavy-- and I was hungry. I
stretched and reached over to nuzzle Cynthia but... felt
nothing. I suddenly realized the smells were all wrong, none
that I recognized. My eyes snapped open. I was in a room, a
human room, with walls. I was laying in a bed, unbearably
soft, with blankets and pillows around me. This is Hell, I
thought instinctively. I have died. The nauseating smells of
perfumes crept under the door and into my nose, and somewhere
outside a crowd was screaming. But the pain in my stomach
insisted I was alive. The horrible, gnawing pain.

A knock on the door. "Sir? Sir, are you all right in there?"
A man's squeaky voice. He tried to open the door, but it was
locked. "I heard screaming, and I don't care what you say, I
am opening this door if you won't answer me, sir!"

I growled at the faceless voice. I was in a strange room and
someone had taken my Cynthia away-- and this pain in my
stomach, I could barely stand it...

A key turned in the lock. I felt my body tense. A rather self
important young man stepped in, short and thin, sneering
dutifully in his very official and very moth-eaten uniform.
At the sight of him, I lost all sense of control. His smell
was intoxicating. I was dizzy with hunger, so I devoured him.

The food hit my stomach and, finally, I got some wits about
me. I vaguely wondered if this is how Cynthia felt, being so
hungry all the time. I could finally feel my paws on the
floor, a strange wood. What was this place? I gnawed on the
young man's bones angrily. People were screaming in the hall
now, running about in a panic. I smelled no gunpowder. Mostly
women, children, and old men. I walked through the hallways,
sniffing for a door until I found it, and escaped into the
night air.

Someone is sick. They are playing a sick game on me. And it
is not funny.

I was in a foul mood. My forest was nowhere to be seen. The
air was full of commotion and panic. "Henry!" A familiar bark
found its way to my ears. "Cynthia!" I howled as she came
loping over. "What's going on? Where have you been?" I
demanded. She was limping, blood trickling out of her
beautiful silvery fur. "Are you all right?"

"What were you doing inside?" She barked angrily. "What on
Earth were you doing in there?"

I didn't know. I never knew. And she could tell. I had no
answers for her, except the ones neither of us wanted to
hear. This time, she wasn't ignoring it. She was hurt, and
terrified. "Why are we here? What's wrong with you, Henry?"

It was then she saw the human blood covering my snout, and
softened. "Let's go," she said. "There's lots of meat here.
We'll talk later."

But we would not talk later. Before I could even hear the
gunshot, I felt it. The small cylinder of silver, buried in
my chest, cutting through layers of flesh and organ and bone.
I fell to the ground. Cynthia screamed.

"Henry!" A young man laughed hysterically, holding a long
rifle in one hand and a box of bullets in the other. I
recognized him immediately as the man from the forest who had
shot at me and burned me with a torch. "You little son of a
bitch, I told you I'd get you! You thought you could hide
from me? You are no brother of mine! I will send you straight
to Hell!"

I looked helplessly at Cynthia, but she knew. She saw the
relationship, the recognition, and knew I had been hiding
things from her. She knew I had been with the man before. She
remembered the shirt I tore off in the woods. My failing
memory. And why were we so far from our forest? Why had I
been laying in a bed? She locked eyes with me, afraid. I did
not dare to plead with her. She lingered only a moment, then
ran off into the night, without so much as a goodbye.

"Where's your friend going, Henry? Scared?" The young man
loaded up another bullet as he walked forward, fearless. I
felt the blood oozing out of my wound, pouring like a hidden
river from my chest. The man keep talking, but I could no
longer understand his words. They were foreign and strange. I
was not human, stop talking to me. No part of me is human.
Not anymore. I tried to force my mouth to say something he
would understand, like "Go away" or "Have mercy and let me
die alone in the woods like a good dog," but all that came
out was a whimper. This made the man very happy. He put his
heavy boot on my flank and loomed over me. "Stupid dog," he
said, insane tears in his eyes. Snot poured out of his nose
and he was shaking, shoving the end of the long metal stick
into my gut threateningly, mad little boy without a father.

I didn't care. Everything was gone. Everything was a lie.

I heard the clicking sound of the rifle and prepared to feel
pain, then no pain, then nothingness. Then... I smelled her.

"Augh! Bitch!" The man screamed in agony. She had come back!
Cynthia had come back! She clamped onto his arm fiercely,
teeth sinking straight through, and he fired the remaining
bullets into the night. Cynthia released him and ran to me.
She curled up next to me despite the growing pool of blood.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I never have enough time with you," I said weakly. She
buried her nose into my fur. "I wish it could be like this
forever. I wish we never had to sleep."

Cynthia smiled. The warmest smile at the saddest thing she
had ever heard. And I felt myself slipping away. I looked at
my legs and saw them transforming, losing their fur, becoming
longer, human legs. My body was disappearing. I was
frightened. I did not want to become ugly.

"It's all right, Henry," cooed Cynthia. "There is nothing
wrong with you. You are perfect."

I curled up as small as I could and grabbed hold of Cynthia,
holding her close. After a while, she stood, licked my wet
nose, and said goodbye. The young man was sniveling on the
floor, clutching his arm and crying hysterically. Cynthia
looked at him, then walked right past, into the shadows. I
had never before seen her let somebody live. She knew more
than I knew. I had no idea who this man was. Who I was. Where
I was. But I was tired, and happy, and I wasn't hungry
anymore.

13 Days 13 Shorts: Jack-O-Lantern

Hey, hope everyone is enjoying the creepy countdown to Halloween. There are some great short stories lined up such as tomorrow's werewolf short so stay tuned. As for today, we're going to contrast yesterday's long story about a harmless Halloween with a short, disturbing tale. Enjoy

JACK-O-LANTERN by Omar Najam

John and Christine ran through the neighborhood
With as innocent costumes as they possibly could.
A ghost and a witch, no one suspected
That these two were hosting thoughts oh so menacing.
They would knock on the doors and receive candy treats
And smile and bow in their black and white sheets.
But the second that the gracious doors would close
A smile across their faces would grow.
John would check the window as Christine reared her foot
And the two would take turns giving jack-o-lanterns the boot.
By 11pm they had caused so much damage
Each doorstep in the town had faces pulpy and mangled.
With a holler and hoop they smashed in the squash
and left only one jack-o-lantern when their shoes needed a wash.
And as they skipped away, without looking back
The eyes blinked on that solitary jack.

John wiped the orange mush from his shoe
His sole in the grass to be rid of the goo.
Christine smiled at him with a mischievous grin.
She wanted to continue kicking jack-o-lanterns in.
But then there was a rustle from behind a nearby tree
As Christine shielded her eyes so the soundmaker she could see.
Out stepped a monster with a glowing orange head
That was tied to his body with a course black thread.
His fingers were thin and made from dry sticks.
And in his hand he held a bloody garden pick.
The children rubbed their eyes to see if he was real
Just as he swung his arm and their necks met his steel.

The jack-o-lantern monster walked back to his deck
And sat down in his chair to take a quick rest.
He breathed in the silence and that facial gash etched
Into a smile, it slowly stretched.
He had carved out the heads and placed in candles
Hoping the hollowed out sockets would scare away vandals.
The children's heads flickered, glowing mouths ajar,
Only interrupted by the cackling stars.

13 Days 13 Shorts: Swampmonster

Hello everyone and welcome to 13 Days, 13 Shorts, a nice little writing festival that is going to entertain almost a fortnight of chillers and thrillers leading up to Halloween. There will be an assortment of writers and each day will have a new spooky subject. Today's short mixes swampmonsters, candy and spaghetti into a cheeky tale about Halloween. I hope you enjoy and keep checking back here every day for a new haunting short.

And if you really like 13 Days 13 Shorts you should subscribe to the blog for the other projects that will be posted up here after Halloween!! Enjoy and please excuse any grammatical errors.

SWAMPMONSTER by Omar Najam

Petersville, Virginia had the air of a stuffy boarding school classroom in which no shirt may remain hanging out of one's trousers and if one had nothing pleasant to say, one would simply nod to his or her neighbor and return to their newspaper. It was a peaceful town that prided itself on its quaintness and modesty. The town itself was built in a sort of loop that started with a cluster of houses, such as the Spendington's house that had already adorned reindeers and Santa Clause decorations, that was nestled next to the police station so all the residents felt as secure as possible. Next to the police station was the church and then Mr. Benson's grocery store, which stocked up on dry ice every Halloween. Next to the grocery store was Sue's BBQ, a few smaller shops such as Mr. Fredrick's shoe repair shop, which all lead back to the neighborhood. All in all, anyone with legs could eat at Sue's and go for a walk through the town only to return to Sue's for dessert in about, oh say, 12 minutes. Petersville was built like this because smack in the middle of the town was the Petersville swamp. In the winter, the children often find themselves ice-skating over the nicer, less mysterious portions of the swamp. In the spring, everyone would fly kites by the swamp and in the summer time, the residents would pull out their towels and lounge about by the swamp in modest bathing wear. But in the autumn, a dense low lying mist would spew from the swamp, covering the grass and the low lying bushes. Every year, residents interrupt their curt conversations about the weather and the latest Norah Roberts novel to joke about the elusive Swampmonster, an urban legend that was kept alive by old man Partridge's annual story.

This is not to say that that all of Petersville was engulfed in the mist during late October. In fact, the town was alight with crimson red trees that have leafs like licking flames. For the most part, the sun remained overhead without too much trouble from the occasional but brief rain cloud. And the residents enjoyed a light amount of festivity. Carved pumpkins, plywood ghost figurines and flags that read "Witch house are you looking for?" or "Have a grrrr-eat day" would dance in the wind. And if there was one aspect of the Halloween season that Petersville complimented itself on, aside from the quaintness and modesty, it was its innocent approach to the holiday. For Petersville, Halloween night was a pleasurable five hours that lasted from 5pm to 10pm in which parents walked their children house to house for candy and teenagers would attend the haunted mansion at the library. Everyone had fun and everyone was safe, save for one year when Aaron Wilderson poked his eye accidentally on his wizard's wand. After ten at night, all the doors closed and all the children went to sleep, followed by their parents. And then everyone would wake up to attend the November first traditions. And soon the swamp mist would freeze and the swamp face would tun to ice and no one would laugh about the swampmonster.

And it would have stayed that way except for Timothy Spektor, a 4 year old blonde child who was often described as "the cutest child ever". Timothy was crawling around his floor, meowing like a cat, inspired by the whiskers that had been drawn on his face at preschool earlier that day. His mother was rummaging through her cabinets to find some orange and black sprinkles that she was going to decorate the chocolate cupcakes that were sitting on the dining table, next to a large bowl of salad and a plate of lukewarm spaghetti. Timothy crawled at his mother's leg and looked up at her with a face that read am I being a good cat?! to which his mother replied by patting him upon the head. Smiling widely, Timothy sprang up and ran off to his to room to gather stuffed animals that he could pounce on. Suddenly, a voice bellowed from the street. Timothy's mother peered through the window at old man Patridge who was dressed up as a vagabond, squawking about how he had just seen the swampmonster and how everyone should put candy outside to keep the swampmonster happy. Old man Partridge taught theatre at the local high school and would dress up ever year, running through the town in about 12 minutes time, claiming he had seen the swampmonster. It was a silly tradition because not only did it make old man Patridge look even more foolish than when he dressed up as a stork and attended Petersville baby showers, but because nothing, not even the mediocre acting of a theatre teacher could sully the calm demeanor of the town. In fact, the town regarded its Halloween as the most calm and collected Halloween in America. None the less, the residents enjoyed hearing the newest version of the tale of the swampmonster and Timothy's mother stepped outside her front door to listen in on old man Partridge's fantastical tale about the swampmonster. And that's when Timothy struck.

Timothy, still in his kitty mindset, saw the cupcakes on the dining table and leaped up, claws extended, to capture a tasty treat. He fell short and instead caught the table lining, dragging the contents of the table crashing down upon Timothy. First the spaghetti fell onto his head and cast strings of pasta all the way to his little brown shoes. Then the salad came tumbling down and dropped upon Timothy's spaghettied figure like green feathers. And finally, two cupcakes managed to teeter over the edge landed SPLAT right over where Timothy's eyes should have been. A little dazed, Timothy staggered towards the mirror in the living room where he was prone to making faces at himself. He parted the spaghetti and salad from his face and observed his reflection. He looked like a small, hairy creature with two big black eyes covered in seaweed. Timothy thought he looked like a monster. He smiled widely and raised his two hands like claws. GRRRR he growled at the mirror, just like a monster from Scooby-Doo would. He laughed at how funny he was being. Timothy looked around for his mother but saw an empty kitchen. He decided that he wanted to go show the neighbors how good a monster he was. As old man Partridge stood before the neighborhood, confessing his tale about wrestling the swampmonster back into the water, Timothy skipped through his backyard towards his neighbor's house.

Mr. and Mrs. Spendington were sitting in their living room with the television as loud as possible to drone out the irritating screeching of old man Partridge. Mrs. Spendington would roll her eyes every time she caught a few words in a row while Mr. Spendington would just squint more intensely at the infomercial they were watching. There were no cupcakes on their tables or plastic bag ghosts or even pumpkins in their windows. Instead, the Spendington house was half filled with red and green ribbon, Mrs. Spendington's first stage of decorating for Christmas.

"I do hate that dreadful story of his, Gregory," Mrs. Spendington croaked. "It's a stupid idea to run around every year clucking like a headless chicken about some stupid swampmonster. Why cant everyone just be quiet? And plus, he's going to scare the children."

Mrs. Spendington said the word children with the tonality that one would refer to a patch of mold in the bathroom to a landlord.

"A bunch of silly poppycock, I say," coughed Mr. Spendington, squinting more intensely than ever. "I cant believe anyone believes a damn word that troubled man says."

"Gregory, I know you sat down just five minutes ago but do go close the window."

"All the windows in the front room are closed, Cecile."

"Then go close the windows facing the backyard. That howling cat's voice carries like tornado alarm."

Mr. Spendington grunted with a bit of irritation and left his chair to walk over to the windows facing the backyard. He grumbled about how idiotic the whole thing was, that no one had ever seen a swampmonster and if he ever himself did come across a swampmonster, he would kick in the- suddenly! something rustled in the bushes in his backyard. Mr. Spendington cleaned his glasses and searched the backyard again. He opened the door to the backyard and then suddenly feeling a shiver down his spine, ran back to the living room to grab the poker from the fireplace.

"What in Christ's name are you doing, Gegory?!"

"I saw something outside and I-"

A noise caught both Mr. and Mrs. Spendington's attention. Their heads turned slowly towards Timothy who was standing in their living room with his hands like claws. A few twigs had fallen into his mop of spaghetti and his arms were covered in dirt. Mr. and Mrs. Spendington could not see the little boy's wide, innocent smile through the thick layer of spaghetti and therefore could not comprehend what was in their living room.

"Oh my, Gregory, oh my! Is that- is that the swampmonster?!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Cecile, I'm sure it's just a-"

Timothy jumped forward and bellowed out a long GRRRRR! Mr. and Mrs. Spendington screamed and ran backwards through the kitchen door, falling back onto the floor.

"What do we do, Gregory?!"

"Shut up, shut up, I-"

Timothy leaped into the kitchen. GRRRR! The couple screamed again, this time clawing at the red and green ribbon that lined the walls, tearing the decorations down as they raced for the bathroom. They slammed the door shut and wiped the sweat off of their foreheads.

"What do we do, Gregory?!? It is the swampmonster!!"

"I don't know, Cecile!"

"What does Partridge say every year?! How does he protect himself from the swampmonster?!"

As the two caught their breath, the bowl of mints sitting at the sink caught their eye.

Timothy stood outside ready to growl again, he was enjoying the game. Just as he was breathing in, a bowl of candy landed in his hands. He looked down, tried one and clapped in enjoyment. He giggled and ran off. Mr. and Mrs. Spendington peaked out the door and caught the tail end of Timothy's departure. As quick as a whip cracks, the two sprang at the phone and dialed 911.

Next door to the Spendingtons lived Mr. and Mrs. Ballad and their son Craig who not in fact wearing a costume on Halloween but actually dressed in all black with black lipstick and spiked hair as some sort of fashion statement. Craig dialed a number into his cellphone and waited for someone to pick up. He asked for Dr. Ballad and soon a female voice echoed through the phone.

"Dr. Ballad's office, this is Dr. Ballad."

"Mom," Craig croaked, "it's me. Listen mom, I'm scared."

Dr. Ballad sighed deeply. "What is it, Craig?"

"I heard a noise at the Spendington's and I got all-"

"Is this because of old man Partridge's silly little act about the swampmonster, Craig? Come on Craig, you're 16 years old and you dress like a Billy Idol zombie-"

"I'm unique, Mom! I'm unique!"

"Okay, Craig, you're unique. And you're a teenager. Grow a pair and stop being so scared."

Suddenly Timothy raced through the Ballad's backyard. Craig yelped.

"Mom! The swampmonster just ran through the backyard!!"

Dr. Ballad sighed again. "Then throw it some candy like Partridge says and leave me alone, I have work to do. Hold on, Craig, someone just came in with swine flu, I will call you back later. No, do not cough on-"

The phone hung up and Craig stood petrified. He peeked out into the hallway, left his room for the front room where there was a plastic cauldron filled with candy. Craig grabbed the cauldron and ran out the front door to the house of his other neighbor, Mr. Fredrick, where he felt safer.

Mr. Fredrick opened his door with a big bag of candy, chuckling over how early it was for trick-or-treaters. But his mood turned from joyous to concern as he saw the pale look on Craig's already foundationed face.

"Mr. Fredrick! I just saw the swampmonster run through my backyard!"

Mr. Fredrick laughed and handed Craig some taffy.

"Oh Craig, I've been in this town for a long time and trust me, there is no swampmonster. That's just Partridge being a silly goose."

"Oh, yeah?" begged Craig, "well if that's true, then what's that crawling through your window!?"

Craig and Mr. Fredrick watched in stunned silence as Timothy clambered his way through an open window and lowered himself to the floor. Timothy then turned around, raised his arms up and let out of a rather confident GRRRR.

"AHHH!!!!" Craig and Mr. Fredrick screamed as they ran away from the house, throwing candy behind them. "Someone call 911!!!"

Petersville police station was being inundated with calls regarding the swampmonster. In fact, the tiny station had all four of its phones ringing constantly. The second one phone was placed back after the caller was comforted by a secretary, another call would come in with a scared resident going on and on about how they are running out of candy to throw. Officer Jenson shook his head in embarrassment.

"Man, I tell you guys, I feel like we're the only ones keeping our heads in this town. There is no such thing as a swampmonster."

Just then, Timothy poked his head through the front doors of the station and waved at the secretaries who let the phones, as well as their jaws, drop.

"BOO!" giggled Timothy.

Screams overpowered the sound of the phones as everyone in the station jumped up and pulled their desks apart looking for candy. The secretary at the front desk dug into the jar of candy corn and tossed the pieces at Timothy who caught them in a pillow case he had found. He clapped and waved goodbye as he left the station for his next visit. Officer Jenson jogged from out of the break room with coffee spilled over his shirt.

"What the hell is going on?!"

"Swamp-swamp-swamp," a secretary choked as she tried to blink to hide her bulging eyes. "Swampmonster."

Officer Jenson took a few seconds to collect himself. He then pulled out his keys and walked to his cop car, repeating the words "unbelievable" and "ridiculous".

At Mr. Benson's grocery store, patrons were packed in the candy aisle, packing their shopping carts with bags and bags of sweets. Mr. Benson would have been pleased with the amount of attention his store was getting except for the fact that mass chaos was spreading throughout the town.

"Please, stay calm and collected, people, this is Petersville not... California," Mr. Benson beseeched over the loud speaker. But then another crackling voice came through the P.A. It was the sound of a child's voice yelling "GRRR!!!" Everyone fell silent, too afraid to exhale. And then Sue from Sue's BBQ pointed a finger and shrieked "There it is!!" at young Timothy standing on a checkout stand with a store microphone in his hand.

All hell broke loose. Residents of Petersville poured out onto the street, throwing copious amounts of candy over their shoulders. One unfortunate piece ended up hitting Aaron Wilderson in the eye, and for the second time, he would have to be a pirate for Halloween. Timothy simply clapped at how everyone was being so funny outside. Officer Jenson looked up from his radio to see a crowd of people in his path. He slammed on the breaks and turned the car 90 degrees just to look over his shoulder at a large white truck with the letters "MR. BENSON'S GROCERS" heading towards him. The trucker swerved to the side of the road to avoid hitting the police officer and in doing so spilled the contents of his truck, a large pack of dry ice, into the large fountain at the head of the golf course. Fog crept onto the street and soon blanketed the whole town as the residents ran around throwing candy in the air. In the midst of it all, Timothy walked around under the layer of the fog picking up the best bits of candy he could find on the floor, giggling the whole time.

Just as he was reaching for a nice chocolate bar, a pair of hands reached into the fog and lifted Timothy up. They were the hands of old man Partridge as he chuckled to himself.

"So you're the monster, eh?" asked old man Partridge. Timothy nodded and grrr'ed. Grinning widely, old man Partridge removed the spaghetti and salad leaves and cupcake eyes from Timothy's frame. "I bet your mother is a might bit afraid, eh? Why don't we get you home?" Timothy nodded and offered old man Partridge some of his candy. Old man Partridge responded by grabbing a sucker and patting Timothy on the head.

On the way home, old man Partridge told Timothy about the real swampmonster and how he was really just a nice fella who looked a bit funny. He said that if Timothy ever wanted to see the swampmonster, he should just drop by his house with some candy because the swampmonster looooves candy. The two made it back to Timothy's house where Timothy's mother was looking worn for wear.

"Oh thank you so much for finding him, Partridge! Where was he?!"

"Just enjoying the Halloween festivities, Beth."

"I can't quite call this festive, all these people running around, yelling."

"Eh, it may not be our traditional way but if you'll pardon my french, I think it's a hell of a lot more fun," laughed old man Partridge. He reached into the bag of candy and gave Timothy a handful of the treats. "I don't want you spoiling your teeth at too early of an age so how about I hold onto these and give them to the swampmonster, eh?" Timothy nodded with a toothy grin and then ran inside to make more faces in the mirror. Timothy's mom thanked old man Partridge again and again until old man Partridge told her she could make it up to him by attending this year's rendition of You're A Good Man Charlie Brown at the high school.

Old man Partridge made his way home through the chaos and the fog munching on a sucker. He opened the door, took off his coat and stifled a laugh.

"Oh boy, do I have a story for you," old man Partridge chortled.

The swampmonster in the corner of the room put down his copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula.

"Is that so?" asked the swampmonster, putting down his reading glasses. Old man Partridge threw the bag of candy to the swampmonster who received it with glimmering eyes.

"Haha I think you're going to get a kick out of this one," smiled old man Partridge.