Tag Archives: @startedstories

True Romance by Dalia Lance

From Dave McGrath (Via Submissions Page), I hope you enjoy.

He snapped his underwear band two times, Becky knew the code, and a romantic night was ahead.

She smiled at him and said, “You know how terribly cheezy that is, right?”

He looked over at her, his blue eyes sparkling in the firelight. “First, if I snapped my fingers, it would be degrading even if it is my desire to see you get all flushed. Second, you purchased these for me and I thought you liked my appreciation of them?”

When the last word left his lips, he stood up, and she could see that he was very excited to see her get all flushed.

As she stood there biting her lip waiting for him to approach her, she couldn’t help but think how lucky she was that such a gorgeous man found her alluring.

He came up and wrapped his arms around her. Pulling her to him, close. She could feel his eagerness and her lips parted to meet his.

At first his lips were quite gentle, and then there was an urgency to them. His taste was intoxicating. His tongue moved with hers as her fingers played with his hair. Then suddenly he lifted her up by her bottom. A small squeak escaped her lips as he smiled at her again.

“I believe you are flushed, Ms. Jones,” he said with a small growl.

He moved her to the counter in the small kitchen of the cabin they had rented for the event. She laid back, legs still wrapped around him, letting him pull her top and bra off, slowly admiring every inch of her. She loved the way he looked at her.

Then he unwound her legs from his carefully so he could remove her shorts and panties. Using her toes, she pulled down the red boxer-briefs she had given him on Valentine’s day.

As his hands moved her into position, she felt his desire as she looked at the man who had stolen her heart.

Then just as he was about to slide in, there was a noise. Before she could figure out what it was, the door in the kitchen opened and her mother and grandmother walked in carrying a platter.

“Hey Shelly, we thought…” Her mother’s words were cut off as both of her relatives were now staring at her erotic moment.

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Error by Erika Lance

To Nicole who submitted through the website. I hope you enjoy!

Geocode was not successful for the following reasons: ERROR

Martin looked at the screen again. This couldn’t be correct.

The data within the system had taken years to gather. It was the most in-depth analysis of humans that had ever been undertaken. Every other sector’s numbers had computed perfectly.

Martin, as the humans had called him, tried again: ERROR

He pulled up the zone in question on the map. It was an affluent neighborhood in the state of California in the country called the United States.  As he scrolled though the information, he also began the diagnostic protocol.

If there was any chance of zeroing in on the error and getting off this planet which was at the farthest end of the galaxy, contained behind a rather formidable asteroid field, then he would have to find and correct this ‘ERROR’ and submit his information.

As the images rolled past, one in particular caught his eye. He scrolled back and pulled it up. At first glance, it seemed fairly mundane.  Small children played in an area of grass and sand. One of them was using some kind of plastic item that was launching soap in the shape of circles in the air. He knew what they called them… Bubbles!

He zoomed in on the bubble that had just been launched. There in the reflection he saw not a small earth child standing there, no, this was something different. This had gills.

At first, a smile crept across the human mouth he was wearing. He had found the error. Then almost as quickly as it had appeared, the smile vanished.

These were not humans.

A feeling of dread began to build within him. Was this possible? he thought to himself.

He knew that this planet had been studied before; it was a terribly good resource for certain mineral components and the inhabitants were still behind in technology that any time they saw a potential visitor it was dismissed. This is what made the idea of full planetary reaping so appealing to his high ruler. But here it was, right in front of him.

He moved to the genetic samples that had been taken from that region. Although they were ‘mostly’ human, there were other markers.  When he broadened the scan, he found them to be traces of Reedbarnt gene sequences.

They were hiding here. How?

He had to submit this right away.  This was above his pay-grade.

Pulling the arm-sleeve of flesh from his right hand, he extended his small gathering of tentacles to the screen. Although he was mandated to leave the human covering on for the length of his mission, he knew that what he had to gather and send would take hours if he had to use the small human appendages.

He gathered all the evidence and sent it to his superior. He then reattached his arm-sleeve and paced up and down the ships data storage area. This was a human habit, but he knew that he could not remove the whole flesh suit without it deteriorating.

It was many earth hours before he received a reply.

It said only one thing: Abort!

 

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The King’s Right-Hand Woman by JM Paquette

For Suzy–

She knelt before her king, trembling with exhaustion, yet exhilarated at the knowledge that this kind man would finally take his rightful place at the throne.

How long had she waited for this moment? How many nights had she dreamed of his return to claim his birthright? It seemed that she had thought of nothing else for so very long.

She heard the monks beginning their chant again, signalling that the moment of silence was ended, and she stood up again, back straight and proud as she stood to the right of her sovereign. She surveyed the crowd of suddenly loyal subjects, their finery glinting in the afternoon sun as they showed off their best jewels, their family crests, their wealth and comfort, especially now that this business of the true monarch was resolved.

And it was resolved. Anyone else who had the slimmest claim to the throne had been eliminated. There was no one else who could rise from the ranks to stake a claim.

As she looked around the room, she noticed how people’s gaze slid away from hers. They were afraid of her. And rightfully so. She hadn’t assured her king’s return without getting her hands dirty. Sometimes, these things had to be done.

Of course, the king knew nothing of what she had done. He would be appalled. But sometimes, a person had to be willing to soil a soul for the sake of the greater good. Sometimes, a person had to break the rules to ensure a better future for everyone. Looking around now, it seemed that the promised future had finally arrived. There would be no more threats. No more late night missions. No more coded instructions. No more secret exploits, deep intrigues, last minute reprieves.

As she considered the future, her face clouded. What was she going to do with herself now that the task was accomplished?  She looked down at her hands, calloused from close acquaintance with her weapons, her forearms strong from hours spent in physical exertion. What could she do with her skills now? It wasn’t like anyone here would need her. The people left in this room were loyal subjects, eager to please their lord, but not eager to take his place, not after what had happened to those other contenders.

She looked down at her hands again. Maybe she could take up knitting or something.

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Frisbee War by Désirée Matlock

For Brandon –

“My father, if you’ll believe it, was killed by a frisbee.”

“Not just any Frisbee, neither, the original. And definitely not in the way you’d think. Not conked in the brain bin or nothing.” Jack rubbed absently at his overalls, years of habit from keeping the grease at bay, while he watched my eyes. “So?”

“Sounds like it might make a good story,” I chewed my lip and considered, “but I’m not sure it’ll get you an invite.”

“Don’t you worry,  mister. I didn’t come out here to fix studio cars forever. I’ll make it a good one.”

“Great. I didn’t say so, but there’s a writer’s room job for whoever wins this. But it’s no shoo in you’ll win it.”

“Now, that’s just you haven’t heard it yet. I’ll tell you the whole yarn, mind you, then you’ll decide.”

Now, my grandfather Clyde, he was a big fan of pie. When he married Bessie, he wore out her interested in baking within the first few years, long before they got sick and tired of eachother, so Clyde would pack the whole brood, himself, grandma Bessie, the boys – who would grow up into my uncle CJ and my dad but were just squealing balls of puppy dog tails and pepper at that point – into their Woody and they’d travel everywhere that good pie was made. Now, since there weren’t no Yelp yet, nor any freeways for that matter, one depended on the authority of strangers.”

“You mean kindness of strangers?” I blurted out, interrupting without thinking, while scratching notes onto an index card.

“No sir. Kind of unkind, what he depended on was that they knew their neck of the woods well enough to firstly indicate a good pie location, and secondly, know how to get there. Don’t look at me so funny.  The authority of strangers is what y’all depend entirely  too much upon now. Even more than then. Except now they call it ‘aggregate, anonymized data’ and so people trust it, because it looks pretty. But once, it was a guy who looked a lot like me, stepping out of a small repair shop a lot like this one to pump your gas, and he was expected to be a one man Encyclopedia, Atlas and Zagat’s guide all in one. Your GoogleWikiYelpMap all rolled into one. And he did a damn fine job. He could tell you the best place in five counties to get a shoe shine, or where the closest decent hoagie was on a weekday.  It gave the corner mechanic as much clout as city councilman. It evened the field a bit. Now you’re lucky if the guy manning the pumps exists, and if he does, luckier still if he can find his own ass with two hands.

“Anyhow, I digress,” he continued, pulling a red cloth out of his pocket, wiping his lip, and putting it back. Faint smudges of grease marred his already decent five o’clock shadow, but I didn’t feel like it was right to stop Jack any more than I already had.

“So, one day, Jack and CJ get it into their heads they can get their dad to stay home for a vacation instead, and they buy a huge stack of ready-made pies, asking their dad to stay at home with them. They bring him one, all cooked up and pretty, and they all eat it together, right down to the inscription on the bottom of the time, before their dad still loads them up into the car, and makes them all go on yet another one of these little excursions. This time, one of these random mechanics somewhere in the desert leads Clyde and his kin to a little out of the way pie shop in a little one stoplight town that barely showed on the map, and Clyde was so impressed with the pies, he up and bought the place on the spot, for next to nothing. They were glad to be rid of it, seeing as no one else saw the virtue in that particular corner of nowhere.

Now, Bessie wasn’t having none of that. She left Clyde there to manage his pie shop, and went home to Galveston. Now, they might not have had much, but what they had was in Galveston, as was her family. It almost broke them up, but he stayed there almost all of that year. But, boy what a year. He bought up all the billboard space that suddenly became available alongside a new kind of road that was getting cut through that particular patch of nowhere. And so, when the freeway came through, Clyde became suddenly rich. That pie shop went from a little known nothing, to a short swoop off the road, a quick slice, and you’re back on your way to California, or Florida, or what have you.

Clyde brought his money home to Bessie and the boys, meanwhile, buying up neighboring space and turning that pie shop into a whole truck stop with curiosities, amenities, a motel and of course, pies. Clyde made himself quite the little empire in the sand.

By the time old Clyde died, that pie money had been funneled into two college degrees for my father and my uncle, nice houses all around, and steady, good lives for his boys. But, Bessie had wanted more kids, but hadn’t much of a husband left to father them. So, the boys had been her only children, grown up barely knowing their father, but spoiled and rich.  The woody had become a towncar, which had then become sleek luxury sedans.

After Clyde’s funeral, the boys, now grown with wives and kids of their own, and who had idolized Clyde as one can only manage with an absentee father, decided to take a trip out to the pie stand their father had devoted his life to. When they got there, they were both stunned to learn that he hadn’t left it to them. No part of it. Not the pie stand, not the truck stop, not the motel. Hadn’t left any of it to Bessie neither. He’d left it to the gal behind the counter who’d been baking the pies since before Clyde had walked in to try his first pie. They’d never thought to find out, but learned right then and there that her name was Sadie.

Now, on the wall of Clyde’s office, which Sadie was busy moving her things into, was a pie plate that was mounted to a board, and it said, “THIS TERRIBLE PIE INSPIRED THE TRIP THAT LED CLYDE HERE.” And on it was the pie plate from the pie the boys had made their father so many years earlier, the inscription on the bottom reading “FRISBEE’S PIES.”

A’course, CJ and Jack were both fuming, and with no outlet for their anger. Couldn’t rightly be angry with their dead father, nor with the waitress who’d worked so hard, couldn’t even be angry with each other. They stared up at the pie they’d made their father and realized that nothing else in that office could rightfully be claimed by them as theirs.  Sadie nodded and told them politely that they could keep it, and CJ impolitely told her to stuff it.

CJ stormed off, came back with a sturdy chair, and Jack climbed on it and reached to pull down the plaque commemorating their childhood failure.  At this point, as he grabbed hold of the plaque, it made him top heavy enough that the chair toppled, but he landed safely on his feet. It was a close call. CJ pulled the tin off the backboard, and they played frisbee with it in the desert beside the pie shop, between the truck stop and the hotel, and then, pressure released, they tromped home in a state.

Every year after that, on the anniversary of their father’s death, they got together for a game of frisbee. Eventually, the kids got involved, and myself and my cousins would all get together for a reunion on that date, without really knowing why, and we’d all head out to a  park somewhere outside of Galveston and we’d have us a little frisbee war. The tin got battered up something awful, so eventually plastic ones were bought, and the pie association was lost.

“Anyhow, just recently, my father died holding that tin frisbee.”

“…But, how did it kill him?”

“It got him with old age. He died clutching it because it reminded him that there was no way he and my uncle would have stayed in touch so long if they hadn’t decided to turn their dad’s shit inheritance into a game of frisbee. It kept them both alive longer, and the whole family better connected but that’s a double edged sword. What keeps you alive is also a little bit responsible when you do eventually die.”

I laughed.

“All right, fine.” I handed him a back door pass to the exclusive club. “It’s up in the hills, at that address on the back. Feel free to embellish and improve that story by another, um, hundred and thirty percent before then. Especially a few more close calls for your doomed father. Like when he fell off the chair. But more.”

“But they didn’t really happen.”

I stared incredulously, “Jack, if a good yarn ever had to try to stretch to fit the truth into it, it’d lose all shape.”

Jack looked down at his pass, rubbed it thoughtfully, getting a bit of grease on it. “See you tonight, Mister,” he turned and shuffled back into the shop to finish up his day’s work.

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Violet’s Protector by Nicole DragonBeck

For Gabby, I miss you and our storytelling sleepovers!

How funny it seemed, that 12 years later he was still wearing that dirty blue hat.

Violet looked him over. Everything about him was the same. The same grey eyes, the same curly brown hair, the same brown jacket and snake-skin boots. It should have made her uncomfortable, invoking memories that should remain in the past, but she was pleased to see him. He sat at the table in the very back of the tavern, hands cupped around the tankard, staring into it as if held the answers to life.

As if he felt her eyes on him, he looked up, and a slow smile curved up his mouth. It was the same smile, though now it was accompanied by a few more lines at the corners of his eyes. He nodded to the other seat at the table. Violet made her way through the tables, her purple skirt swaying, her pale skin glowing against the cream cotton of her blouse, and sat across from him.

“Violet.”

The way her name slid out on the mellow tones of his voice made her feel the same way now as she did then – safe, like Fate was a protective aunt who would bring her little cakes and she could face all the evil in the world without flinching – and she couldn’t help smiling in return.

“Weston. I can’t say I expected to see you again. Certainly not here. But you’ve managed to find me.”

“As always.” He smiled. “I see you got my message.”

Violet nodded. “You wanted to meet to discuss something…something about what happened…” The memories floated up again, “…what happened in the Grindlevale those many years ago.”

“To be honest, I wasn’t sure you would come.”

“Why not?” She blinked in surprise.

“You never answered any of my letters.”

“I never got any of your letters,” she countered. “What did they say?”

He chuckled, the same wry, self-reproving laugh that warmed her when life got cold. “It has to do with what you saw, but it’s a bit more complicated than can be easily covered over a single drink.”

“Then we’ll have dinner,” she said. “I haven’t eaten, and I’m famished.”

He nodded, and Violet turned in her chair, searching for the barman. As her gaze traveled over the patrons, trying to pick out the rotund man with wispy hair and the stained apron who could bring them food, her eyes lit on a figure standing in the shadows beside the door, and her heart leapt to her throat. No, it can’t be. Not here. Not now.

Lurking under the pale skin and dark cloak was the harsh, deformed face of a darkling, stuttering in red flashes like the world illuminated in the brief glare of lightening, replaced by the visage of a normal face, only to reappear again, making her insides cold and her eyes burn. Violet’s hand tightened in her lap, and she turned back to Weston, her face drawn.

“I’m not as hungry as I thought,” she said, barely moving her lips.

“You see something?” he said, and took a casual drink from the tankard.

She nodded, and fought the urge to squirm in her seat. She itched to know where the darkling was now, what it was doing, but she couldn’t look, couldn’t draw its attention to them. “It’s a darkling. In here. By the door.”

Weston put down his ale, and took a pocketwatch from his jacket. The ticking of the hands sounded like thunder in the room, the voices of the patrons echoing dully in the void of impending doom.

Weston stood, and offered her his arm. She stood and took it, fearing to look up. He left a silver on the table, and started to walk away. Violet thought he was planning to waltz straight out the front, so she stumbled slightly when he turned to the back and led her down a narrow passage way, to small door behind the kitchens.

It opened into a small yard. Chickens strutted about the dirt and pebbles, and two pigs nosed in the slop pile, watched over by the lordly gaze of a ginger cat stretched out on the low wall. Weston peered around before stepping through the door and pulling Violet after him.

“Where are we going?” she whispered, trying to see over his shoulder, but his brawn blocked her view.

“To meet someone.”

“Who?”

A figure stepped out of the shadows and glided towards them. Violet’s insides clenched in an icy mass. The face was horrible to look upon, the eyes black and menacing. Violet tried to speak, but her voice was caught in her throat.

Weston held his hand up, and the darkling paused at his voice. “You’re late.”

A voice issued from the creature, though it had no mouth, and it resumed its approach. “We are running out of time.”

“Remember our deal?” Weston called out, and the creature stopped.

Slowly, it nodded and pulled up its hood, concealing its features, and Violet’s body relaxed. The figure stood there, silent. Its shoulders rose and fell as though it drew breath, but Violet didn’t think darklings breathed.

“Weston, what’s happening?” Violet whispered, forcing her still-frozen voice from her lips. “Why are you talking to it?”

“Violet, this is who I want you to meet.”

She stared at him, sure she couldn’t be hearing correctly. He grabbed her shoulders and turned her so she was facing him, and looked down at her with an earnest intensity that frightened her more than the darkling did. “You remember what you saw?”

The memories bubbled up again. The dark night. The silver pool. The reflection of the stars. The old woman who had the same blue eyes as Violet, the same scar on her chin, but white hair instead of blonde, the face weathered, not smooth. The apparition fading as the cold from the presence of the advancing darklings grew.

“You remember what you saw?” Weston pressed, his fingers squeezing painfully but not unkindly.

Violet nodded, because it was the only thing she could do. One day you will have to make a choice. This choice will determine the destiny of many. “What choice? What must I choose?” Violet had asked. You must choose only what your heart and your mind tells you is right. No one can tell you what you must choose. To do so will bring the darkness upon all.

“Do you remember?” Weston repeated.

“I have to choose,” Violet whispered. “I’m the only one who can choose.”

“And that makes you important,” Weston said. “More important than you can imagine.”

“You’ve figured out what it means?” Violet said, her eyes widening.

“I didn’t figure it out, someone explained it to me.”

“Who?”

When Weston’s eyes went to the darkling, Violet shuddered.

“His name is La’reque,” Weston said, his voice deliberately low and soothing. “He told me that the darklings are after you, but not for the reason you think. La’reque has been watching out for you, since you got here.”

“It’s…it’s been watching me?” Violet managed to get past the faintness rising in her head. “Why?”

“To protect you, of course,” Weston said. “While we put some plans into action, gathered some missing pieces, figured out what we have to do.”

“Who’s we? And what do we have to do?” Violet said, struggling to make sense of all this new, vague information.

“All in good time,” Weston said. “What you have to do is stay here.”

“Stay here!” Violet exclaimed, indignation pulling her face into a tight glare. “What did you think I was doing before you showed up?”

“Remember, La’reque has been watching you,” Weston said. “He can tell when you’re getting antsy.”

“I would’ve felt him,” Violet said.

“Only if you saw his face,” Weston smiled. “Do you still trust me?”

“I don’t know,” Violet told him. “I never thought you’d be working with a darkling.”

“La’reque,” Weston admonished. “If we’re going to pull this off, we’re going to have to be friends and work together.”

“And yet you won’t tell me what this is.”

“All it good time,” Weston said. “Right now, La’reque is going to take you some place a little more difficult to find, while I go fetch the others.”

Violet didn’t bother asking who the others were, because Weston wouldn’t deign to answer. Instead she glanced at the darkling, thoughts and feelings warring inside her. Weston’s warm presence beside her stilled the tumult. She still did trust him, even if what he was saying was counter to everything she knew. The darkling stood silent, and after several deep breaths, Violet nodded.

“Lead on then, La’reque.”

 

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Heather and After by Brandon Scott (contains some graphic language)

For Jim Miner.

She was hot as a pistol and shot a hole in my dreams.

And I wake up from those dreams sweaty and horny. She yells things at me in those dreams, tells me about secrets I want no one to know, much less myself. How I hate myself and love myself too much. She gets me drunk in those dreams, and as the world behind me swims more than even alcohol can do to a person, she speaks about the reality of the world.

And then, it’s a bathroom, and she’s wearing only a sweater pulled down over bare legs, the tiny hints of panties glimpsed. She places a single hand on my chest, brown hair hanging over her forehead, freckles around the nose. I can never remember the exact color of those eyes, but they look at me.

And thin cloth dropping around ankles, and discarded, and the water running, and touching. Oh, fuck, so much touching.

Or was that reality?

Anyway.

Mornings were just as surreal with her. Finding someone else in the house, someone who is not a guest or a family member, but a seemingly permanent resident. Never in the bed when I woke up, always there when I tried to fall asleep, and only letting me once exhaustion hit and swept over me and I needed water to even talk.

And she would stare at me with those eyes and sip coffee, often wearing nothing at all, and crossing her legs, and uncrossing them, underneath the table. Leaning pinkish elbows against the wood and sipping the last sips.

“Hello there,” she’d say, and walk past me, and disappear into the bedroom.

Until I was almost fired, I was late all the time for work. But toward the end, I did not follow her inside the room.

Money disappeared occasionally. That was the death keel. Once I noticed ten bucks used for something, I had a little feeling in my stomach. The kind hard to ignore. Next up: one hundred. Two hundred.

A fortnight of fucking, harder and more frequently than we’d done before, came then. So much it gnawed on me, made my bones hurt. Sleep so screwed up it was like she was caffeine poured constantly into my mouth.

But then a thousand dollars, and I confronted her about it. Over dinner. She got me drunk, I talked to her about it, and I woke up and she’d disappeared. Every article of clothing in my house gone. Nothing but the covers, and not even a note about what it all was for, why she had waited this long.

I still don’t know. I still see her in my dreams. Still feel her weight on me, shifting. Still feel her underneath me. Still hear her tell me how much of a terrible, awful person I am. It’s almost easier now, those dreams, because I know at least she’s worse. I’m not a thief. I don’t play with the hearts of others.

Though, I suppose, in a way, I am a purchaser of a prostitute. Because, in the end, she was sex and intimacy, which only cost me money and material things. Currency and my sanity. I wonder how much of that I gave to her. How much she left inside for me to give to others.

All I know is I seem to sleep a lot now. A whole heck of a lot.

 

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Small Metal Case by Erika Lance

To Brandy, my epicenter of weird crap that happens.

“She awoke to the sound of shattering glass…..”

Shit! She muttered silently to herself. She was not supposed to fall asleep.

Looking around, she assessed her situation. At least she was still alone in the room. Her tripwires and traps were all in place. The other traps and warning systems had not gone off.

She closed her eyes and listened for a moment. Faintly in the background, she heard the sound of buzzing. She could tell there were two of them and by the sounds of their movement they hadn’t found her yet.

She heard the sound of shattering glass again. They were trying to get her to move, to startle. This tactic would normally work for most. Talia, however, was not most.

As a courier, she would oftentimes have to hide with her cargo. She had gotten used to this and learned early on the scouts and even the hunters had a pattern to their approach. These were scouts. Which also meant they didn’t know what they were looking for, just that they were looking for something.

She checked the gauges on her suit. It was holding temperature. This suit was what truly made the difference for those like her. It was a thin mesh that caused sensors to detect nothing as it matched the exact temperature of the area where the person was standing. The only thing a courier had to contend with is the air they would breathe in would be matched to ensure there were no spikes or dips in this.

She looked down at the small metal box in front of her. She had taken the job because the request seemed easy for the pay. She assumed it had been posted by a wealthy person for whom price didn’t matter. However, getting to the item had not been the issue; getting out with it had. This was the third safe spot she had to stop in. She had also had to travel through areas that even the scouts wouldn’t travel as the normal routes were suddenly heavily patrolled.

She listened again and the buzzing was gone. They had given up and moved on to the next spot to check. She moved to quietly undo her equipment; she needed to finish this and drop her cargo. She was coiling up the last of the wires when she heard the sound of slithering scales and claws against stone.

It was a drudger and now it was time to RUN!

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