On Your Mark, Get Set...
A Prompt & a Call for Stories
Just bang this one out:
You’ve arranged a quaint Christmas village on your mantelpiece. It’s lovely, with Thomas Kinkade-looking cottages and trees, all lighted from within, aglow in snowy splendor. So pretty that you can’t walk past it without stopping to peer into the tiny windows and sigh. Doing so you see the weensy postman has fallen and lies in a red spot… of blood. A tiny dagger protrudes from his back. Surely, someone—your spouse, your ragged teen, your nosy neighbor—is playing a joke.
You set things right, but soon notice the weensy milkman has fallen dead. Clearly a serial killer stalks the village! The police are of no help. The police think you’re nuts for calling 9-1-1. The game—as they say—is afoot!
Give me five hundred words on this. Post your entry in the Comments, below, or post a teaser and a link to your entry on your Substack or like platform. I’ll shop around and cut and paste to a “Gloves Off”-style post with feedback. No hurry on this. I’ll give you a couple weeks, but the limit is five hundred words. Don’t overthink this. Hold the idea in your noggin for a few days. Find a good way in. Find a good voice. Take the story in some direction.
Stop the slaughter. Or don’t.
Maybe you’re the killer!! Or maybe you’re the next victim.
Real blood doesn't melt fake snow. From the adam’s apple down, the train conductor was in the gazebo. A ring of blood ran around the circle of track. His body was still driving the train headless for at least one lap. I still haven't found the head. The track switcher went for a shorter ride. His shin and foot were pinched between two rails. Body, armless, a few inches away. I still haven’t found the arms. But the bruises indicate that someone or something beat him with his arms after he ripped them off. Something smells like iron.
It wasn’t the milk maid or the postman or any of the other tiny townspeople. They’re miniatures. Figurines, you kook. Someone went through a lot of trouble to stage those tiny murders, and to mess with me. At christmastime. It has to be my husband. He’s the only person twisted enough to do something like this. He’s sweet, but loves to scare me. I appreciate the effort. If only he would put that effort into decorations. We’d have the best house on the block. At Halloween, he hid in the coat closet for long enough to have carved ten pumpkins just to scare me.
I cleaned up the blood with a wet paper towel, and gave it a sniff. Iron. It was real. I hope he didn’t hurt himself just to use real blood. Took the plastic body parts I could find and placed them into his stocking so he’d know that I know come tomorrow.
The creepy elf that judges us is off its shelf. It's supposed to be on the mantle. I look on the bookcase, on top of the cabinets, then in our room. He moved it onto my night stand. Its hands are red, and textured. He sure went through a lot of trouble to scare me. I pick up the little creep, and smell his hands. Iron. Where did he get real blood? I place the elf on his pillow so he knows that I know when he gets home. I’m exhausted from preparing dinner for tomorrow, and he will be home in an hour. I lay down on the bed with my back to the little creep elf watching over me. Need some rest before I hide in the coat closet and repay my husband. I still smell iron.
I wake, and the elf is back on the nightstand. Bryan must be home. It still smells of iron. Peek through the blinds. His truck isn’t in the driveway. I appreciate the effort. Search the house. He’s hiding in the closet again. Take off my shoes and tiptoe in socked feet toward the front door, and swing the coat closet open. The coats are gone, but there are buckets on the floor. I pry one of the lids off, one tab at a time. Now all I can smell is iron. Found the missing plastic arms. Bryan’s ring is still on his finger. A drip falls into the bucket. The elf is on the closet shelf with red, wet hands.
This prompt sings to me!