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James’s Note: In this episode, we watch as the Witcher Man is put in a no win situation to save a life. I’ve always been a big fan of the “zombie bite suicide solution” trope. Will Daniel be able to cheat his way out of it? We’ll just have find out.

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Zombie plague is one of the most virulent infections there is. It’s a horrible way to die, even if you don’t count the whole rising from the dead bent on murder thing. I was already altering the trajectory I was being towed in when Damien spoke up. 

“Damn it, you are not getting out of this!”, he practically roared. 

“Well, then you better keep up.” I said as the kid and I piled into my Mini. I was secretly glad Damien was going to be tagging along. I had a plan for him to help out, although nobody was going to like it.

The kid and I tore through the streets of Houston, making for the hunter’s safe house. I guess it’s a little weird thinking of him as a kid, since he was only a couple years younger than me, but I site the fact that he looked about twelve as my only defence. The pimples didn’t help. Thanks to a simple alchemical decoction I learned while I was still training, my skin is always smooth as a baby’s bottom. Why we hold butts as the standard for skin quality is an entirely different matter that I just don’t care to delve into. 

In a surprisingly short time, the kid and I were power sliding into the driveway of a rundown house that looked like a crack house that had just never learned to apply itself. The werewolf in the muscle car was hot on our heels.

Damien caught up to us as the kid was going through what in that moment felt like an unnecessarily complicated procedure to get someone on the other side to unbar the door and let us in. While the kid was answering questions about his favorite flavor of jam or some nonsense, I turned to Damian.

 “You’d be willing to help out a dying man, right?” I whispered to him. 

“What?” he stammered, caught off guard, “I suppose…”. 

“Thanks.” I said, cutting him off as I deftly plunged the hypodermic needle I had palmed into his arm, drawing out several ccs of blood. Yes, I am surprisingly good at finding a vein and drawing blood from ambush. No, you don’t want to know why. 

To a werewolf, the needle probably barely even registered as pain, which is probably why I was able to slip in the door just as the burly hunter was opening it, managing to escape before Damien could come to his senses and beat me to death with my own arm. 

Inside, it was pandemonium. Several hunters were arguing about whether they should kill their friend, several other were having a separate argument about HOW they should kill their friend, and one stoic man with a gray goatee was holding them all together by force of will alone. That was Calvin.

Part 1     Part 2     Part 3     Part 4     Part 5     Part 6     Part 7     Part 8     Part 9     Part 10
Part 11    Part 12    Part 13     Part 14     Part 15     Part 16     Part 17     Part 18     Part 19
Part 20     Part 21    

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Sharon’s Note: I originally did a version of this story back in college for a creative writing class. It was horrible. This may still be horrible, but I flatter myself it’s better than my first go. Warning: Literary references that require you to have paid attention in high school English.

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Why was I reading an article about how to get stains out of whites in a sixty year old magazine? Because I couldn’t find anything else to read this morning, and well . . . I did have one blouse I liked that could use a little attention.

The front bell of the shop jingled merrily. I hated that bell. The welcoming noise was a lie. This place was a death trap and it knew it. I would scream a warning to stay away, but there wasn’t really a point. If a person was supposed to come in, then in they would come. Destiny was a bitch.

“Hello?” The voice was young and female. Oh great. A kid. When she rounded the bookshelf that sometimes blocked the door from immediate view, I saw that she wasn’t precisely a kid. My best estimate put her at late high school to early college. She just had a babydoll voice. My snap judgement said here was a spoiled princess, all fashionable haircut and expensive clothes, but what do I know.

“Hey,” I brought my magazine back up, set to ignore her while she searched for whatever mischief fate had in mind for her. 

“Um, yeah, could you help me?” The words were polite enough, but the tone said she was not used to people making her wait.

Maybe if I was rude she’d go away. I set down my magazine said flatly, “What?”

She blinked in surprise, but then forced a smile. “Uh, yeah. I’m looking for a birthday present for my brother. He likes old things, so I figured a pawn shop was a good place to find something.”

“We got plenty of old things, but if you want help, you are going to have to be a little more specific than ‘old’.” 

“I don’t know.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s a nerd. He likes fantasy and dice games and stuff.He’s getting a degree in computers or something.”

“May I recommend getting him a gift card since you have no clue what he wants? Or, I don’t know, asking him?” This was my last shot at making her leave the store in rage. It really would be better for her, she just didn’t realize it yet.

She rolled her eyes, and played with the necklace that dangled on her shirt. It was gold and spelled out ‘Tabitha’. “We don’t talk. I’m only getting him a present because he’s coming home from college for his birthday, and Daddy insists I participate.”

“Oh, how awful.” I monotoned. “Having to attend your brother’s birthday.”

She stomped her foot like a small child. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. All everyone wants to talk about is Josh, Josh, Josh. Josh graduated as valedictorian. Josh got into one of the best technical schools in the country and oh, look, he’s working too, isn’t he a go-getter? Isn’t Josh smart, isn’t Josh handsome. Tabby, why can’t you be more like your brother? I am sick of it! I used to be Daddy’s favorite. Now all I hear about is Josh. It’s not fair.”

It was my turn to blink in surprise, then a slow grin spread over my face. Sometimes I just gave in to the evil thoughts. “Oh, I’m sorry ma’am. Let me help you find what you really need.” 

“Good, now find me something all fantasy looking.” She sniffled a little. I didn’t think she was actually close to crying, but she wants me to think she was.

Finding a particular object in the shop was tricky, and was fairly useless, besides. I didn’t know what fate had in store for her anymore than she did. I led her to the jewelry counter because that seemed like a good place to start. She seemed like a jewelry kind of girl.

I liked the jewelry counter. It was shiny. Apparently, Tabby was of a similar mind. She was gazing at the precious stones and polished metal with a look that was inappropriate to give to an inanimate object. At least one that didn’t come from an adult store.

“That ring is beautiful.” She purred.

“Which one?” 

“That one with the blue stone, there.” She tapped the glass over a gaudy hunk of silver metal with a sapphire as big a corn kernel. I thought it was the ugliest piece in there, but I was not the customer.

I retrieved the box for her, setting it on the counter with a flourish of hands. Her eyes were wide and her breathing was heavy as she picked it up, moving the ring this way and that to let the light play over the stone. I picked up the slender green folder that sat on a shelf beneath the counter. It sometimes contained information about the objects in the case and, hey, today it did.

“The ring is silver and the stone is sapphire. It’s supposedly a wishing ring.” I had been browsing the sheet and when I hit that last little fact I winced. No good ever came of wishing. ‘I wish’ was one of the phrases I permanently struck from my vocabulary since working here. Not that any of the objects here worked for me. 

“A wishing ring.” Tabby’s moan was positively indecent. She made to pluck the ring from the box. In a painful fit of conscious I put a hand on her’s to stop her.

“Look, kid, I know what you’re thinking. Don’t do it. It’s like the monkey’s paw. It never ends well.” I tried to take the box out of her hand, but she wasn’t letting go. I did. There was no point in forcing it. 

She took several steps away from the counter, triumph on her face. “No, this is real magic. I can feel it. With this, I can make everything right again.”

“No. Wait. Stop. Don’t.” I said flatly, the number of flips I gave returning to zero.

She picked out the ring and held it up to the light. Any second now she would start laughing like a supervillain. “I wish that Daddy loved me best again! I wish to be exactly what he wants, so that he’ll never put stupid Josh above me again!”

She put on the ring, and poof, the girl was gone and a mound of clothes lay where she’d stood. Yes, there was a literal poof, complete with noise and blue smoke. From out of the close climbed the most disgruntled tabby cat I had ever seen. It shook off the blouse in visible distress, and I couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Well, looks like your dad is a cat person.” I said, walking around the counter to pick up the mess off the floor. The clothes and purse went into the discount bin. The ring went back into the case with her necklace. The shop could move them later, if it wanted.

This worked out. Little miss brat would learn her lesson. Maybe her father, who apparently liked cats more than his own children, would as well once he noticed his child was missing. Most likely, Tabby Cat would get herself turned back, eventually. I ignored her desperate meowing and went back to my magazine. There was a recipe for chicken pot pie I wanted to try.

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Sharon’s note: I introduced this couple in Two Hunters. There are so many stories out there where the human and vampire meet and fall in love, but very little about what their life looks like when it’s not a life and death situation. I love the idea of looking at the nuts and bolts of a supernatural marriage, and full intend to delve into this further. Warning: Contains actual marital issues.

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Jack held the puppy up next to his face and pouted cutely. The puppy, a pale brown mutt only that day christened Baskerville, was doing his part by trying to clean the vampire’s nose out with his tongue. Anice crossed her arms and glowered. It was not nearly as effective as anything the boys were doing.

“I don’t know, Jack. I mean, I agreed that we could get him only if we put him through obedience training. The shelter said he was probably going to be over a hundred pounds. That’s a lot of dog. If you give him your blood, he’ll be a lot stronger, and I’m not sure we can take him to  a regular class. Unless there’s a vampire specific puppy training school, I don’t think we can do it.”

“There are some hell hound schools in europe, but I would NOT send him to one of those. They charge you a fortune to abuse your dog.” Jack sat down on the couch with the puppy squirming happily in his lap. “The boost from the blood may make him a little harder to handle initially, but I think we can work with him ourselves. I’ve done some research . . .”

“You’ve looked up some videos on the internet and watched that Caesar guy.” She corrected him.

“That counts as research.” Jack grumbled indignantly. Baskerville discovered the tab of his belt and began tugging it. “I still think if we’re willing to put in the time and effort we can totally do this ourselves,”

“I don’t know.” Anice repeated, sitting next to her husband on the couch. Thrilled to find another person within reach, the puppy stopped attacking the belt to lick her fingers. “Are we going to have the time? I work during the afternoons and evenings, and your job is so irregular. . .”

“We can do it if we dedicate ourselves to finding the time.” Jack urged. “We already made the commitment to get a dog, we can totally do the training too.”

“And you think you can train him well enough that when he’s full grown and full of vampire strength I can handle him?”

“Absolutely. In the old days, vampires had their servants work with the hellhounds all the time.” As Anice unleashed a truly terrible glare, Jack amended. “I mean, back in the old days when vampires kept servants. You are my wife, in no way a servant, and more my boss than anything else.”

“Uh huh.” Anice said, but she couldn’t help smiling.

“Besides, who knows how long you’re going to be human for.” Jack teased.

“We are not having this discussion right now.” She rolled her eyes. “I told you, I’m not sure when we’re going to do it. There are too many things to consider. My job, my family . . .”

Jack interupted her with a kiss, and was interrupted in turn by the tongue of a puppy who wanted to be included. They both laughed. “And we’ll make that work just like we do everything else. So, what do you think? If we do it now, while he’s young, he’ll only have to get used to his strength and changes all at once. He’ll live a very long time, never get sick or get arthritis like your dog when you were a kid had. Isn’t a little extra work worth not having to go through that again?”

Anice’s face saddened at the mention of Toby, but the look faded as she watched Baskerville nearly fall off the couch. “Ok. Let’s do it.”

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James’s Note: In the Witcher Man’s world, this was written by Daniel’s grandfather who was the first in the family to take up the job. In our world, it was writing this poem that inspired the Witcher Man stories.

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I’ve a pistol in my pocket.

I’ve got pennies in my shoes.

There are crosses on my windows

And my door is painted blue.

Things dwell in the darkness

that aren’t seen by light of day

But I’m the one who watches

And who keeps the ghosts away.

I guard against the monsters

that are living ‘neath your bed.

I guard against the demons

that are living in your head.

I’ve walked through hungry fire

and I bear scars from the flame;

done battle with the Devil

and the beast that has no name.

Now I’m alive because I’ve learned

my lessons, one by one.

Like always wear a wild rose

And trust your father’s gun.

And pay no heed to prophets,

for they’re seldom what they seem.

Allways feed a hungry cat

and never trust a dream.

Don’t doubt a guard dog’s courage,

for his love will make him brave.

Don’t wish upon a falling star.

Don’t dance upon a grave.

I’ll never try to change the past.

I’ve chosen what I chose.

There’s a box I mustn’t open

and a door I mustn’t close.

I’m the one they’ll call for

when the sky begins to bleed.

I’m the one they turn to 

when the hounds of Hell are freed.

I’m the one who’ll help you

when there’s no one else who can.

I’m your last and only hope.

I am the Witcher Man.

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James’s Note: In this week’s episode, an annoying werewolf is interrupted in a manner that brooks no argument.

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The look Damian gave me was one of utter disgust of the kind you might reserve for something you find under a particularly dank dark rock. 

He said, “If you are quite done being an insufferable jackass, Wolfgang sent me here to find out your results.” I wiped my eyes composing myself. 

“I know that Wolfgang is an alpha, and as such has gotten used to people doing everything he says, but regardless of his rank I’m pretty sure time has resolutely refused to recognize his authority. I told him it would take 24 hours. Twenty-four hours have not passed. I could try yelling at the magical test to make it go faster, but I’ve tried that before and it hasn’t worked so far.” 

Damien glowered, “He said that you might have some excuse, and that I wasn’t to leave until I had your answer.” 

I stared at him, my mind boggling for a moment at werewolf arrogance. I was winding up for a long and angry conversation in which I tried to explain the immutable nature of time that may have included me drawing pictures of clocks when we were interrupted in a manner that allowed no argument. 

Namely, we were cut off by what sounded suspiciously like a Ford F150 crashing into my garage.

 In the next instant, a lot of things seemed to happen all at once. My pistol practically leapt into my hand, Damian’s hands curled into a strange position seen only in werewolves preparing for combat and certain Kung Fu artists and a panting acne-faced young man came tearing around the side of my house, his clothes soaked in blood. His jacket was torn almost in half horizontally, revealing a discreet harness that carried a pistol, large knife and what appeared to be several wooden stakes. Even though the kid looked like your average Pizza Hut employee, the armament practically screamed Hunter. I lowered my gun because Hunters are usually friendly. I didn’t put it away however because in my business paranoia is a survival trait.

 Damien looked like he was still trying to make up his mind what the hell was even happening. The kid, however, wasn’t wasting anytime in confusion. 

“Witcher Man?”, he almost shouted, grabbing me by the arm. “Are you the Witcher Man?”. 

Carefully loosening his grip with my revolver free hand I replied, “Guilty as charged. I’m guessing someone is dying, since if they were dead, there would be less of a hurry.” 

The kid was already trying to drag me away even as he answered, seeming to barely have even heard my answer. He spoke all in a rush, “I’m with Calvin’s hunters. We took on a nest of zombies, the slow infectious kind. Everything was going fine. Drop, chop and burn, just like always. Then someone forgot to double tap a shambler and Reese got bitten. Everyone was saying to just cap him, but Cal said to come get you. He said you could save him.”

Well, shit. This wasn’t good.

Part 1     Part 2     Part 3     Part 4     Part 5     Part 6     Part 7     Part 8     Part 9     Part 10
Part 11    Part 12    Part 13     Part 14     Part 15     Part 16     Part 17     Part 18     Part 19
Part 20     Part 21    

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Sharon’s note: Yes, I totally stole this story idea from my husband’s poem. Mwa ha ha ha ha ha! Check out the original poem here. Also, check out our YouTube channel to hear him read it. Enjoy this second outing of my Conjure Woman character. Warning: Spousal rivalry.

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God, I hated having to do real magic. Ninety-nine percent of the time actual magic wasn’t necessary. Unfortunately the one percent of the time it is unavoidably essential.

Besides, it was five a.m. and the grass was wet. My shoes and socks had soaked through and felt icky. It was barely light out and the yard was annoyingly short of insects. I needed a spider. 

If I hadn’t been looking for a spider right then, I would have walked through a half dozen webs on my trek through the dim morning light. As it was, I had only been able to find one small one snuggled among some oak roots. The spider in that web had been a small black widow. Widows could be very effective warriors, all venom and stealth, but that wasn’t what I needed right now. This was a shy little spider and I needed something bolder. Besides, I hated to say it, but sometimes size really does matter. 

I finally found what I needed in the very corner of the lot, where an old cement pad lay abandoned, cracked in half. What was playing out was an epic battle. In the crack there was a web. Not much of the web was left, since it had been torn badly by the small red wasp caught in it. The little brown spider, a female with black stripes on her back, began harassing her prey.

I didn’t see how she could win, but the little spider had spirit. She refused to surrender, jumping down on the struggling wasp, retreating as it whipped around to attack her, then plunging back into the fray. The battle raged long and hard, but somehow, impossibly, the little spider won. The red wasp stopped moving and the little spider began to wrap her prize. She was smaller than I was expecting, but here was my warrior. 

Talking to animals was kinda my thing. I whispered to the spider and coaxed her onto my hand. Even though she was annoyed at my interruption, bless her, she listened to what I had to say. I had rarely met an arachnid so noble. I told her about my problem and she was more than eager to help.

My friend had called me at three a.m., telling me that there was something was wrong. Her reflection was acting strangely. She knew it was watching her. I had shown up and made her go sit in her guest room where there were no reflective surfaces. When I went into the bathroom alone to look at the house’s largest mirror, I saw what she meant.

The thing in the mirror wasn’t me. It wasn’t moving on its own, but stare too long into its eyes and you could almost see the squirming things beneath its lids. Of course, if you looked at it directly, the movement stopped. The thing in the mirror wasn’t very close yet. It still couldn’t move if you were watching it too closely.

At the end of the day, the thing in the mirror was just another parasite, just another type of bug.The thing that was best equipped to deal with bugs was a spider. My chosen warrior was brave and was willing to face off against the other-worldly terror. After her show with the wasp, I believed that she would triumph.

I cradled the little spider gently in my hands and brought her to the bathroom. As I passed the closed door to the guest room, I could hear my friend still crying. I stopped in front of the mirror and whispered spells to my warrior. Spells to strengthen. Spells to protect. When I was done, I put my hands against the mirror and pushed. When I pulled my hands away, the spider was on the glass, waving her little legs as she explored her new hunting ground. Her belly was visible through the glass as she began to weave. She was on the other side now. The next time the thing in the mirror tried to get closer, my little warrior would be ready. 

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James’s Note: Even though spooky October is past, I thought I’d throw one more creepy tale out there. This is another in the spirit of creepy pastas, with inspiration from a couple of Neil Gaiman stories. It’s also a commentary on how freaking weird TV can be sometimes.

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I practically stumbled up my front porch steps as I came home after a long and crappy day. I’m pretty sure my boss and customers had been involved in some kind of screwed up competition to see who could crush my spirit first. All I wanted to do what’s strip off my work clothes, meld into my sofa, and stare mindlessly at the television for a few hours before bed.

As I was opening the door, I noticed a small yellow paper notice taped to the door. 

It read, “Your cable service has been repaired and upgraded. Please enjoy your new premium service”

Huh, that was weird. Not only had I not paid for any upgrade, I had actually been thinking about dropping cable all together and just going with straight streaming. I figured they must have gotten my house mixed up with someone else.

Oh well, I figured I would call them eventually and let them know that there had been some mistake. In the meantime, why shouldn’t I enjoy a little free cable? After the week I’ve been having, I figured it was the least I had coming to me.

After divesting myself of my uniform and settling down onto the couch in my tighty whities, I started perusing all my new channels. It was pretty cool. All the premium stuff that I never paid for was right there at my fingertips. I figured I had finally caught a lucky break. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Everything went pretty well that night, I stayed up late watching an unfamiliar sitcom that I don’t really remember any details about, before finally passing out on the couch. In the morning, I woke up to a morning show with a reasonably attractive man and woman sitting on a couch in a fake living room discussing the news of the day.

It seemed pretty normal, except the longer I watched it, the more strained and fake their smiles looked. I mean, even faker than usual. By the end, the woman looked like she was pretending not to scream while the Man’s eyes silently begged for his life.

What the hell was that about? I shook my head dismissively, turn off the television, and got ready for work.

Over the next two weeks, the television shows just got stranger and stranger.

I was watching an episode of How I Met Your Mother, and the tone just seemed off. For one, while I haven’t watched a lot of the show, I really don’t remember the episode where Barney is diagnosed with terminal AIDS.

I tried watching a football game, which seemed pretty normal, until after one particularly brutal tackle all of the linebackers just began stomping the running back. The camera lingered on him as a pool of blood started to leak out onto the field. When one of the defensive lineman grabbed another player’s helmet and snapped his neck with a sickening crunch I switched it off. I know there’s a lot of violence in football, but there was no way this was normal.

I ended up with pro wrestling on one night, even though I haven’t watched it in quite a while. Everyone in the audience was wearing black hoods and holding red candles. After a particularly violent match involving saw blades and barbed wire covered baseball bats, the losing wrestler had his heart cut out while the audience chanted.

I do remember watching wrestling in the late nineties, so this really could have gone either way. But I still thought it probably wasn’t normal.

As time went on, the show’s got weirder. A Japanese game show were the losers had to cut off a finger was interrupted by a news story about dream parasites having been found in Washington, DC. A kids show involving puppets taught the alphabet by working through the Lesser Key of Solomon. The song , “A is for Abaddon, B is for Balial” was pretty catchy.

When I tried to watch a reality show that turned into 13 people standing on an island staring at the camera and screaming continuously for the full hour runtime, I decided this was enough.

I called up the cable company to complain. At first they had no idea what I was talking about but when I gave them the reference number off the note that had been left on my door I was immediately transferred.

” We are terribly sorry about the mix-up, sir. That upgrade was intended for someone else, not you. We’ll have someone over right away to take care of that,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

They hung up before I could ask them what in the blue hell was going on with the television programming.

In less than a minute after hanging up, there was a knock on my door. I opened it to find a blank faced repairman in blue overalls.

“Thank God. Maybe you can tell me what in the hell is going on.”

The repairman opened his mouth like he was going to answer, but no sound came out at first. His mouth just kept opening wider and wider revealing a black abyss inside. A sound that reminded me of television static started emitted from his maw getting louder and higher. I felt like my ears were starting to bleed, and then I passed out.

When I came to on my porch, there was a new note on my door. This one read, “Sorry for the inconvenience. Normal cable service has been restored.”

I canceled my cable service immediately. I don’t really watch television anymore.

But do you want to know the really scary part? The part that keeps me up at night?

That cable service obviously was not intended for me. So who was it intended for?

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Sharon’s note: Less a story note and more a life note: Girls, learn how to fight. I hear too many women say that they fear men or that they can’t stand up to them. Most guys are good people, but there are scumbags of every gender and, like any predator, they will target the weak. Don’t be weak. This means not only learning physical self-defense, but social self-defense as well. Look them in the eye, and let them know that you are nobody’s victim. With a fist if they give you no other choice. Too-Late-Warning: Author on a soap box. And now back to our story . . .

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Anice turned a corner into an alley and held up her phone like she was looking for a signal. About halfway to the next turn she saw in the camera over her shoulder that the two men were following her. They had to be the same two from earlier, the ones that had grabbed at her as she tried to leave the club. She put her phone in her pocket and picked up her pace.

After a turn or two past more old brick buildings, the two men broke into a run. Anice took flight, leading the chase even deeper into the labyrinth. The hunt abruptly came to an end when she came face to face with a brick wall, nearly crashing into it on a sharp turn. Spinning in place, she started to dash back the way she came thinking she had enough time to find another way. The men were closer than Anice had thought, and she was out of time. That was fine, she braced her feet and prepared to fight.

When they saw that she was no longer running, the men stopped. The shorter of the two men stepped forward, a sick grin blossoming on his face even as he panted from the chase. The man behind him said, “Damn, we had to earn this one.”

“Don’t touch me.Touch me and you’re dead.” Anice hissed. 

The shorter man brayed and casually reached for her. Anice’s hand flew and grabbed his thumb across the back of his hand, seizing a good portion of the meat of his palm. Sharply wrenching the hand over, she pulled his arm towards her while pushing her thumb into the back of his hand and tried to make his fingers point straight to the ground. 

The man yelped and tried to jump, only to cause himself even more pain as he launched himself against the lock. That was more than enough of a distraction. Anice kicked his knee out, causing him to crumple. She let go of his hand as he fell to the ground. He swore as he sprawled, and she picked up her foot and stomped down between his legs. 

The taller man had skipped back to avoid his falling companion. Now, he stepped forward having produced a short pocket knife from a pants pocket. He brandished it at Anice with an unpracticed hand. She took a step back, not against the brick wall, but near it. The tall man had to step around his curled up friend and made an awkward lunge with the blade as he cursed her.

Anice stepped to the side and put a hand on his arm as it passed her, not grabbing, but guiding. She guided it right into the brick wall behind her. The metal clinked as it stabbed uselessly at unyielding brick, and clattered as it wrenched from the man’s hand to fall on the cement. With an angry howl, he reached up and seized her ponytail, pulling her towards him.

Anice allowed him to pull her in and used the momentum to launch an elbow into his throat. The shock of the blow made the tall man release her hair. He tried to grasp his throat, but Anice darted forward to grab the back of his neck, fingers laced. With a hop, she slammed a knee into his groin. His head lowered in pain, so she took the opportunity to introduce her patella to his solar plexus.

It was then that she saw the first, shorter man slowly picking himself up the pavement. From his pocket he drew a small revolver. Anice drew the taller man’s head up to her shoulder and tucked it in tight, keeping him in front of her as a shield.

From somewhere above, a dark figure in a long, flapping coat dropped onto the man with the gun. For a moment the man on the ground was covered by the new figure. There was a brief scream and then silence. The long-coated figure stood and turned. He was dark haired with blood trickling down his chin. As he took a step towards Anice the man against her shoulder was starting to struggle. She heaved and shoved her attempted attacker towards the dark haired man.

The dark haired man snatched him and latched his mouth onto his neck. After a moment, he dropped his victim’s body to the ground and grinned at Anice. She crossed her arms and glared.

“And where were you?”

“I’m sorry, babe. I got held up.” The dark haired man’s smile turned sheepish.

“Held up?” Incredulity laced her voice. “I could have been shot, Jack.”

Jack winced. “I know. I’m sorry. Really, though, I was mugged outside the club. I had to deal with it.”

“Uh huh.” Anice crossed her arms and Jack knew he was in trouble. “And did you stop to eat?”

He folded his hands in front of him trying to look sweet. “Well, I figure I didn’t need to worry about you since I have the world’s most kick ass wife.”

“Don’t try to flatter me!” Anice wagged a finger at him.

“Why?” He took a few steps forward and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Is it working?”

Anice smiled in spite of herself. “It shouldn’t be.”

Jack chuckled and leaned in for a kiss. Anice jerked back. His eyes widened, confused. “What?”

“Don’t kiss me until you’ve brushed your teeth.” She shoved him away. “Right now you taste like rapist.”

Jack laughed. “I love you.”

Anice shook her head but smiled and said, “I love you too.”

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In a land slide win of 6 to 2, the winner is (Drum roll please): The Good, the Bad, and the Clowns.

As agreed by the authors, Sharon now owes James a batch of his favorite cookies. Let there be chocolate chip shortbread!

Thanks everyone for their participation. If you didn’t get a chance to vote, you can still read the stories by clicking on the links below. Have a safe and Happy Halloween Everyone!

Our Stories:

The Good, the Bad, and the Clowns

Funny Business

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James’s Note: Just in time for Halloween, enjoy a story about clowns. Just because people are afraid of them, doesn’t mean they’re all bad. It doesn’t mean they’re not all creepy, but they’re not all bad. Don’t forget to vote for this story in Halloween contest. I mean, come on, hobo clown.

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I ran for my life through the carnival, my son in my arms. “Don’t look behind us buddy, it’s going to be ok.” His head was buried in my chest as he clung to me like a baby possum.

Behind us, a demented cackle rang out as a creature straight out of my worst nightmare rounded the corner of the food stall. It would have looked like a clown, except for the bleeding eyes and a mouth full of razor blades. Talons caked with black bile burst from it’s white gloves and oversized shoes. 

I bent my head and tried to run faster, calling for help. Don’t ask me who I thought was going to be able to save us from a nightmare demon clown, but I didn’t really have a better plan, so I went with my instincts and screamed my head off.

My heart almost exploded when I smashed full speed into one of the carnival workers. He was dressed as a clown, but of the noticeably non evil variety. Ok, maybe his whole hobo theme was a little politically incorrect by modern standards, but he didn’t have freking razor blades in his freaking mouth, so I was willing to over look it.

I steadied myself from the crash, both of us managing not to fall over. The hobo clown gave a big goofy laugh. As a matter of fact, it sounded almost exactly like Goofy. 

“Easy there, Chief. Where’s the fire?” He honked his big red noise for punctuation.

“Man, you gotta run! That thing is going to kill us!” I paused only for a second as I pushed past and dove behind a game stall. I twisted as I fell to land hard on my back, trying to protect my son. I peeked around the stall and saw the monster come up short as the hobo clown stepped in front of it. Oh God, this guy was going to die.

“Whoa there, Buster.” The hobo held out his hand in a comically exaggerated stop gesture. “You look like you need a balloon animal.” He pulled several balloons out of his pocket and quickly began blowing them up.

The nightmare clown tilted its head and let out a screaming laugh. It began stalking towards the poor guy, murderous intent all over it’s deformed face. I wanted to look away, but couldn’t

“What’s your favorite animal, huh? I bet you like lions.” With almost superhuman speed, the hobo clown began assembling a balloon animal lion. It just kept getting bigger and bigger until the clown was holding a balloon lion’s head the size of a pony. 

Impossibly, the lion began to move on it’s own in a silent roar. The monster lunged forward for the kill just as the lion’s mouth closed over its head. The monstrosity struggled and screamed, but the lion’s balloon teeth held it fast. The lion whipped its head around and started swallowing the demon clown like a python.

The monster lashed and fought, but it’s talons couldn’t tear the lion’s rubber. I watched as it disappeared into the balloons. I had never noticed how much they looked like intestines until that moment. The hobo clown let go of the balloon and it shot off into the night, deflating as it went. He turned around and peeked at us over the stall. 

“You fellas ok, there?” He gave another of those Goofy laughs.

I just lay there speechless. My son finally lifted his head and looked this clown dead in the eye. “Are you one of the good clowns?” he asked with the gravity of a four year old.

“Why of course I am. Here, have a sucker.” My son looked to me. At this point, why the hell not. I nodded and he took the sucker. He reached out his hand to give the clown a solemn high five, which the clown ceremoniously returned. 

The clown turned and was walking away as I called after him, “Wait! What the hell just happened?”

The clown gave another big, Goofy ‘hyuck’, honked his nose again, and disappeared.

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