"When she remembers me, I'll be alive again."

"If she remembers you."

Good Habits

For the most part, trying to master any skill starts with carving out time to practice. On top of that, it's about finding slivers of opportunity in which to practice even more. 

Waiting in line at the grocery store? Discreetly check for security cameras. Most big stores have them everywhere, but what you want to do is learn to spot them without looking like you're trying to find them. 

If you're waiting for the barista to call your name for your coffee, scan the other customers as they go up ahead of you. You're looking for any obvious weak points. A limp. A cast on an arm or a wrist. Hearing aids or glasses with the thick, convex lenses that indicate farsightedness. A lot of people hold their car keys while they wait so you can get an idea of the make of their vehicle. With practice, you may even learn to tell what model. Again, discretion is key. Don't try to look like you're not looking. It's normal for people to look up at a loud noise, sudden movement, or someone shouting a name. Glance over like a normal human being, than return to what you were doing. Hold that image in your mind, that snapshot, and run your scan. 

And don't ever pretend to do something else while you look at the person. If you ever see someone looking at you while they're simultaneously doing something else, they're either a cop or a serial killer. Best to just pretend you didn't notice them surveiling you and proceed as normal until you can get out of their line of sight. Corners are good. Get around the corner, and then walk briskly, like you're an important person and you're late for a meeting. Do not run. Running is suspicious. Do not look back to see how close a pursuer might be. If they catch you, you'll know. 

Nowadays, it's suspicious to not have a cell phone, so bring a phone that isn't activated anymore, (maybe purchased with cash at a pawn shop) and fiddle with that while you hunt. 

Don't bring your actual phone; it will ping your location when it connects to cell phone towers. If the police try to connect you to the last known location of the trophy, that's the first thing they'll check. It'll show you were home, and if they're typicals, they'll just move on to the next suspect. Might be tricky if somebody calls or texts during that time and you didn't respond. But it's probably fine. Nobody ever calls you anyway. 

Fortune favors the prepared, and good luck is the residue of good planning. Remember, wherever there are people, there is the potential to be practicing. 

Happy Hunting. 

THE END

little curses

Welcome to my magic shop! Now, I imagine that like every new customer, you would like to jump right to the big stuff, and want to look at the spells that will summon tornadoes of living flame, pull the moon down from the sky, or sink entire continents into the sea.  

There is rarely a practical reason to do any of those things, and even if there were, I've met very few who could actually afford it. 

I would direct you, instead, to our fine selection of curses. Surely there is someone who has wronged you and who, while perhaps not deserving of death, needs a little less happiness in their life. 

Allow me to show you a few of them, to give you a general idea. Yes, they all have "official" names, but they're stupid and only hint at what they do. I prefer to list the descriptions.

Every sound they hear will be either too loud or too quiet, whichever is most inconvenient.

Every shower or bath feels freezing. (If it's hot enough to burn them, they will feel that so they can avoid injury; we're not monsters.)

Their breath will smell like a rotting yak, but only to themselves. They will always smell it when they open their mouth, and other people won't notice at all but they will feel like there's no way they don't and think they're just too nice to say that they reek.

Every stoplight they approach will be red. 

Whenever they are out alone at night, they will see an ominous moose in the distance, heading slowly in their direction. 

Their shoes will be always feel too big. 

Oh, and here's one of the cruelest ones, in my opinion:

All animals will dislike them, even their own pets. 

We can also customize them! One devilish girl was in yesterday and who wanted a curse that would make someone's boss be an incessant micro-manager, while ensuring the boss would never actually understand the tasks themselves. That was a tricky one, and it will only work while the person is under that specific boss, but honestly it is deliciously fiendish and I'm rather ashamed we didn't think of it ourselves. 

Now, what can I get you? 

THE END

The Fishing Hamlet

He was the only one left in his tiny fishing village that was still human. He had been away, over at one of the much larger, more prosperous towns scattered across the countryside, attempting to sell his meager catch of some herring and a few small cod, and by the time he returned home the next day, at dawn, everyone in the tiny fishing village had disappeared. 

The dozen little homes built around the small inlet were still, lifeless. The shutters were all fastened. The fishing boats were still tied to the docks, and despite the light dusting of snow on the ground, no smoke rose from any the chimneys. 

He had entered his home in a daze. His wife and child were gone. There were no signs of violence. 

He had checked the rest of the houses. All the same. Nothing out of place. It's as if everyone had just walked into the ocean. 

He had fallen asleep that night, somehow. When he awoke, there was a piece of paper on his chest. It read: "Sell the fish. Return with the money." It was in his wife's handwriting. 

He stepped outside and his horse was waiting there, hitched to the wagon. In the back of the wagon was a large crate. He looked inside, and there, packed in snow, was a massive bluefin tuna. 

Not knowing what else to do, he did as he was instructed, and went to nearest town. 

That single fish sold for more than he usually made in a year. He brought all the money back, and left it on the kitchen table. 

And so it went. Every morning, he would awaken to find valuable and exotic fish packed neatly in his wagon, and he would sell them and return with the money. Every night, he was coming back with wealth beyond his wildest dreams, but he only felt the numb confusion and terror one feels only in nightmares. 

The notes, still in his wife's handwriting, would occasionally instruct other things.

He purchased land, and over time, built a grand estate on it. The agents who came to update him on the progress were baffled by this rough, sullen man in simple clothes who lived in a weathered cottage being the one in charge of and financing such a grand project. 

He had tried to leave, once. He had awoken at dawn, and ridden his horse until it collapsed from exhaustion, and then he ran and ran until his legs gave out. He fell asleep under a little copse of trees. 

When he awoke, he was back in the fishing hsmlet, in his own bed, There was another note. It read: "No."

Last I heard, the man was still working to maintain and expand that incredible mansion that he'll never actually see. And that's just one of the ways vampires make their money. Perhaps you're working for one, too. There may be no way to know for sure, anymore. You could try running away, if there's still anywhere left to run to. 

The End

Note: I was literally falling asleep at the end at I threw on this ending so that I would be furious enough to change it later. It was either this ending or "it was all a dream" but even I'm not that cruel. 

Lurking

I keep seeing something in the dark. Something tall, and thin, that has arms at long they almost touch the ground. It usually walks, slowly, gingerly stepping over houses, lurching across the barren orchards and fields. Sometimes it drops to all fours, its head bent down to the ground like it's following the scent of prey. 

I don't think it has eyes. 

I don't think it needs them. 

No one else seems to have seen it, and I'm not stupid enough to bring it up. If I have lost my mind, why is it only this one thing? I can still do my boring office job, and my friends and family haven't said anything, other than some gentle teasing when I want to get home early; that I'm getting too old. 

I tried driving away, once. After hours of driving, just before dawn, there it was, loping towards me from the opposite direction. I broke down and wept. Finally I turned around and went home. 

What's been nagging me lately is why it has never done anything to me. It lurks, it stalks, it won't leave me alone, but it only ever watches. 

What if it's keeping something away? Protecting me from something even more horrifying. Or maybe I'm just bait, and it's waiting for something else. 

I'm going to find out. I'll go out into the fields tonight, alone, unarmed, and I'll wait. 

This torment demands an ending. 

THE END

Binary Blues

I had a quarter-tank of gas, more than enough to get me through the week. The night was cooler than it had been in weeks; finally felt a little like October. I sighed. I didn't want to get gas now, and I sure as hell won't want to get gas later. When nothing you do matters, then you are truly free. I grabbed my keys and put on my lobster sandals. 

The mutts wanted to come along, so I let them in the backseat of the car and rolled down the windows. The autoplay on the stereo connected to my phone and started playing dark jazz; the kind of music that sounds like it's punching you in the gut while it smothers you with a pillow. 

I don't remember selecting that music. 

The intersection is down to one lane, but it's late and not busy. In the orange streetlights, I see a man and a woman sitting on the sidewalk and chatting, their bags scattered around them. They seem resigned but not unhappy. It's dark and I can't be sure. There is a god of pain, I think, and they must have eluded him today. I can't be sure. It's late and dark. 

I remember the terror of uncertainty. I think I liked it. 

I tell myself that now, but I can't be sure. Whatever it is I'm doing now feels like mimicry. A pantomime of solitude. 

Moving slowly, like a shark, just fast enough to live, but not fast enough to get anywhere.

The gas station attendant is nowhere to be seen. I use the self-fill station. As I press the buttons on the keypad, it beeps at me and adds zeros and ones and zeros and ones in a repeating pattern. Some binary message, probably. But I don't know binary, so I ignore it. 

My tank is full, and my car says I can now go 500 miles, if I drive conservatively. I feel a little better. 

the pig men were becoming a real problem

The hybrids had escaped from the lab and were eating all the crops and generally wreaking havoc. They were only 33.3 percent human, to get around the 29th Amendment to the US Constitution, that had decreed a minimum threshold of 40 percent DNA of human origin was enough to grant human rights. (And yes, we know how genes work and that we share DNA with many creatures, all living things are made up of the same basic building blocks, but this specifically refers to the source, not just the sequence.). 

They were more like pig centaurs, I guess, but without a clear delineation between the pig part and the human part. Imagine a regular pig; now stretch out just the neck, up and out like a horse's, but about twice as long. More like a llama. Then give it the oval shape of a human head, but much larger, with small, deep-set eyes, a pig snout, triangular ears, and bristles poking out all over. Many of the males will grow tusks. 

And right underneath the head, jutting out from under the chin, are a pair of small arms and hands. They look like someone stuck the arms of a five-year-old kid on them as a joke. They have five fingers, but no fingernails. 

It's the most unsettling thing about them. They are mostly active at night, but sometimes during the day you can see them resting under a shade tree, eyes closed, with those little arms folded underneath. 

Or the way they drink water by dipping their whole heads just above the surface of the river or pond and the little hands will scoop up the water and they'll slurp it up. 

Once, as I stood on my porch with the sun setting behind me, I saw one shading its eyes with its hands as it crept up to the edge of my vegetable garden. 

It's hard to keep them out. With those damn hands, they can open gates and latches. Even doorknobs. 

Someone really outta do something about those pig-men.

the end? 

Not really because this was/is a draft, one of many where I start jotting stuff down, and it's not even what I would call a story because nothing happens. Describing odd stuff is not a story. There are threads there, at least. There are definitely lots of opportunities for creepy hand things. Picking their teeth. Digging. Greeting each other by touching each other's faces. Or maybe face-holding. Pigs are omnivores and will eat any meat they can get so it seems natural that eventually these pig-men will try to eat someone. We'll see.