Tandom Story: The Party (Horror/Humor)

by Chris (Kit) Hugh 5/29/11
Another tandem story. Anchorite wrote most of it, but Chris Hugh jumped in to mess around here and there.


Achorite

I hate going to these formal parties. Everyone wears the latest fashions, but I smell the rancid, stale sweat beneath their sweet perfumes and I see the lice burrowing and crawling through their immaculately styled hair.

I take an orange from the fruit basket and throw it down in disgust when I see the sickly green and gray fuzz of mold and shake off the worms and maggots that burst out of the rotten fruit and nearly crawl onto my hand. I then walk down the hallway towards the privy, deftly navigating through the bodies strewn about in varying stats of intoxication and taking special care to not step on the glass shards from shattered bottles and the spent but still sharp needles.


After I relieved myself, taking care not to touch any of the filthy surfaces, I walked back towards the ballroom. I saw a minor nobleman who I vaguely recognized from the news sheets escorting a giggling young tart who was clearly not his wife into an empty chamber. I shook my head and proceeded until I came across a scene that I could not ignore.

I saw another nobleman in the distance; I was too far away to hear what he said, but his lascivious smile spoke clearly enough. He addressed a young girl who looked like she was barely a teenager. Tears flowed from her eyes as she slowly unbuttoned her blouse for the nobleman's amusement. Her crystalline tears shone as brightly as the pistol that he pointed at her forehead. I reluctantly tolerated more decadence this night than any normal person should, but this was too much. I knew that I had to do something, although I began running towards them before I completed that thought.


by Chris (Kit) Hugh 5/29/11
 Chris Hugh

I slapped him and his skin came away in my hand. Worms dripped from the ruin that had been his face and piled on the floor, wriggling in an orgy of delight. The man sank to the floor, deliquescing into a puddle of clear slime. The girl screamed and screamed, the sound echoing inside my skull until I couldn't stand it. I quieted her. She kept waking up and breathing and I had to smother her over and over, but finally it was quiet and I was alone.

Anchorite

After sitting alone in my thoughts for a brief while, I stood and proceeded to leave this sordid scene behind. I found the door locked and barred and then felt my head lighten as I struggled to breathe in this thinning air. I frantically struggle with the lock and scrape off the door's paint with my fingernails in desperation as my vision blacks out for the final time.

Chris Hugh

Then the noise started, the incessant pounding, pounding, edging its way into my consciousness. I fell to the floor clutching at my ears. I looked across at the girl. She had opened her eyes again, the whites of them covered with tiny hemorrhages. A voice began shouting my name.

I rolled over and punched pillow. "Five more minutes, Mom!"

I showered, got dressed and came down to breakfast. Mother smiled and poured milk into my cereal bowl. A earthworm crawled out of it onto the table. "Good morning, sweetheart. So is she dead now?"

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Duelling Stories: The Immortal

This is a tandem story. My writing buddy emailed me the beginning. It was meant to be a two-sentence super short story, but I liked it so much I was inspired to add to it and send it back. Then he added more and sent it back to me and so on. The thing is, Anchorite writes deeply nuanced literary fiction while I'm into cheesy drama! The back-and-forth is kinda... funny.


Anchorite

He opened the envelope to read the enclosed funeral invitation written in an elegant, dignified script appropriate for the solemn occasion. By his uncertan count, she was the last of his former lovers that he had outlived. He sighed and wondered if his suit still fit.

Chris Hugh

He managed to arrange his face into a suitable expression, hiding his inward smile from the courrier. So the last of his former lovers had died. How sad. "I wonder if my black suit will still fit," he mumbled, hoping for an excuse for a quick flight to London's Saville Row to have a new one made. And if he didn't make it back in time for the funeral, oh well. ..

He looked at the card again. Something not right about it. It wasn't addressed to him after all, but it featured his name prominently.

The courier took out a pistol and pushed him back into the foyer. "I'm sure we can arrange special fitting for the guest of honor."

Anchorite

He had lived for several lifetimes and would not allow a two-bit thug to end his long life. Better men had tried and none had succeeded. He aimed the silver letter opener at the gunman’s hand and although he cursed silently at the resonant clang of his missile hitting the gun itself, the impact still threw off his aim enough to send the shot wide. He nimbly jumped for cover behind the antique sofa, thankful that he never failed to take his daily walk despite his advanced age. He heard the bullets whiz by like angry insects and felt the impact of the shots that hit the sofa. His erstwhile assassin had a semi-automatic weapon according to the rate of fire, which explained why it was too heavy for the letter opener to knock out of his grip. He had, however, bought valuable time to devise a plan to escape this trap alive. He had triumphed in worse situations and this nondescript goon was neither the first nor the last to make an attempt on his life. He had full confidence in his ability to survive, although he could not say the same for his beloved and unique antique sofa.


Chris Hugh
(and somehow the story switches into the first person)

She lunged at me, black veils streaming behind her. "Widow's weeds," we used to call them, way back when. I dodged casually and she tripped on her medium-height shoes with rounded toes and fussy Louis heels. They were all the rage during the Roaring 20's, but now they just looked clumsy. The strap on one of them broke.

"Bastard!" she screamed, throwing the quaint thing at me and drawing a knife from her beaded bag. I guessed not all of my old lovers were dead after all. Only love can transform itself into such ridiculous hate.
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Tandem Story: A Hero's Heart

This is a tandem story. My writing buddy Anchorite wrote the first two lines. I wrote the next two.

Anchorite


My colleagues think that I'm the bravest hero they've ever met. They don't, however, know the truth: I only take such seemingly courageous risks because I no longer care whether I live or die.

Chris Hugh continues

But when they say I have the sweetest, kindest heart in the world, they are right. I keep it in a jar under my bed. Pin It Now!

Email from a Dragon

He does have a childlike quality, tho


Personally, or I should say, dragon-ally, since I'm a dragon, not a person, I like the modern age. When you're an immortal, you'd better be able to adapt or you become a fossil, and I've seen enough of my forebears hanging around museums, shells of their former selves, to convince me to keep up with the times.

Sure, modern living has its drawbacks. I hate that bootlicking, politically-correct sellout Barney, the purple jerk. And when someone tells my chronicler and portraitist that I have a "childlike, storybook vibe," I long to sweep down on that someone's village, breathing fire and ruin, rejoicing as the half-starved peasants flee and curse my name through charred lips with their last breaths as I cast them, screaming, into the outer darkness, I'll show them a childlike, storybook vibe. But things like that aren't done anymore. Not by dragons who don't want to a Tomohawk-missile suppository, they aren't. Don't mess with the U.S.

Yes, modern living has its drawbacks, but I've landed a good gig. My main job is championing a thirty year old warrior named Troy in a game called Dungeons and Dragons. I gather the dragons together, Troy musters his warrior guild, and we play in Troy's parents' dungeon, also known as the basement where Troy lives. Oops, gotta run. My second job is calling. There's a maiden in some backwoods Podunk Hicksville dump I need to devour. I'm scheduling extra time because I have to generate an electromagnetic pulse to knock out the electronics in the area before I get started. You never know which pitchfork-wielding Neanderthal has a cellphone with a camera, and I can't afford to wind up on YouTube.

GTG. KTHXBYE.

Sent from my iPad

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If you liked this story, you might like The Dragon with the Girl Tattoo, my bitterly sarcastic but humorous parody of the execrable novel by Stieg Larsson Pin It Now!

100-word story: Death and Understanding

This is written from the point of view of Mr. Kitten, a cat. It occurs right after a safe falls on someone's head....


Helen bowed her head, more shocked than the others at the death. Keenly I felt the gulf between myself and the lesser animals. I longed to make her understand that life and death are the twin strands that form the thread with which the Fates weave our lives. I wanted her to know that what seems dark and pointless today is revealed tomorrow as the masterstroke of a divine hand, for is the contrast of light and dark that weaves beauty into the rich tapestry of life. But the nearest I could do was throw up on her Persian rug. Pin It Now!

Short-short sketch

Another sketch from the Mr. Kitten Murder Mystery. Are Steve (Helen's husband) and Tiffany (Helen's personal trainer) having an affair? Mr. Kitten doesn't seem suspicious, but someone else is. Someone who might have been better off paying attention to his own business....


Safe Sex

I wandered past Tiffany and Steve as they disappeared into the back guestroom again, then I padded down the hall and around the corner where Elliot and our new investigative expert were crouching.

Furbaugh was practically licking his lips and rubbing his hands together. "So, did you get it?"

"Yeah," Elliot mumbled, packing up his periscope-style camera lens. "We filmed them going into the guestroom. Big deal. Don't you have a safe to install?"

Still squating, Furbaugh leaned back against the paneled wall. A smiled spread across his face. "They're having sex and we're putting in a safe. We should call this the 'safe sex' episode." He ran a hand through his thick waves of gray hair and stood up. "I'll go downstairs and direct the crane operator. Drop what you're doing and get ready to film me."

Elliot watched Furbaugh walk briskly down the hall to the back stairs. Then he turned toward the master bedroom, where the safe was to be lifted through the window.

"Yeah, you get down there below the safe. I'll drop it alright." Pin It Now!

Duelling Stories

Three super-short stories

Bored on a Rainy Day
by Anchorite

He sighed and stared forlornly out the window, bored on a rainy day. On days like this when he had nothing to do, he regretted wishing to live forever



The Invitation Arrives by Mail
by Anchorite

He opened the envelope to read the enclosed funeral invitation written in an elegant, dignified script appropriate for the solemn occasion. By his uncertan count, she was the last of his former lovers that he had outlived. He sighed and wondered if his suit still fit.





The Immortal
by Chris Hugh

He looked at the elegant funeral invitation and managed to arrange his face into a suitable expression, hiding his smirk from the courrier. So the last of his former lovers had died. How sad. "I wonder if my black sut will still fit," he mumbled, hoping for an excuse for a quick flight to London's Saville Row to have a new one made. And if he didn't make it back in time for the funeral, oh well...


He looked at the card again. Something not right about it. It wasn't addressed to him after all, so why did it feature his name?

The courier took out a pistol and pushed him back into the foyer. "I'm sure we can arrange special fitting for the guest of honor." Pin It Now!