In 666 Words

INTRODUCTION:

GET IT DONE IN 500 WORDS…PLUS 166 MORE

The number 666 terrifies me. It springs from a night in childhood when my friend James first told me that 666 is the number of the Devil. I still recall the goose bumps that erupted on my arms while spending the night in his basement listening to numerous scary "it really happened stories. These are the sort of tales that hold a great deal of gravity during the early AM hours, and the next morning you find yourself saying, What was I so frightened of? The humorous part is when I followed up our discussion the next morning (666 didn’t seem as scary in the sunlight) by asking him, So which number does God get?"

It’s hardly original to confine a story into a specified number of words. Drabbles, micro-fiction, and short-shorts have been popular in magazines and newspapers long before eBooks gave them a larger spotlight. As I worked on my first collection of short stories, Late Night Horrors (out in 2012), one of the more fun tales I penned was titled In 500 Words. It centered on a man, the devil, and a piece of paper. Sometimes those are the only components needed for a truly evil tale. The story ended up being too brutal to fit into the restricted word limit.

That night, while I lay in bed attempting to go to sleep, I remembered that childhood talk with James. Naturally, I thought if a story was going to center around Satan, the perfect length should be 666 words. Things fell into place with that tale. Then, as writers tend to do, I felt the need to continue my flash-fiction experiment. Lots of vicious little ideas were floating around my mind, note pads, index cards, napkins, and Word documents. They all screamed out to be given life as a story. However, did they need three thousand words?

In any slasher movie there’s a great body count before the audience travels with the hero (usually heroine) in a race with the killer spiraling headlong towards the film’s finale. But what about all those poor friends, co-workers, and family members who died earlier? Don’t each of them have a story to tell? The answer of course is YES. Sadly, their story is usually: try to get laid…and then die brutally—the cinematic equivalent of flash-fiction. When you’re introduced to these characters, you want them to be happy, have sex, and survive the weekend camping expedition…but it’s probably not going to work out that way.

The phrase, Hit them hard! Hit them fast! came to mind and I decided upon my word count goal for each of these horrific tales. For me, 666 is no longer solely about the Devil and religion. It’s a number that represents scares. Short, vicious, in-your-face horror. And if we’re all honest with ourselves, that’s how fear tends to hit us in reality. We’re never subjected to long torments that stretch on for days or weeks. It’s usually a split second decision thrown brutally at us and it’s all over before we even know what occurred. With such a brief glimpse into the life of a character in flash-fiction, it’s safe to assume that we’ll be visiting a dark moment…perhaps their final moment. And we should never expect a happy ending.

I certainly mean no religious connotations when I use 666 to confine each of these morbid stories. It’s a cheesy gimmick, but I like to think it works. When you’re reading a short-short it helps to start each tale knowing what you’re getting into. If the number bothers you, then you have two options. You can do what I did when I explained this book’s concept to my wife: They’re short stories of 500 words…plus 166 additional words. Or you can take the approach I used as a child. Wait for the sun to come up and pretend that nothing scares you.

I recommend the first method, because if you’re relying on the second one…the sun doesn’t stay around forever.

Michael E. Grant

A SIMPLE PICNIC

I find my spot on the soft, green grass. The summer breeze drifts through the air as the blanket swings outward and gently settles to the ground. As a young girl, some thirty years ago, I remember my family going on picnics every Sunday in the summer. Mother always said it was never a true picnic unless you could kick off your shoes and rest upon a nice blanket in the sun.

Next I unpack the basket with all the accoutrements needed for a successful picnic. There are sandwiches, pasta salad, lemonade, cookies, and a surprise for Jon, if he can behave himself.

Of course, that’s the problem. Jon, my husband, has yet to arrive. How typical. I can only think of one time he was ever prompt for anything, and it certainly wasn’t our wedding. But if this picnic is going to work, I need to focus on happy thoughts. I look to the sky, the white clouds in the distance, and the inspiring beauty of the setting sun.

The blanket still holds some warmth from the final rays of the sun, so I lay my face against it as I stretch out and wait. The food looks delicious, and although I am tempted, I wait for my husband’s arrival. A wave of excitement fills me, almost like our first date so long ago.

With my ear pressed to the ground I hear the first sounds of his arrival. Apparently Father Bell was correct when he told me of the conditions that took Jonathan’s life. I was so distraught that the very notion of vampires seemed insulting. However, a widow spends a great deal of time being lonely and thinking of any possibility of reuniting with her one true love.

I sit up as the ground bulges close to me. The fresh dirt extends, and slowly I can see his black hair rising, dirt falling all around. Holding my breath I sit silently and wait to see his eyes. The pupils stare blankly for a moment and then soon focus towards our picnic spot.

There is a low moan as his mouth opens, as if for the first time. His tongue slides out, licking more dirt from his lips. In that moment I see the precision points of his new fangs.

Jon pulls his arms and chest up from the ground. His eyes see me for the first time and he hisses with anger. I am not afraid of him. I notice that he’s struggling to free himself from the soil around his tombstone so I use the time to my advantage.

Jonathan, I brought this for you. I produce the glass bottle from my picnic basket and pop the cork. I wave the end of the bottle in front of him until I am satisfied that he smells my blood inside it. His pawing at the ground halts, as does his hissing, and I know that I have his full attention.

Do you want this? I offer the bottle to him.

He nods his head and then begs with outstretched arms. Within a moment the bottle is in his hands and he drinks hungrily.

Not too fast, dear, I say as I finally begin eating my own food. If you drink it too quickly we won’t be able to enjoy this wonderful picnic I have set up for us.

Jon pauses in his slurps, a trickle of blood sliding down his chin.

I hand him a napkin and his dirty hand snatches it from my fingertips. For just a moment our hands touch.

Please wipe your face off, dear. There is a moment of pause and then, to my astonishment, he does as he’s told. In twenty years of marriage, I can’t think of any time that Jonathan has done that. I glance over my shoulder to the wooden stake and holy water lying in the bottom of the picnic basket. Perhaps I won’t need these. After all, it would ruin our wonderful picnic.

FLAT

Maggie loved the solitude of driving her car, singing with the radio, gathering thoughts for her book, or reflecting on memories in life. The trip from Boston to Las Vegas may have made other people consider booking an airline ticket, but she never gave it a second thought. She took the time off work, packed the car and was on her way to visit her best friend and see the sights.

Even the barren stretch of highway she had driven on for the past hours didn’t worry her. The mechanic inspected her car two days prior and gave it a perfect grade. The gas tank was full and the weather sunny and hot but not unbearable. Cruising along at fifty-five miles an hour with the window down and a stream of fresh air worked wonders on her stress.

As her black Ford Focus descended a hill she looked out at the expanse in front of her. Nothing to see except sand…and one