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Halloween is fast bearing down upon us!
We had some fun with this last year, but for 2015 I'd like to broaden the genre of the three-sentence story invitation from "horror" to "weird tale". This, I believe, will allow for greater scope in thematic content and tone.
So—can you deliver a pungent weird tale to the reader in but 3-30 sentences? Call it what you will—dart-fiction, slashed slash-fiction, minimalist fiction—let's get our creative juices flowing!
I do hope you'll let the writers who post here know if their work made you groan, laugh out loud, whimper in fear, giggle or shudder with shock.
To start us off, a couple of examples:
..............................
"When you hear the snap of my fingers you will awaken!" cried the mesmerist.
SNAP!
She hadn't been crunching into a melon's rind after all, but rather the juicy, severed head of her youngest, Esteban.
..............................
With a soft scuttle of finely haired pinchers and feet, the moisture-maddened insect whisper-tapped its way across the tympanic membrane and bored its way onward and upward, to the pulsing meat of the brain.
Rose swiped at her ear, rolled over and continued snoring.
At dawn her beeping alarm clock jolted her awake to a pounding headache and freshets of purple-black blood staining the sheets.
..............................
BANG!
ZOOM!
TO THE MOON flew startled Alice—whilst Ralph plunged straight to hell.
..............................
NOTE: (October 5th revision to the rules): I didn't want to start an entirely new thread for this on-going writing exercise, but have decided to broaden the rules re: the number of sentences allowed under this particular form (in case that might be holding some of us back from posting). Going forward, let's call this the 3-30 sentence short-short weird tale (or 3-30 SSSWT). Why 3-30 sentences? One or two sentences seems more an aside or quip than a tale, and 30+ sentences would most likely exceed two pages of narrative. So—three-to-thirty sentences it is: no more; no less. Show us what'cha got!
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 10/13/2015, 3:11 AM--
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Carl--love that you are starting this up again this year! I will be mulling over what to post . . . .
Your examples are sooooo creepy, LOL!!
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Awesome, Carl! We've missed you!
I have to think of what to write for this . . .
And I agree with Lucy: Those examples are creepy *shivers*
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@Lucy & Amber: Can't wait to see what you guys come up with!
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No other submissions yet? Anyone? Anyone?
Very well; I'll contribute another three of my own.
.......................
“Mommy, can I come to bed?”
The light clicked on and she stared at
him in horror.
He forgot—he'd been dead four months.
…....................
There sounded a muted, repetitive
scritching sound, in tandem with a faint squeak-squeak-squeak.
Brad shifted on the toilet, had just flipped a
page of Weird Tales magazine when a sharp pain lanced into his left buttock.
He leaped up, clasped a hand to his
bleeding ass, glanced down—there, treading water in the
bowl—whiskers quivering, worm-like tail snaking back and forth—a
beady-eyed rat, meeping softly.
…....................
A ghastly slice of ghostly toast went
wandering, warbling by.
Horrid grape jelly dripped onto my
belly; I fled from the room with a cry.
Dogged and dancing, toast ever
advancing . . .
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/10/2015, 10:14 PM--
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Jessie was sitting at a chrome-legged
table in the kitchen salting a hard-boiled egg when the alarm clock
went off and she jolted awake in bed.
Jesus, I dreamed I was already up
and eating breakfast, she thought to herself as she sat up, swung her legs over the side of the mattress and—
The alarm clock went off and she jolted awake in bed.
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/10/2015, 10:15 PM--
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Okay! I've got something--don't know how good it is, but here goes:
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Karla rolled over in bed and felt something warm and sticky beneath her hand. Jolting awake, she whipped upright and stared in horror. There, beside her on the mattress, lay the mutilated corpse of her babe, and in her mouth, she tasted the flesh of his throat.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Omigod, that's so gory! I can't believe that came out of my head. Does that make me sick? *shivers*
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@Amber: ROFL! Sorry to laugh but it is funny that you freaked yourself out and then briefly agonized about it in public. Heh! Gory as hell, girl . . .
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Well, Carl, so long as I made you laugh, I suppose that ill-written three sentences was worth my moral turmoil, lol 
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Alice prayed to the faeries of forest and glen that they might save her from father's drunken wrath, leaving gifts of honeyed fruit, strips of silk and bits of mother's cast-off jewelry in the ancient holy places she'd seen pictured in vellum-covered books stolen from the school library.
She knew her father returned home from the pub most Fridays 'round midnight.
What she couldn't anticipate is that this night, a thousand points of light clutching teeny sawed-off shotguns manufactured in Lilliputian armories would cause Errol Donnelly to explode like a meatloaf balloon as he reeled up the walkway home.
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/16/2015, 3:00 AM--
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Three 3-In-Ones
She awoke, thinking she'd left her curtains open / and
the sunrise was blinding until she blinked / and saw the big light over the
operating table.
The astronaut tugged his lifeline to propel himself back
to the hatch / only to see he was now tethered / to a wildly gyrating chain
saw.
Peering over the edge of the cliff while leaning into the
wind, / Cliff opened wide his arms and imagined he was flying / ....
Welcome back, Your Zanyness. We missed you.
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@GD, so glad to see you here! Veteran writer and Master of the BC Discussion Starter Topic—I am honored you chose to grace this particular discussion with your weird words. (I can't decide if I like your 1st or 2nd three-sentence weird tale (3-SWT? Ugh!) better. The first is a very clean, tight, thematically-unified little chiller, whilst the second reminded me of the panels you might find in an old Creepy or Eerie Warren publication. 3rd example is no slouch either; it's a nice little bitter-biter. Well done!)
Now, if we can only get others to post: Mimi, Lucy, Herb, Janet, LeeAnna, Atthys Gage, Angela, Tom, et. al. Come out, come out, wherever you are . . .
My new entry:
...............................
It was a beautiful day for a picnic: sunshine, light breeze, temperature in the mid-70s.
No warning sirens sounded.
But after uncorking the Riesling—nicely chilled from the cooler—Susan and Brad looked up from their wine to find a billowing mushroom cloud where Boston had been.
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/10/2015, 10:17 PM--
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Ha! I love it, Carl. Especially given that a main theme
of my new novel is "human behavior never changes."
Here we are in the 21st Century and you come up with that
(op cit) 3-line horror story. And I'm old enough to remember the Lyndon Johnson for President commercial from 1964:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dDTBnsqxZ3k
Go watch it. You won't believe it. But it's true: human
behavior never changes.
--edited by GD Deckard on 9/9/2015, 8:04 AM--
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@GD: I was one years old in 1964, so my memories of the Lyndon Baines Johnson political campaign are not as vivid as I might wish. I do recall lying on my back in a crib that hot and seemingly endless Chicago summer, tiny feet pistoning in the air as I waved clenched fists, gesticulating with darting tongue and wriggling monkey ears as I endeavored to convey my trenchant yet nuanced opinions on the campaign to Father. But the only reaction I ever got from him to these heartfelt perorations was a hand lifted soberly to stubbled chin, followed by a hoarse shout: "Mabel, get in here! I think the kid doodied in his diaper again."
This filled me with rage and I realized there was no god. I vowed to master linguistics and semiotics in the fall in order to improve my communication skills, but these plans were forestalled when a stuffed rabbit named Dr. Pierre Jean-Paul Malarkey and I were introduced at a local dime store that black September. I fell under his Svengali-like spell for the next three years, burning through hundreds of cases of typewriter ribbons and tons of acid-free paper as I imitated the good doctor's withering scorn for the American Pragmatic school of literary formalism in favor of deconstructivist tactics of literary criticism championed by Jacques Derrida. Subverting the logical coherence of a unified work in favor of highlighting its internal inconsistencies and contradictions lead inevitably to a nervous breakdown at the age of five (see my memoir, Snot Bubbles & Deconstructivist Doodling: An Infant's Tale) and it was years before I could again bear the sound of an Irish-French accent or the mocking, high keening tones of a P.h.'d Leporidae of the order Lagomorpha.
.............
All kidding aside, GD: Yep, that political commercial is a bone-chilling classic of the "vote-for-the-other-candidate-and-the-world-ends" (literally!) type. It'll be talked about many centuries hence, I venture.
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/10/2015, 10:09 PM--
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"Mommy, Mommy! The ghost people are here again."
"Hush, child—we're the ghosts."
..........................
"Daddy, Daddy—I'm scared!"
"I know," he said and let go.
Danny screamed all sixty-six floors down to the sidewalk.
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I didn't realize there was a creep party going on! These are great fun. Alright, here's one:
Softy pink, plump and squishy, the fist found her neck again and squeezed.
Close up, the pale moon face loomed, breath wet with cookie pap spittle.
"No, dolly," bellowed the angry moon, "no try get away!"
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@Atthys: Hey, look who joined the party! A stand-out entry, sir--as creepy as it is funny. Heh-heh! (Wish I'd written it.)
Who's next?
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A Crazed Survivalist's Christmas Carol
(Yes, technically this is four sentences but that's the least of our problems here . . .)
.........................
Up on the rooftop reindeer paws / gore-spattered antlers, guts & jaws
Down through the chimney drops 'ole St. Nick / beard afire with a burnt off dick.
Ho-ho-ho; mines in the snow! Napalm bombs atop the roof did blow!
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/13/2015, 12:59 PM--
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@Carl: OMG, Carl! That's horrible!
Now, whenever I hear that song, I'm going to recall what you wrote. Thanks for that. You've ruined it for me.
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@Amber: Heh-heh! It 'tis; it truly 'tis mos' 'orrible; mos' 'orrible indeed, ma'am. Mea culpa; mea maxima culpa.
(But did you notice the alliteration? The assonance? The crazed syntactical energy, tight and jarring as a rattling snare drum? Even manic faux-madness requires some measure of craft and artistry . . .)
Who's up next?
Mimi, we're waiting . . .
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/13/2015, 12:45 AM--
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Statistically-speaking, airline travel is the safest form of transportation there is, she reminded herself as the plane jolted and shuddered through hard turbulence, luggage thumping and rattling in the overhead storage racks, her fellow passengers gasping aloud.
Jaime had a white-knuckled death-grip on her seat's armrests, lips moving in silent prayer.
So it was with a mixed sense of both horrified incredulity and paralyzing shock that she heard the loud crack of the fuselage shattering and beheld the robin's-egg blue of the sky beyond, followed immediately by the high-altitude shriek and howl of icy winds as loose papers, pens, food wrappers, tissues and the odd article of clothing whipped past and out the gaping hole—the plane first rising up on one wing and then flipping over on its back as it plummeted toward the mountains below, muffled screams from the people around her sounding faint and distant over the wind-roar that filled the cabin as she banged about in her seat ("fasten your seat belts" the sign had warned)—a despairing, repetitive thought running through her head: It's not fair; it's just not fair—the odds were on MY side . . ."
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/29/2015, 7:45 PM--
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Good one, Carl 
I've got another one:
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The boy hit the bird with a stone. And down the bird did fall, right into the boy's gaping, laughing mouth, to be lodged forevermore in his esophagus.
Payback's a bitch.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Ha. I like that one. --edited by Amber J. Wolfe on 9/14/2015, 1:25 AM--
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@Amber: Heh! I, too, like that one--a cartoonish example of the story type they call "biter bitten".
Thanks for helping to keep the thread alive.
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No problem, Carl
I'm having fun reading your 3 sentence stories--I both dread reading them and love reading them, because they're all so creepy.
Here's another one that's coming off the top of my head:
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Glittering black wings aflame, the dragon roared and flew through the smokey red haze. With maw opened wide, it torched the denizens below with white-blue fire, forever burning the screaming, wriggling masses of bodies.
From his throne high above, Satan watched with a little smile.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Hmm, I like to think my story telling skills have improved since last year
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Two variations on a theme:
..............................................
"I threw all of your books in the garbage," Mother said.
That night, he killed her while she slept.
Prisons had libraries (unlike the house wherein he currently found himself imprisoned).
..........................
"I burned all of your escapist trash while you were at school today," Father said. "Your comic books and magazines; those goddamn fantasy, science-fiction and horror paperbacks."
That night Bobby made his greatest and final escape—he hung himself.
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/15/2015, 2:58 AM--
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LOL Amber & Carl...
y're having too much fun with this.
Get back to work!
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@GD: I am at work! One a day. How's about gracing this thread with another good'un of yours, Mr. Deckard?
PS. Just returned from the Skokie Barnes & Noble. Went up there to re-work an older story of mine concerning the death of Poe; should have it posted here on BC in 30 days or so.
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/15/2015, 12:44 AM--
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Awesome, Carl! It's great to see you getting back in the saddle
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@Amber: Thank you for your unflagging encouragement and support. Much obliged!
And now:
.................
Clad in a cowled black robe, on his knees in the center of a pentagram laid out with burning candles and grinning skulls, Victor intoned: "Come, Master; I offer you my eternal soul in exchange for Earthly wealth and power."
The door opened and Satan strode into the incense-heavy room, accoutered in a smart pin-striped suit, red power tie and thousand-dollar wingtip shoes.
His Dark Majesty pocketed his cell phone, glanced with arched brow at the upside-down iron crucifix bolted to the wall, the lurid images of demons and monsters painted on the ceiling—and said: "Really?"
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/16/2015, 1:48 AM--
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@Carl: Ha, good one, Carl
Here's another one off the top of my head:
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Jacob shoveled down his spaghetti in the dark, marveling at how the noodles could be so slippery yet so tasty. He paused with his fork midway to his mouth when his wife flicked on the light switch and gasped, "Jacob, what on God's green earth are you eating?!"
Turned out he'd been eating the veins in his arm.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
That probably doesn't make any sense, but it came off the top of my head so that means sense flew out the window when I first started writing that, lol.
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Oh, wow, Amber--gross!!
Here's one that came off the top of my head:
She turned around and said to the human man following her home, "I don't think you want to do what you're doing."
"I can't make sure a girl gets home safe at night?" he asked, walking a little faster to catch up.
Instead of replying, she beckoned the others out of the shadows.
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"How can this happen?" I let out a horrid cry. It was my worst nightmare come to life. Donald Trump is now our 45th President.
AAAAAAAAAHHHH!
No offense to any who supports Trump. Good to be back! LOL
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Oooh, good one, Lucy
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@Amber: OMG, ROFL!!! (as the Millennials might text . . . ) What a creepy, surrealist bit of inspired madness! I truly did not see that one coming. By far your best yet—a startling image of pure lurid-lit horror from the hypnogogic borderland between waking consciousness and the dis-associative madness of dreams: a medieval anatomist oil painting done by some mad Florentine artist tripping his balls off on ergot-rotted bread.
@Lucy: You're here; now it's a party! I like the sudden "tables turned" of your 3-SWT; it has a primal mythic quality to it that resonates like a grim faery tale.
@Zach: Nice work there! As far as I'm concerned you need not apologize to any Donald Trump supporters who might drive by this lil' 'ole outre thread. What constituency are you worried about offending anyway—the blowhard, racist, misogynistic, narcissist, low-information, rage-aholic demographic?! Frig 'em! Let 'em "bleed from their whatevers" (as "The Donald" himself might say) if they can't take a poke, the whiny little red-faced bullies . . .
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/17/2015, 3:46 AM--
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Thanks for the compliment, Carl
It means a lot, coming from you.
I'll try to think of more 3 sentence Weird tales to post tomorrow.
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Three Mad Nursery Rhyme Trifles:
Jack & Jill went up the hill / to fetch a pail of water
Jack had the knack & Jill was chill
& now they have a daughter.
.......................
Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet / eating her curds & whey
along came a spider who sat down beside her
said, "Da fuck you eatin'?!"
.......................
Hey diddle-diddle / the cat & the fiddle / the cow jumped over the moon
The little dog laughed to see such fun / & the dish ran away with the spoon.
I'm putting this dealer on speed-dial . . .
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/16/2015, 8:06 PM--
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Good ones, Carl. Those are funny
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@Carl Thank you Mr. Reed. You'd be surprise when I put in a Trump joke on a Facebook article and there are a few idiots who are like, "How dare you say that about Donald Trump. He's our Lord and Savior. You should burn in Hell." And I'm like, "Ok chill."
Any who, here is a real scary story.
"Daddy, will you check the closet for monsters?" My son sheepishly begs as I tuck him under the covers. Humoring him I open the small door. My eyes widen when I see what appears to be my son curled into a shaking ball, looking at me with his fearful eyes and whisper, "Daddy, there is something in my bed!"
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@Zach: Hey, that is good! You should write that up into a longer form and submit it somewhere.
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Here's another one from the abyss of my mind (Please forgive me. I'm pretty sure it's stupid):
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Dank and musty is the air here, in this dungeon cell I own. Cold and wet is the stone. Sharp and lethal is the knife I plunge into my heart, to escape this hell I've made.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
It's probably stupid, like I said. Just wanted to write it out
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@Amber: Well, that one's still in the process of jelling, eh? Good! Let your subconscious work on it; you'll find ways to sharpen it in another day or two when you re-read your work. (Leastwise, that's how it always works for me . . .)
.......................
How about we listen in on how "The Masters" do it today?
Yes, I say "do it"—not past-tense "did it"—for this work is now immortal; these particular poetic lines have lost none of their power to jolt and shock. They can still kindle a kind of fierce Dionysian ecstasy and thrilling frisson of dread in the most jaded heart of the tone-deaf, cynical modern reader.
Also: some of these examples run to more than three lines. Ah, but look at what "The Masters" do with three sequential lines, time-after-time . . .
.......................
Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
― Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
.......................
In the Desert
BY STEPHEN CRANE
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;
“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
“And because it is my heart.”
.......................
The Raven (first three stanzas)
Edgar Allen Poe
“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door — Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; — This it is, and nothing more."
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/25/2015, 9:21 PM--
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The sodden doll sat astride his face.
Rick thrashed and kicked, attempting to buck the suffocating mass from his mouth, arms pinned at his sides.
He awoke to a gray-drizzle dawn, face jammed into a pillow slick with saliva.
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/19/2015, 11:07 AM--
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Long bullied at school for having "the Innsmouth look"—wide-set eyes; preternaturally white, scaly skin; no hair—Billy inquired of his mother, "Is there fish DNA in our recent gene pool?"
"Don't be ridiculous; you're as much mammal as those apes who tease you."
He sighed with relief as the spoon squirted out from between his flippers.
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/19/2015, 7:47 PM--
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Albert slept alone, yet could feel another body pressed up against his back.
He rolled over and jumped with shock at his own wide-staring eyes.
The walls, ceiling and floor began to fade away—along with the room's furniture, the watercolor of the street scene in Paris hanging above the dresser, the lamp and alarm clock on the bedside table—as Albert crossed over to . . . elsewhere.
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/26/2015, 3:44 AM--
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Dr. Stamford held forth after dinner in the parlor: "We belong dead," he said, "after all, going back 200,000 years, to the very dawn of our species, everyone who has ever lived has died—as will countless billions of our descendants born to some unimaginable, far-distant future—naught but transient morsels of vain, oftentimes idiotic meat, shambling about the planet for the merest picosecond of geologic time before lying down and submitting to our collective destiny: putrid food for the blind, wriggling things of insectile Earth."
Furious, his wife's eyes blazed at him. "This," she hissed, "is exactly the reason why we aren't invited to more Georgetown parties!"
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/22/2015, 4:38 AM--
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Elephant-tusked, scorpion-tailed, crocodile-jawed—frenzied as a nest of disturbed hornets, after the drill bit broke through the cavern roof of their queen's nesting chamber—ten-thousand doom wasps of Demden IV (each larger than a T-rex) streaked in a buzzing mass toward the hikers in the valley below.
"Tom, did you remember to bring the insect repellent?" Barbara inquired, arm entwined with her beau's as they ambled along the hiking trail, free hand waving away the cloud of gnats drawn to the sweat beading her face.
The mining company had assured them: no animal larger than a sparrow had ever been found on the forest planet.
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/30/2015, 11:47 PM--
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Apologies for this groaner:
.....................
"Your whole life has been a sad fucking joke."
"I know," Guido the dour gigolo clown wailed, tears streaking his white grease-painted cheeks. "I know!"
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/24/2015, 8:19 PM--
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People, you're all invited to the party! Atthys, GD, Amber, Zach and Lucy have already contributed; who's next? Mimi? Herb? LeeAnna? Angela? Someone entirely new to this thread? Give us a three-sentence weird tale of your own devising.
In the meantime—the horror, the horror . . .
.......................
Sonja von Ribbentrop had pruned her infant of its limbs with garden shears and cauterized the stumps with a blowtorch.
Now she sat sipping a fine, chilled Northern Italian Pinot Grigio at the kitchen table, lazily leafing through a fashion magazine while distantly registering the thing's protests as Wolfsie the Doberman slung the best squeak toy ever around the kitchen floor, banging it off refrigerator, cabinet and sink as he pounced, shook it up, then flung the toy away again before restarting his energetic cycle of aggressive play.
As for Sonja, well . . . it was true what people said about her—she was more of a dog person, really . . .
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/26/2015, 2:39 AM--
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More cement-headed nursery rhyme trifles:
.......................
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe:
a black leather loafer which had fallen off the palsied foot of a towering, club-footed giant named—
:::crumples paper:::
................
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall; Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
But his winter?
Eh, not so good . . .
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Little Jack Horner / sat in the corner / eating a Christmas pie
He stuck in his thumb / cried, "Son of a gun!
I just burned the shit out of my thumb!"
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/30/2015, 11:49 PM--
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Joined: 4/27/2011
Posts: 608
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Yet another demented nursery rhyme trifle (recited by an increasingly incoherent dyslexic):
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London Bridge is falling down, down falling, fallow drow
Donlon is a frail midge drowned
Bye, fart ladle.
--edited by Carl E. Reed on 9/26/2015, 12:36 PM--
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