An Intro to ShortStorySlam2019

The "ShortStorySlam2019" was an event that took place in the writing community of Tumblr (or "writeblr") over the course of two weeks in August 2019. These are my entries from the event, and while I didn't complete all 14 days, there's still plenty of short-story-goodness to go around! All my entries are also posted to Tumblr and are linked at the end of each post. Enjoy!

Your Stop?

a short story by Annika Sage Ellis

Anyone who’s used the expression “soft as summer rain,” ain’t never lived in Florida.

The rain here ain’t soft, I’ll tell you that. It’s like clockwork durin’ hurricane season, comin’ at the same time every summer day to drop an ocean’s worth of water from the sky. Never go out after five, if you don’t want to get drenched. Don’t place your bets early in the mornin’, either.

Rather unfortunately for me, I have to get on the bus early in the mornin’. And it’s always goddamn rainin’. The only consolation I have is that I get to be alone. No one’s ever at my stop – I live pretty out of the way. On those heavy days when the sky is full of clouds and you’re just waitin’ for it to drop, I sit out there with my umbrella, read the paper, and wait alone.

Alone, that is, until The Man came.

I ain’t know where he came from. I ain’t even know if he’s a man. But he looks like one, so that’s what I call him.

One of those rainy days, he plopped himself down on the other side of the bench at the stop, wearin’ a long black coat and hat that shaded his eyes. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded at me, all quiet-like. I went back to my paper, figurin’ someone else out here had finally decided that work was better in the city.

Then the bus came. I folded up my paper, stood up with my umbrella, and got on. The Man stayed put. I got off the bus that evenin’ and he was still there – The Man – just after five in the pourin’ rain. I asked him if he’d been waitin’ out here for long. He didn’t say nothin’. Just nodded at me again.

I don’t think he’s moved since.

The next day I went to the stop, and he was still sittin’ there. Just as drenched as the day I met him, even though it hadn’t been rainin’ that hard. Looked like he’d been drowned, even.

“It’s gonna be a mighty hot one,” I told him, just to make small talk. I like bein’ alone, but I ain’t impolite. “Might wanna shed that coat this afternoon.”

The Man hardly turned his head toward me. I noticed he was wearin’ gloves, too. In fact, he was dressed head to toe in black, like a shadow that had gotten up and walked off somebody’s wall.

“The name’s Emmet,” I said. “Ain’t seen you around here often. New in town?”

He shook his head like a broken doll – twitchy and full of stops.

“Well. It’ll be a mighty nice change to have someone else at the stop with me.”

He just looked at me. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I felt ‘em. Like someone’s walkin’ on my grave. Even when I looked away I could feel him starin’ at me. Like he was tryin’ to see into my soul.

I couldn’t get on the bus fast enough, when it came. The Man watched me go.

I don’t trust The Man. He ain’t said one word to me, but I know that if he ever did, a forked tongue would slip out from his rotten teeth. I bet his nails are sharpened into claws, I bet his eyes are slit-pupiled like a snake. I don’t know what it is about him, but I can tell the Devil follows him wherever he goes. Might even take notes.

The Man has only gotten on the bus one time.

It was a particularly rainy Wednesday mornin’ in August. I sat down with my paper and my umbrella, as usual, and The Man was there as well. As usual. He’d become part of my little routine, as much as I disliked him. A part of life. Somethin’ I had to accept. But that day…

That day, he was different.

He wasn’t wearin’ his gloves, for one thing. He wasn’t wearing his coat, either, tradin’ it out for a three-piece suit. His hat still shaded his eyes, but it was tipped a little more up than he usually had it, so I could just see the bottom of his lips. And even with his hands and mouth uncovered, I couldn’t describe him to you if I tried. Every time I looked, they were a different color, a different shape. I tried to read my paper, but the words wouldn’t catch in my eyes. I stared at the front page until the bus arrived.

This time, when I got up, The Man stood with me. Robotic, as if he’d been practicin’ it. I didn’t look at him when I got on and payed the fare, but I didn’t hear the bus driver ask for his payment after me.

I sat down near the back, where I always sit. The Man sat in the seat across the aisle, starin’ ahead at nothin’. I looked out the window, drippin’ umbrella on the floor and paper in my lap.

No one else got on the bus that day. Not a soul.

For the entire ride, I stared out the window like I was watchin’ the most interestin’ thing in the world. As empty as that bus was, it felt too small, too full. I felt like I was bein’ crushed, like I was sittin’ in an air vent. I could feel The Man lookin’ at me when I was turned away, but every time I looked at him, he was starin’ straight ahead.

I’ve never felt more alone than I did on that bus, with that stranger. I felt like I was waitin’ for somethin’ to happen. But all I had was the anticipation, all I had was the idea that somethin’ might happen. It was all I had, and it killed me.

When my stop came up, I hardly noticed, too busy tryin’ to keep my head on straight. So busy, I didn’t hear the footsteps.

“Your stop?” said The Man.

Honest to God, no matter what I say about his voice, it would never live up to the real thing. It nearly shocked me to tears when he spoke. My ears rang like I’d just fired a gun. Those two words rattled around in my skull like beads in a maraca. My vision went blurry, my head spun, and I jumped out of my seat like I’d just been stuck with the hot end of a poker.

The Man was standing at the edge of my seat, blockin’ my only way out. He tipped back his hat from his face. And… Lord…

I saw the Devil that day. I saw evil.

And he didn’t do a goddamn thing when I shoved him aside and got off that bus like I was runnin’ for my life. I threw myself off onto the street and let myself get soaked, the rain still pourin’ as if God had decided to drown the world a second time.

The Man was sittin’ in my seat when the bus pulled away, lookin’ right at me.

No sir, I don’t trust The Man.

But he still sits next to me on that bench every mornin’.

Find it on Tumblr!

All's Fair

a short story by Annika Sage Ellis

Asha twisted the iron ring around her index finger clockwise three times, like she always did, before stepping into the Full Moon bar on Crescent street. It was a ward of protection. So was the iron cross on the chain around her neck. So was the wreath of oak and ivy that hung on her door year-round, always kept fresh.

“Welcome,” said the bartender, Caelen, cleaning a table near the back wall. Asha didn’t thank him. She knew that’s what he was waiting for.

She took a seat at the bar, nearest to the door as possible, and Caelen appeared in front of her. Instantly.

His smile was friendly enough, but Asha knew him better than most people that came to the Full Moon. Not that they were friends. Far from it.

“What can I do for you?” Caelen asked. He spread his hand behind the counter invitingly.

“Nothing,” she said.

His eyes glinted darkly. “What will your order be?”

“Vodka and tonic. Absolut if you have it.”

“Coming right up. Can I have your name for the tab?”

He knew her name already. It’s not what he was asking.

“You can call me Asha.”

Caelen nodded and swept away to fix her drink. Asha allowed herself to breathe again.

Asha didn’t know why she kept coming back to this place. Why she kept subjecting herself to the stress of drinking here, risking her freedom and rejecting every warning her mother ever told her. She’d broken just about every rule she’d grown up following by continuing to come back to the Full Moon. Hell, she’d broken them all the first time she set foot in this place.

Rule one, echoed her mother’s voice, never speak with the Fair Folk.

A glass slid toward her, a lowball clicking with ice and alcohol, a lime wedge stuck over the rim. She barely nodded at Caelen when she picked it up to drink.

Rule two, her mother said again, never accept their food or drinks.

She was glad for that ward she placed on herself. Every time she came here, she was glad for it. And every time she stepped out, she promised herself she’d never come back.

Maybe it was the booze, she pondered, setting the glass back down. It was better tasting than anything she’d ever had. That was the point, to keep her coming back with something no human could ever replicate, but damn if it didn’t work.

Maybe it was the danger. Getting away from her boring reality for a little adventure of her own, even if it was only an hour on the nights she needed an escape. To not feel like her life was worthless, a means to a bitter end. To feel the adrenaline rush of putting her life on the line. Of breaking those countless rules she’d grown up fearing. Being in control for once. Having the illusion of control, at least.

“You are a fascinating woman.”

Asha stared into Caelen’s face without flinching, silent and defiant. He seemed amused by it.

Rule three: always be polite to the Fair Folk.

“You know exactly what I am,” he continued, “and yet you continue to risk yourself here. I have never seen anything like it.”

The human façade he wore flickered, for a half-second revealing too-sharp teeth and eyes made of void and skin stretched ghoulishly over an insect-like skull. But just as quickly, he was back to his “normal,” self.

“What do you want?” Asha asked, because there was only one way this would end.

Caelen held out one hand to her, as if he was asking for a dance. “I want to know what it would take to get you out of this city.”

Rule four: never step into a fairy ring.

She wasn’t stupid enough to hold out her hand in return. “That isn’t what you want. And why would you even want me to come with you?”

He laughed and shook his head. His hand stayed. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re the first person in centuries to even begin to challenge me so blatantly. It’s an interesting game you play with your life.”

“You still haven’t told me what you want.”

“I want to give you what you seek.”

Rule five: never accept their gifts.

Asha narrowed her eyes. “What do you think I want?”

Caelen didn’t answer. He bent his fingers in a come-here motion.

It was plain enough what he thought she wanted. And he was right.

She wanted an escape. To feel like her life meant something for more than an hour at a time. To step away from a desk job she didn’t want, to break every rule she’d ever followed in her life. She could take his hand now and forget about it all.

But she didn’t. Instead, she unhooked the iron cross from around her neck, never breaking her callous eye-contact as she draped the necklace across his hand. The cross lied flat on his palm. She wrapped the chain around his fingers. Next, she took of the simple band of iron around her finger, and dropped it into his hand as well. She knew it would burn him. She knew it was rude. She knew it was a death sentence.

But he didn’t kill her. Instead, he slipped the jewelry into a pocket.

“Well?” he asked. He held out his hand again. It was covered in red burns where it had touched. He was still smiling.

And for the first time, Asha smiled back.

She took his hand, and never looked back.

Find it on Tumblr!

A Familiar Place

a short story by Annika Sage Ellis

The old oak door creaks with the memory of a thousand of your sins, hinges squealing like dying rats. You step through and the smell of dried blood and rotten flesh assaults your nostrils before you remember to hold your breath. The scent coats your tongue thickly, like copper and death.

You can’t imagine the horrors that took place here. You can’t. You can’t. It is impossible to think here, your mind filled with the screaming of voices you never knew, the hollow moans of tortured souls. You have never known them, but you recognize their wailing like a song. It takes everything you have not to sing along.

The door slams behind you. You did not close it. You never have to.

The halls are lined with paintings of dead and dying angels, as always, with agonized oil-on-canvas faces. The paint is old, chipping, dulling, but still their eyes scream from their artistic prison. Their dark irises follow you as you walk through the house. When you accidentally catch their gaze, you are frozen to the spot. You feel your hands shrivel and decay, the air whisked from your lungs, your throat becoming drier and drier—

But this is only for a moment. You move on.

You brush your hand along the wall as you continue, and the wallpaper peels away where your fingers touch, curling as if centuries of decay happened upon it in an instant. It reaches for your hand, but its grasp is always too slow. It grazes the skin of your palm. Only when it retracts do you allow yourself to breathe again.

Finally, you reach your destination. A grand parlor – decorated in rich golds, wine reds, and endless blacks – invites you to sit in one of the many elaborate chairs in front of the fireplace roaring with hot orange-red flames. You oblige it the courtesy, sinking into the cushion so deep it might have swallowed you if you didn’t already know which chairs were safe.

A sense of calm, serenity, and profound, unmitigated dread claws its way up your heart and into your mind. It ripples down your trembling body and curls at the foot of your consciousness. It purrs, a loyal cat returned to its master. The tortured screams of the forgotten dead fade to white noise as your mind is enveloped by your faithfully returning pet.

Welcome home, it says, in a voice identical to your own.

And you are welcome. This is your home.

You have no choice in the matter.

Find it on Tumblr!

Gasoline

a short story by Annika Sage Ellis

“Hey, wake up.”

No. I’m tired.

“You’re always tired.”

Because you keep waking me up.

“It’s not my fault we’re in this mess.”

It’s not my fault either. And I thought you said we would keep watch in shifts?

“I know, but I… I got lonely.”

…Oh. I guess I can stay awake for a little while, then.

“Thank you.”

…

Do you ever miss it?

“Miss what?”

Ha. I don’t know. Everything?

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

I miss the smell of gasoline.

“Before all this, I would have said you were disgusting.”

You don’t like that smell?

“No way, it’s god-awful.”

I love it.

“Like I said. Before this, I would have been grossed out. But now… now I get it.”

What’s finally clicking for you, then?

“It smells like… life, I guess. Moving forward. People. Cities. Existence.”

Damn. That’s way deeper than why I like it.

“What’s your reason?”

I just think it smells good. Makes me feel nice.

“Pfft. Always with the Earthly pleasures.”

Who are you, the Buddha?

“Considering there’s no one left but you to disprove it, I’d say yeah totally. I’m enlightened as fuck.”

Well I’m the double Buddha, and I’m here to call out your bullshit.

“There is no such thing as a ‘double Buddha.’”

You’re the only one who can disprove me – and as double Buddha, I outrank you, so—

“God, you’re ridiculous.”

And you’re too serious.

…

“Did you ever think the world would end like this?”

Hm?

“Did you think the world would end like this? So suddenly, I mean.”

I… guess not. When people think “end of the world” they think big explosions and death and fire and… I don’t know. None of that shit happened.

“Yeah. Everything just kind of. Stopped.”

Yeah. Like we were tearing down the highway of the world and suddenly—

“Someone hit the brakes.”

Exactly. Someone hit the brakes.

…

“I love you.”

I know.

“Oh, come on—”

You know I don’t like to say it.

“Even now? At literally the end of the world?”

…That makes it worse, actually.

“What? How?”

It’s worse because… because you know I was embarrassed about it before. About PDA and shit like that.

“Yeah.”

Now, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. There’s nobody around. Ever. And it’s just us and—I don’t know, I just feel bad about not saying it all those other times. So I just. Don’t? As if that makes up for it or something.

…

“I still love you.”

Even if I don’t…?

“Even if you don’t say it back. Promise.”

Okay. Thank you.

“Mhmm.”

…

When do you think it’s going to happen?

“I don’t know. Could happen at any time.”

I guess. But when do you think?

“How am I supposed to answer that question?”

I think it’s going to happen the minute we find something that reminds us of before.