C. Lee McKenzie's Blog

The Perfect Predator

Dear Readers,

Here we are in the month when Persephone vanishes and the world grows cold and dark. Chills anyone? I hope so because it’s time for #Team Halloween. As usual, I’ll tell you where this short story started. It was a conversation with a friend who hates this month. She doesn’t like the darkness, and she hates the theme of death. So I thought, what would happen if suddenly something switched and she came to embrace this holiday. So here’s the result…

October. A month filled with myths like zombies that refuse to die.

The dead walk the earth.

Satan comes to reclaim souls.

Ghouls lurk around each corner.

Gah! What clap-trap.

From October 1st to that dreaded last day, I hate going into the office because inevitably, Jerry the chripy Med Tech, will say, “So Doc, you’re not coming to the Halloween party again this year?”

And I will say, “Not this year” before walking away mumbling, “and not any other one either.” I know everyone here calls me names behind my back—killjoy, spoilsport. I do not care. On the 31st, I will turn off my lights, put extra-large “NO TRESPASSING" signs along the fence, and enjoy a quiet evening. In the morning, sanity will return, and I’ll have twelve months before I must endure this so-called holiday again.

That night, I’m surprised to find a package stuffed into my mailbox. Too early for Christmas. Not my birthday. I check the name and address. Perhaps the mail was delivered here by mistake. But no. It has my name, street number, zip…all correct. There’s no return, so I carry it inside and set it on the hall table.

Such a long day with two of my least agreeable patients back to back—a hypochondriac and one who never follows her prescribed treatment. I pour myself a Scotch and toss it back before kicking off my shoes and stretching out on the couch.

“Ah.” I close my eyes, but open them wide when a faint rustling sound comes from the other room. I bolt to sitting, listening. I must have imagined hearing something, but my heart rate is elevated. I rise, go into the hall, and wait for that sound again. Nothing.

A grown man with a medical degree cannot be intimidated by imagined sounds. I laugh, but it’s raspy, and I think about another Scotch or maybe I should gargle to clear my throat. It’s a bit scratchy. I go for the Scotch, and as I swallow the last sip, a late afternoon autumnal shaft of light filters through the windows and falls across the sack.

Open me. Open me.

Image by Jim Cooper from Pixabay

This has to be the Scotch meddling with my mind, but I’m calm now, so, setting down my glass, I reach into the sack. What I pull out is a hollow-eyed mask. Its head is covered in thick black fur, sharp incisors are tipped with fake blood.

A hellhound.

A messenger of the devil.

I stuff the thing back into the sack. Another myth that I lump into the category of the walking dead, Satan, or ghouls. One more Scotch won’t hurt, and an early evening is exactly what I need.

The next morning, my throat’s raw, but I don’t have a fever. I’ll cover my hospital rounds and cancel all afternoon appointments. The following day, I’ve lost my voice and my nose burns from so many sharp smells. Nasal spray only aggravates the condition. I toss the fresh basil plant in the kitchen, and put all the aftershave into plastic bags. In a last effort for relief, I stuff my nostrils with cotton. Unbearable.

Day three, and when I walk to the mailbox to check my mail, I must clamp my hands over my ears to soften the sound of crisp leaves underfoot. Back inside, the refrigerator sounds like a jet warming up for takeoff.

The beastly mask lies on the hall table, waiting.

Try me. Try me.

Its wheedling sound promises me relief from all these strange maladies if I obey. Cautiously, I pull on the mask and, through the holes cut for me to see through, I stare at my reflection in the hall mirror. I wince at the red eyes glaring back at me. It takes me a moment to recover and to realize that this mask has also kept the promise I imagined. I swallow, and there’s no pain. I sniff, and while I’m assaulted by odors I’ve never smelled before, the burning has stopped, the roar of the refrigerator has been reduced to a hum.

I soon determine that if I don the mask when I return in the evening and wear it until morning, I can function as always, except that all of my senses remain on high alert. And, I must shave twice a day. I see my barber each afternoon for a trim, and I have to cut my nails just as often.

October ticks away one day after the next until…the last day of the month arrives. And when the sun sets, it leaves an orange Hunter Moon to light the way. The ancient Celtic festival of Samhain has arrived, and unlike all those other years, I find that my dislike for this holiday has ebbed, allowing a fascination to sweep in like a dark tide.

I don’t put up no trespassing signs. I don’t turn off the lights. I even find a plastic Jack-O-Lantern and set it by the gate. Then I wait.

It’s not long before I sniff the air and inhale the scent of something vulnerable...and close. A distinctive smell slides through the gap under my door, and like a hound, nose full of prey, I inhale that last bit of information before deciding how to—

The pounding of my iron door knocker freezes me in inaction. The hairs on my arms prickle, and my ears go on alert. Despite how much I try not to, I shiver in anticipation. On the other side, something waits unaware.

I reach for the knob and wrench open the door.

I know exactly where to lunge.

The last moments. The blood. The smell. Intoxicating. And next year, my skills will be much keener. Of that, I’m very sure.

I’m soon to be the perfect predator.

The End

I have a Halloween treat. If you’d like a copy of my short story, Tanza, here it is! I’ve been told it makes for a great campfire story or one to read around the hearth on a dark night.

Tsantsa Yacomp173KB ∙ PDF fileDownloadDownload

A Weekly Dose of Fiction is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

The Shredder

Dear Readers,

This is a full week with the end of one story and The Insecure Writers’ Support Group’s first Wednesday post!

If I can, each week I tell where a story idea came from. Last week, with Part 1, I explained that I’d been shredding old receipts and tax records when this story popped into my head.

So, here’s the second and last part of…

The Shredder

The night was miserable. Georgio huddled against the cold, but no matter which way he faced, the wind found a way inside his jacket. As soon as the sun was up, he climbed from under the bridge and started down the street. He could hitchhike out of town or...he took out the card Baylor had given him...he could go to this address. He tossed the card onto the sidewalk, stepped to the curb, and held out his thumb.

A sudden gust of wind ruffled his hair and he gasped as the card swirled into the air and landed against his chest.

Go, Georgio.

He was losing his mind. He’d heard his mother’s voice just as clearly as if she stood in front of him. He had to get out of here. He was about to hold out his thumb again, when a police car turned the corner and drove in his direction. Quickly, he walked the opposite way toward the address on the card.

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Half an hour later, he stood in front of a dingy office building with a single entrance, a light flickering as if it was about to go out, and a sign in the window. It read Superior Shredder. Below the name in small letters, Safe Secure Services.

A buzzer sounded as he pushed open the door and walked inside, coming face to face with Baylor.

“Shocked?” Baylor asked, smiling. “Don’t be. I handle my own shredding. That way only the customer and I know the contents being disposed of.”

“Look, I don’t get any of this. What—”

“Come. You’ll see.” Baylor beckoned him through a back door where Georgio came to a sudden halt. Confronting him was a giant machine, its front gaping like the maw of a voracious beast. A row of razor sharp teeth gleamed in the florescent light. Stifling a scream that threatened to escape from his throat, he choked.

“Water?” Baylor asked.

“N...no.”

“Relax. Nothing to fear and everything to gain here.” Baylor pulled out the chair at a corner desk and pushed a pad of lined yellow paper and a pen in Georgio’s direction. “Write exactly what you did and why. Don’t make it nice. Make it real and include every detail from the beginning to the end. This is very important.” He started to leave. “Call me when you’re done.”

The sound of the door locking brought Georgio to his feet.

Con calma. All will soon be good, my son.

This time, he not only heard his mother’s soothing Italian--Be calm--but he felt her hand on his back, guiding him to the chair.

Even though his hand shook, he put down the stupid decision he’d made, the details of how he’d waited in the car while Lopez and the other two had gone inside, then returned at a run with the alarm blaring their crime across town. How he’d let them off and sped away only to catch a glimpse of the cops grabbing all three before he’d had time to turn the corner. He didn’t get any money. They were dividing it up later. The fight with Trina when he’d asked to stay with her. The radio alert with his description and his car’s license number.

By the time he’d finished, his shirt was soaked with sweat. He didn’t have to call Baylor. The man showed up just as Georgio put down the pen.

“So, this is everything?” Baylor asked.

Georgio nodded, waiting to see if Baylor would read what he’d written. Instead, he switched on the shredder. “Now, be ready for a quick trip,” he said over his shoulder as he slipped the paper into the machine and set the sharp teeth slicing Georgio’s story into tiny bits.

One minute Georgio was watching the shredder gobble up the yellow paper and next he was walking up the path to Trina’s. She opened the door before he reached the first step and wrapped him in her arms. “I’ve found the perfect house for us. We’ve got to go see it now. It won’t stay on the market for long.” She dragged him down the sidewalk to her car.

He stopped her before she could climb into the driver’s seat. “Wait. I thought you didn’t —“

“What? Want to buy a house?”

“No. Didn’t want to marry me”

She stepped away, her hands on her hips. “Are you getting cold feet, Georgio Pencala?”

“No. I just—”

Lopez’s car came to a stop alongside them. “Hey! Love birds. Me and Wanda are going to a movie tonight. Come with us. I’ll swing by and pick you up about six.”

As he watched Lopez drive away, Georgio leaned against Trina’s car, knowing that something was very wrong. But wait. Nothing was wrong. It was as if what had happened to derail his life hadn’t happened at all. It had been shredded.

And now you don’t ever make that kind of mistake again. Do you hear?

I won’t, Mom.

The End

Next week is Team Halloween 2025! Be sure to check out all the stories. They’ll be spooky.

Join Us Today

Let’s rock the neurotic writing world!

Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG and hashtag is #IWSG.

The awesome co-hosts for the October 1 posting of the IWSG are Beth Camp, Crystal Collier, and Cathrina Constantine!

Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.

Remember, the question is optional!

What is your favorite thing you have written, published, or not? And why?

It’s hard to choose a favorite among my books. That’s kind of like choosing a favorite child. But I do know that I still think a lot about the characters in Double Negative. Those boys who were on their way to nowhere—probably prison—when the teacher and the priest show up in their lives are special. I hope there are kids out there who are in trouble, will read about Hutch, Moss, and Meaker, and connect with their stories.

Available on Amazon

A Weekly Dose of Fiction is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

The Shredder

Dear Readers,

Unlike a lot of my stories, this one came from something quite boring. Last month, I decided to get rid of old receipts and tax records, so I took out my shredder and made three boxes of paper disappear. As I was feeding those old records into those teeth, I thought, “I’m getting rid of so much of my life. My expenditures. My projects. Anything job-related.” And that’s when it came to me. So, here’s The Shredder, Part 1. I hope you enjoy it.

Image by Hans from Pixabay

Georgio Pencala had made the biggest mistake of his life, and now he was paying for it. With no experience stealing, why had he thought it was a good idea to join Lopez and the others in that heist?

“We’re in and out. Twenty grand each, guaranteed. We only do this once, and then we go back to being the good guys, but without all that credit card debt and student loans hanging over our heads.” Lopez had slung his arm around Georgio’s shoulder. “Look, you can pay off your mom’s funeral and start saving for that kid you and Trina want. Come on. We need a driver. You’re it.”

Now he was on the run. When he went to Trina’s for help, she’d thrown her engagement ring at him and shoved him out the door. “Just how stupid are you? Get out, and don’t come here again!”

If he didn’t show up for work, he’d lose his job. He couldn’t return to his apartment. The cops had that staked out. Lopez or one of his buddies must have informed on him for a lighter sentence. Georgio was screwed.

He stayed out of sight until after dark, then made his way to the end of town and the homeless camp he saw every day on his way to work. As he crept down the embankment, he almost cried. How had he come to this? He needed the money, sure, but... He heard his mom’s voice and what she always said when he came to her with a problem.

Oh, Georgio, sweetheart. Of course, I will help you.

But she wasn’t here anymore. He was on his own.

Inhaling the stink of unwashed bodies and garbage almost made him change his mind. But in this camp, nobody cared what you’d done or who you were. It was a perfect place to hide until he could figure out how to get out of town.

He found a space under the bridge and sat against it with his knees drawn up to his chest. He’d be cold with only a light jacket, but at least he had a spot where his back was covered. The only protection he had on him was a pocket knife, nearly useless where he’d wound up.

“Hey, new guy!” The man’s voice came from out of the shadows, making Georgio jump. He hadn’t seen anyone nearby.

Laughter preceded the man as he stepped into the pale light of distant street lamps. Tall and slender, with the look of someone in good health, he squatted across from Georgio. “Where’s your stuff?”

Georgio shook his head, puzzled.

The man nodded. “Really new to this, then. No bags. No cart. No...stuff.”

“No.”

The man reached out his hand. “Baylor. And you?”

He hesitated, then shook hands. “Georgio.”

“So how’d you wind up at the bottom of this barrel called society, Georgio?”

In the dim light, Baylor’s eyes were focused and clear. He wasn’t a drunk. His skin didn’t have the wasted look of a druggie. With a haircut and decent clothes, he’d pass for a successful businessman. And there was something in his voice and the easy way of sitting that confused, but comforted Georgio. He’d expected to be attacked, maybe forced to leave. Now, he relaxed.

“I made a mistake. A big one.”

Baylor nodded. “Big enough to land you in jail?” He waited, his hands folded in front of him. No rush. Take your time. Tell me or don’t. Up to you. His message was clear without words.

“Yes. If they catch me, I’ll do a few years, for sure. It was big enough to cost me everything. My fiancé. My job. Probably any friend I ever had.”

“It sounds like you need a new friend”—Baylor pointed at his chest— “with connections. How about I introduce you to someone with exactly the help you need? You up for that?”

If it’s too good to be true, it’s too good to be true. That’s what Georgio’s mom always said.

“Why do you want to help me? You don’t know me.”

Baylor smiled. “Oh, but I do. I’ve met you for centuries.”

This was getting weird. Georgio looked around for a way to escape. He was talking to a psycho.

“Here.” Baylor held out a business card. “Go to this place.” He stood and started away. “Or not. Your decision.” Before he vanished into the shadows, he said, “They’ll expect you.”

Part 2, Coming October 1

I wrote last week that I have a new book coming out, so as I get nearer my publication date, I’ll be sharing some of the characters and maybe a few scenes here on My Weekly Dose of Fiction. And then, of course, my favorite holiday is fast approaching, so I’ll join and others on the Halloween Team.

We’re in for some spooky October fun!

A Weekly Dose of Fiction is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Just Deserts

Dear Readers,

This is the last story for Summer Scare 2025! I always try to explain where the idea for what I write comes from, so this one started with a tiny, innocent-looking bug. I took a picture of it and made the mistake of enlarging it. This is what it looked like, and this is where Just Deserts started. Have some scary reading!

Margarita Sanchez entered the ballroom, and not one man failed to notice. Maxwell Kent III—tall with a well-styled golden mane and a disarming insouciance—was an added bit of gorgeousness, but he failed to detract from his date. He placed a possessive hand at her back and guided her to a table where three other couples were already seated.

The women settled back in their chairs as if the move had been choreographed. All three men rose by some cosmic connection until Margarita took her seat.

“Good evening. A wonderful place for a fundraiser, isn’t it?” She smiled, and one of the women pushed away, with her partner in tow.

“It’s time we danced,” the woman said, meaning to smile, but only succeeding in baring her teeth.

The others quickly followed, leaving Margarita and Maxwell Kent III alone.

“You do know how to clear a space, my dear,” he said.

With a nod, Margarita picked up the glass of champagne and clicked it against his.

She couldn’t help being beautiful, but she made no effort to be modest about it. Every choice, whether it was clothing, jewelry, or companion, Margarita made with herself in mind--how those accessories would enhance her.

Tonight, she wore a simple, form-fitting white sheath to accentuate her Maui tan, slim waist, and perfect hips. Her dark hair was smoothed back into a twist and secured with a diamond-encrusted clip that caught the light and drew even more attention her way.

By the end of the evening, three couples had broken up, two of the men managed to exchange Margarita's phone number with them, and Maxwell Kent III vanished into history.

No more than a month later, she discarded both of those other men as well. Margarita bored easily, and she didn’t understand what it meant to have regrets.

Well, she did have a tinge of remorse about taking her sister’s husband. Her sister had attempted suicide, and that had been annoying. Then the husband refused to stop pestering Margarita even after she’d made it quite clear that she was no longer interested in him. He finally moved away or...something.

On a particularly long, hot day, Margarita was shocked to find no one calling or texting or stopping by. She wasn’t used to being alone, and without someone to talk to, she grew restless and resorted to a TV game show called Just Deserts. It was strange with oddly dressed contestants, bizarre questions, and prizes she didn’t understand at all.

Just Deserts? It must be one of those bake-off shows.

But it fascinated her, so she settled in a chair, forgetting how it felt to only have herself as company.

The game host stepped up to a stack of oversized cards, and when he chose one, it sent sparks into the air. The contestants and the audience cheered wildly.

“This is the one we’ve been waiting for!” he shouted, waving the card overhead and staring into the camera. “Out there is a special person who is about to get her—“ Grinning, he made air quotes—“Just Deserts!”

The music blared and confetti rained onto the stage, and at the same time, Margarita’s cell phone chimed. When she answered it, her own voice, delayed, played back from the TV.

“Congratulations, Margarita,” the game show host said. “ You are the grand prize winner. Your prize awaits! Are you ready for your Just Deserts?”

“What? I mean, yes.” She was so caught up in the blaring of the music and the loud excitement coming from the TV that she didn’t have time to think about how strange it was he’d have her name and number.

“Then so be it! Congratulations,” the man said.

The sparks that had flared like laser blasts on the TV stage were suddenly shooting out from her.

Oh my god. What’s happening?

She stood unable to breathe as an inexplicable force painfully pressed against her. Her body throbbed. Vise-like pain threatened to crush her head, her legs, and her arms. She screamed, but only a strange raspy noise came from her throat.

The room grew larger and larger. The ceiling soared high overhead. When she tried to run, a forest of pale blue strands snagged at her and held her back. She found that if she slowed to a crawl, she could move forward. But where was she going? She had to find something familiar.

Something familiar.

She froze in terror. Her carpet was this pale blue color. But how...She had to calm down. Think.

Instead of trying to move forward, Margarita climbed upward until she was on top of the thick fibers. She made her way across what seemed to be a wide, still sea of blue until she butted into a post. Slowly, she made her way up until she landed on a glass surface.

Her purse. Her keys. This was her hall table. Above it, a mirror. She clambered up the lamp base and stared at the image. Arms and legs shriveled into thin pincers with spines like tiny teeth. Horns. Eyes that glowed green. A black snout.

She screamed again, but this time it sounded like zizz-ip, zizz-ip.

The End

I’ll probably have a couple of good Halloween tales in October, but I’m back to writing less horrifying stories…maybe something with just a smattering of ghosts or the bizarre.

And speaking of ghosts…I have a new book coming out in October (if all goes well) and I’ve sprinkled it liberally with ghosts and added some witchcraft. I don’t have a cover yet, but I should by the end of the month. In the meantime, here are some of my other books.

A Weekly Dose of Fiction is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Compost

Dear Readers,

We’re up to week #13 of ’s Scary Summer, and the writers are on a roll! This week’s story idea came to me courtesy of ’s post about a plant, Corokia cotoneaster. It’s not a pansy…that’s for sure. Read on if you dare!

Pixabay

In the chill of the October midnight, he tucked his gun in one pocket and the Mace spray in the other before walking toward the overgrown garden behind the abandoned house. Since the beginning of this month of the dead, he hadn’t had a good night’s rest. At twelve o’clock each night, sounds woke him—not quite moans, not quite sighs, not human and not like any animal he’d ever heard.

Even though fear ran through him like a second pulse, he had to find what was causing those otherworldly sounds. He had to stop them before he went mad from lack of sleep.

Tonight, the moon darted in and out of clouds, spattering strange patterns along the ground. He’d no sooner taken a few steps inside the broken gate than he heard it. A quavering, vibrating cry that halted him mid-stride and almost stopped his heart. He didn’t dare use his flashlight. He couldn’t give his position away. Whatever crouched in those shadows sounded dangerous. He pulled out the gun and the Mace.

As he stood frozen in fear, deciding what to do, the moon emerged, an orange orb that cast light over the whole garden

Pixabay

There, tangled among the dead and dying garden, stood a strange shrub, its dark, twisting branches reaching out like searching fingers. Tiny, blood-red berries along the limbs glowed with an unnatural light of their own, rather than from the moon.

When nothing leapt out at him, he crept forward, holding his gun steady in one hand, the Mace out and ready in the other. While the sound he’d first heard didn’t repeat, a faint whispering, just beyond hearing, came from inside that bush.

Enticed by the sibilance that he now took as a message, he looked closer. The bush wasn’t covered in red berries but small, hollow eyes that stared back. A prickling sensation worked its way up his arms and legs, across his chest—hundreds of tiny needles stinging his skin, but not drawing blood.

Suddenly, the branches shuddered as if the thing was coming to life. It inched toward him, eager to claim him as part of its twisted, living nightmare.

He emptied his gun into it. He sprayed the Mace. Instead of stopping it, thorny arms shot out and, in a chilling grip, dragged him into the mass of branches. The last sounds he heard were screams of agony and the loud gnashing of sharp teeth as the bush shredded him into a neat composting pile.

The End

I don’t always write short horror. Here’s more of my work, and I’d love it if you’d take a look.

A Weekly Dose of Fiction is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Dream Home

Dear Readers,

This Weekly Dose of Fiction is another contribution to ’s Scary Summer stories. We’re up to #12 in this season. So just like all my other stories, I’m sharing the genesis of this tale. Ready?

I live in a haunted house. Now, stop before making judgments. I’m an extremely pragmatic human. I would never say anything like this without personal and provable data. Okay, stop smiling. But it’s true. Anyway, because I live in a house with ghosts, I had to write this story. I’ll tell what really happened another time.

Today is also the First Wednesday Post for The Insecure Writers’ Support Group. Read on!

Dream Home Pixabay

I’d searched for months, tirelessly hunting for an old Victorian house that touched my soul. When I finally found this one, my heart soared. It was exactly what I’d dreamed of. It needed work, but I expected that. What I didn’t expect was that it came with some original furniture, and the sale’s price was reasonable. As I signed the last papers, I still couldn’t believe how lucky I’d been. The realtor even threw in a magnum of champagne, so as I hauled the last of the boxes through the front door, I looked forward to pouring a glass to toast myself and my wonderful new home.

In the living room, I admired the crystal chandelier—vintage, the realtor assured me—the fierce cast-iron dragon-shaped fireguards, the mantel, the grandfather’s clock...all of it exactly as I’d dreamed of.

I held my flute high. “Here’s to a beautiful life together.” The house seemed to warm, but shortly it grew a little too hot. I turned down the thermostat—the one nod to modern convenience. The rooms became icy, and when I tried to adjust the temperature, the digital readout wouldn’t budge. I tapped on the cover, bewildered. “Twenty-five degrees? That’s impossible.”

I was fiddling with the setting when the lights went out, and I had to grope my way back outside, where I retrieved my flashlight from the car. It was too late to call anyone for help, so I dug out my parka and ski hat from the box labeled WINTER, and shivering, I burrowed under all of the blankets I could find. I’d slept in caves, in tents, in nothing but down sleeping bags on mountain sides, but I’d never experienced cold like this. My bones ached miserably.

Finally, exhaustion claimed me, and I must have dozed off until something woke me. I listened, thinking I’d dreamed it, but then I heard it again—a slow, ominous creaking of wood strained to its limit.

My heart leapt when the grandfather’s clock that I’d never wound struck midnight.

Groping in the dark, I found my flashlight and flicked it on. The peeling flocked wallpaper pulsated—the room shrank around me. I stared, terror freezing me into inaction as the walls crept closer, silently shoving anything in their path aside, threatening to crush me.

Slowly, the eerie creaking morphed into a sad lullaby and then into a funeral dirge. Leave immediately or stay to sing with us forever.

Ripping the door open, I ran, not looking back, fearing what I might see swarming behind me.

And now for #IWSG’s First Wednesday

Our purpose is to share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a haven for insecure writers of all kinds!

The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer - aim for a dozen new people each time - and return comments. This group is all about connecting! Be sure to link to this page and display the badge in your post. And please be sure your avatar links back to your blog! Otherwise, when you leave a comment, people can't find you to comment back.

Let’s rock the neurotic writing world!

The awesome co-hosts for the September 3 posting of the IWSG are Kim Lajevardi, Natalie Aguirre, Nancy Gideon, and Diedre Knight!

Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.

Remember, the question is optional!

September 3 question - What are your thoughts on using AI, such as GPChat, Raptor, and others with your writing? Would you use it for research, storybible, or creating outlines\beats?

I was curious to find out what GPChat would crank out if I submitted a synopsis, so I fed it one that I’d edited and was ready to use when I started shopping the book. What it gave me was an amazing analysis for each of my characters. I used that information to promote that book, so AI was a great help in that case.

Outside of that, I haven’t used GPChat much. I’d prefer to write my own fiction, and I even prefer to write my own synopses. They’re a challenge, but writing them often reveals some plot gaps, and I can fix them before I send out the queries.

If you like my stories, I have more, and they’re available on AMAZON. If you can support my work by buying a book, I’d appreciate it.

A Weekly Dose of Fiction is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Gargoyle

Dear Readers,

This Weekly Dose of Fiction is the end of Gargoyle. Each week, I write a short story and try to figure out where I came up with it. As I said in Part 1, my last post, this one came from a nightmare. It didn’t end well for Adrien Rochefort in my sleep. Want to see how it turned out after I sifted his story through my mind? Then read on.

Gargoyle, Part 2, The End

It was dangerous, she knew. But if she was going to prove what she thought was true—that she’d discovered who the murderer was, and if she could put an end to these senseless killings…Well, she had no choice but to venture out, and she knew exactly where to go. Pinpointing each murder, she’d drawn a circle on the map. At the center of this circle was Westminster Abbey.

She waited until after curfew, then, pulling her coat collar snug around her neck, she set out along the Southbank. Fog rolled in thick, adding another layer of dread to her mission and making ghosts dance in the lights from the abbey.

She walked quickly toward her destination, but halted at the sound of stone scraping stone. But there was no movement. Then, through the dense white, a shadow moved toward her—a man, but massive with shoulders hunched, and she imagined wings sprouting from his thick back. In the misting light, his eyes burned gray, the color of weathered limestone.

“You see me,” he said, voice deep, like frozen rock cracking in winter.

Lily’s knees shook, but she stood her ground. “Adrien Rochefort. Cursed unfairly.”

At his name, he faltered. “You know of my curse.”

“Yes. I also know your victims aren’t the people who condemned you,” she whispered in as stern a voice as she could muster. “Those people are long dead. These are innocents who know nothing of your misery, nothing of how you were wronged.”

He reached toward her then, with cold fingers. She expected to die. Instead, he traced her cheek with surprising gentleness. “Your voice…it does not accuse me.”

He sighed, and Lily could almost touch the sadness in it.

He smiled, but it was empty and forlorn. “For the first time in hundreds of years, I feel something other than rage.” He looked out at the city. “This is not the place I know, nor is it where I can return. I failed to see that. I failed to rid myself of the last of that wretched curse.” He looked at his hands, slick with blood from the lives he had already taken. “There is no forgiveness for me.”

“Then stop,” Lily begged. “Stop before you take more.”

Adrien stepped back and, looking overhead, reached his hand toward the spires high above them. Frozen into silence, he vanished, but Lily couldn’t tell if he had simply stepped into the thick fog and out of her sight or had magically disappeared.

Pixabay

With the new day, the groundskeeper, making his rounds, looked up at the imposing facade of Westminster, a view he always remarked, “I know like the back of me hand.” He was about to move on when something unfamiliar caught his eye. A new gargoyle was crouched where the man was sure there hadn't been one before. He pulled out his binoculars for a closer look. “Crikey. Is that bloke smiling? And where did this one come from?”

When Lily’s article ran, she had stripped it of curses but ladened it with mystery. The public read of an unknown killer who had vanished as suddenly as he appeared, and her editor praised the piece. The police questioned her, but found nothing suspicious to connect her with the crimes. And they were more interested in the fact that no new terrible mutilation deaths occurred on their watch.

Passing Westminster weeks later, Lilly paused at the very spot she’d encountered the tragic Adrien Rochefort. Something made her turn her gaze toward the sky, and there she found herself fixed in a gargoyle’s stare. It didn’t look at her with anger or revenge, but with what she’d call tragic longing.

I often write Contemporary/Realistic novels, but once in a while, I take a leap into the fantastic. Rattlesnake was one of those leaps.

Review: “Rattlesnake is a captivating blend of suspense, mystery, and forbidden love. Set in the Nevada desert in both modern times and the silver mining era of the 1800s, it weaves suspense, mystery, and supernatural intrigue into a compelling narrative.”

Amazon

A Weekly Dose of Fiction is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Gargoyle

Dear Readers,

Each Weekly Dose of Fiction comes from somewhere. Gargoyle came in a dream. I must have been having a rough week, because two nights in a row, I woke up after being chased by a grotesque creature. Well, I needed a scary story to contribute to Summer Scare over at , so those nightmares helped me out. Hope you enjoy this scary tale.

Gargoyle, Part 1

London had seen murders before, but not like these.

The first victim was so unrecognizable that the coroner relied on teeth to say he’d once been a man. The second had no head, no hands. Even the senior detectives admitted they awoke drenched in sweat, hearts racing from dreams of shadows with claws. The mayor imposed a dusk-to-dawn curfew, and for once, nobody complained.

Lily Weymouth, part-time witch and full-time journalist, was not one to obey curfews. A junior reporter at the Evening Standard, she was convinced this story had the practice of witchcraft at its core. The kind that had to come from the distant past. And writing a compelling article with her unique slant was going to be her chance for the promotion she wanted. Her notebook was filling fast with gruesome details and whispers from constables. Attractive and wily, she managed to get a look at crime scene photos even though the horror of them made her stomach turn.

It was unimaginable that any human could do what she saw, and the more she became engrossed in this case, the more she wanted to understand who or what was perpetrating these crimes against innocent people. And why.

Besides her expertise in the occult, she had another advantage her colleagues didn’t have. She had a minor in Medieval Studies from Pembroke College. And when the third murder happened—a banker eviscerated, his organs strung like grim ornaments from the trees in his garden—the memory of something she’d read while researching witchcraft in the 1500s began nattering at her. She vaguely recalled a yellowed book of folklore and a name. Mistress Merkle, Witch.

I need a few days. I want to do some research.” Lily stood at her editor’s door, her fingers crossed behind her back.

“For what?” He didn’t look up.

Bad sign.

“I have an idea about the recent murders, but I have to check before I write anything up.”

“So you want per diem, I expect.” Now, he did look at her over the top of his glasses.

“That would be lovely, yes.”

He held up two fingers. “Two days. No more.”

“Thank you!” And she was gone, already imagining her trip north on the M11 and her favorite college haunt.

There was an upside and a downside to what she was doing. If she could find the source she thought she remembered, it could provide a key to these murders, but if she couldn’t make her findings believable without disclosing her secret life as a witch, she’d become a laughing stock. She swallowed. “I could lose my job.”

Pembroke’s magnificent library was even bigger than Lily remembered, and she only had two days to locate that reference and get back to London.

The first day flew by with nothing to show for it. She pored over books until her eyes ached, but she couldn’t find what she needed. By the end of day two, she was ready to admit defeat when she pulled out a slim volume with yellowed pages. The first read:

1525 The Trial of Adrien Rochefort

“Oh, my…oh…Yes!” Lilly hunched over the book, deciphering the obscure script. Accused of killing Wisewoman Merkle’s sister in a drunken accident…protestations of innocence ignored… townspeople jeered as the witch cursed him.

Here Lily whispered the words. “Stone thou shalt be until time wears the edges of my grief. Then thou shalt walk again, but never free of my vengeance, forever vengeful yourself. Henceforth, you shall be…” Lilly inhaled and held her breath. “… a gargoyle.”

Pixabay

Lily’s fingers trembled as she closed the book. Her city was old, its churches lined with grimacing guardians spewing rainwater from their mouths. If the curse had freed him and kept alive the vengeful nature the witch had promised, Adrien Rochefort might be stalking London now, stone turned to flesh, revenge urging him to kill.

Her theory sounded insane, even to herself. But the murders fit—rage without reason, bodies left as shredded warnings. But most significant…her witch antenna was quivering.

Next Wednesday…Part 2, The End. Amazon

The real world is often much scarier than the imagined one, where imagined demons lurk in the shadows. In Double Negative, Hutchinson McQueen has a lot of real demons to face and overcome. One reviewer writes: “To be honest, it did take some time for me to become fully invested in this story, but once I did, I adored it. It delves into some pretty heavy stuff, especially if you’re more used to the lighter, romantic contemporary style, but it’s deep and intense without getting too dark, and the story itself was just incredible to see unfold. That ending though… frankly, I could just reread it again and again, because the journey these characters go through and the way things come out at the finish… in some ways, it hurts, but it’s still absolutely wonderful.”

A Weekly Dose of Fiction is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

The Surprise

Dear Readers,

If this story is familiar, it should be, since the contract trope has been around for a very long time. The danger in using common tropes is that they're too predictable and will bore the reader. However, they give the reader a sense of familiarity, and they may create an interest in discovering how a different author approaches a very old theme.

I wrote the first draft of this one years ago, and since I’m writing one short piece of fiction weekly these days, I sometimes have to delve into my archives in order to have time to do other things, like sleep. Let me know if it was a bore or if I added enough of a twist to entertain you.

The Surprise

I expected the meeting place to be creepy. I didn’t expect it to be a moldy crypt guarded by avenging angels with swords drawn. But that’s exactly where I am, willing my heart to stay inside my chest and the tic of my left eye to still. I loosen my tie that suddenly is far too tight.

Despite my silent, desperate pleas for the thick door to remain sealed, it grinds open when I press against it. Musty air washes over me and into the October moonlit night. While I still can, I look up at that round pale light, dreading my next step that will take me inside. Finally, I enter. The door seals behind me with a dull thud, and—for a few seconds—I can’t inhale.

Then silence.

I blink until my eyes adjust to the darkness. And when they do, there he is—hooded, so that only the lower half of his face is visible. He’s perched on a stone coffin, just as I’d imagined, but smiling. Not as I’d imagined at all.

“You’re late,” he says, yawning.

I wasn’t expecting the yawn any more than I was expecting the smile. Not pretty. I choke and put my hand over my mouth. “Traffic,” I mumble.

The silence that follows rattles me more than I am already.

Then he says, “Shall we begin?”

Pixabay

Like I have a choice? I’d say this to him, but I know better. I read the contract. I signed it, but before I understood what this was really about. I was twenty, for chrissakes. I never thought this far ahead. And that day, I had years before I would have to think about what the terms meant. I was still supposed to have a decade before the due date , but something went wrong.

This early expiration was all Fred’s fault. He had become a friend, not just my chief communications officer. Yesterday morning, I was sitting at his desk chatting, while he wolfed down Reese’s Pieces, when the phone rang. He held up his hands and mimed peanut butter fingers before darting out the office door without answering it.

That call was meant for him, not me, and he knew it. He’d signed his contract almost one year before I had. The minute I picked up the receiver, I understood he’d tricked me. I was left holding the bag—technically, a phone made heavy by the voice and the message it delivered.

“Ah, Stephen. It’s you. I expected Fred. But fate has intervened, and according to the terms, I can substitute one contract party for another. It’s time we met again.”

I heard two things after that—the ominous sound of an old digital clock’s second hand and, “Six p.m. tomorrow.”

Now, at just a quarter past six the next day, that voice comes at me again, only up close and with smelly breath.

“How do you see all of this playing out?” he asks.

Again, he’s put me off balance. I wasn’t ready to answer a question like that.

“Surely you’ve thought about it.” He adjusts his position only slightly, and I flinch. “Nerves are understandable,” he says.

When I don’t respond, he goes on, “Hmm. So you don’t know how you’d like this to happen? Too bad. With contracts like yours—early completion and the likes—I usually give choices. In your case, I guess it will be a surprise.”

My voice finally returns. “Can I ask when,”—I have to swallow—“to expect the ...surprise?”

He seems to consider my question, and I feel his stare, although, since he’s pushed back the hood slightly, I can only see dark sockets where his eyes should be.

My leg jiggles, another old tic I remember from pre-game jitters. Then, for a moment, I’m twenty and in my bedroom surrounded by my college baseball trophies. And I’m remembering why I signed that paper. The major league contract. The no-hitter games I pitched—one after the other. The Baseball Hall of Fame, only six years after my last game. Baseball Commissioner. All before I was forty. That’s what came with a stroke of my ballpoint.

His voice snaps me back to the dank space. “If I tell you when it’s going to happen, that will ruin everything. That’s part of a surprise. You know that.”

“Do I get some kind of warning?”

“You don’t want a warning. Warnings only make humans edgy.” He strokes his bony chin, and the sleeve of the cloak slips back.

I don’t want to see under that cloak, but I can’t stop staring at his whiteness. A thin drizzle of cold sweat slides down the sides of my face.

He rises slowly, almost as if he’s tired. “Bye. Bye,” he sighs. “See you later.”

With a terminal thud, Death’s door swings closed behind him. And I’m alone…

waiting for the surprise.

The End

I enjoy writing and connecting with readers, many of whom also write. My books have given me that opportunity, and now, with the short story, Substack is also.

Thanks for reading and commenting!

Available on Amazon

A Weekly Dose of Fiction is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Caged

Dear Reader,

There never seems to be a wrong time to write dark stories, and has incentivized some of us to create more of these, getting a jump on the spooky Halloween season. With Caged, the story was inspired by an antique birdcage I have hanging in my patio. Where the rest came from…? I’m still trying to figure that out. Read more spine-tingling tales on Summer Scare 7

Pixabay

Beatrice came to an abrupt halt, suddenly lost. Ridiculous. She knew this town quite well, had walked it countless times. But when she glanced around, nothing looked familiar. She must have taken a wrong turn while talking to Marnie on her cell. But how strange that she’d never seen this street before.

She tapped on her phone. It would be easy to reorient herself, and then she wouldn’t be late meeting Marnie for dinner. Her screen remained dark. Damn. How had this phone died? It had been fully charged a few minutes ago.

As she stood there deciding what she should do, she became aware of the silence. There were no cars. No people. This wasn’t a bustling city, but it had a sizable population, and at this time of day, she’d been tied up in traffic jams several times. That’s one reason she liked to walk from her house to her favorite midtown restaurant. That, and the fact that she’d been putting on a few pounds. Eating helped ease some of the angst of Anthony’s untimely death.

When she faced the storefront, she was looking into a grimy display window where a disturbing still life of old toys, stuffed animals, and out-of-fashion chairs had been arranged. The name over the shop door read, Never Too Late.

Beatrice considered the sign, thinking it might be an excellent mantra even if it wasn’t true. It was too late for many things—her marriage, her impulsive purchase of the poison, and, most assuredly, for Anthony. She pressed her hand against her chest to quiet that familiar sharp jab of guilt. She recovered in a moment and was about to retrace her steps back to where she’d made the wrong turn when the door swung open.

Odd. No one had opened it and the air was quite still.

She stood, weighing whether to enter and ask for directions or try to figure it out on her own. She came down on the side of asking for directions. Anthony, the man with the ego of a prime minister, never asked for those—just one of his endearing qualities. She ground her teeth, the way she used to when he was alive and irritating. Before she changed her mind, she pushed her way inside, immediately regretting that decision.

What unsettled her most about the shop was the smell—a stale mix of the discarded and forgotten. And then there were the ghosts, not seen but unmistakably there, stirring unease just beneath her skin. She imagined the people who had once touched these things that were now left to linger in this last-chance shop.

Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim interior light, and that’s when she spotted the birdcage. Not the ordinary kind with brass bars or peeling paint. This one was intricate, ornate scrollwork curling into rosebuds and vines, a tiny perch carved like a tree limb, a minuscule swing suspended in the middle. And on that swing was a very still bird. She stepped closer, peered inside, and with a nervous scream, quickly retreated. Despite the beaded eyes and curved beak, the bird had a human face. She must be imagining things.

“You’ve found it,” a voice said behind her.

Startled, Beatrice did an about-face. A woman, pale and oddly ageless, stood behind the counter. Her clothes, somewhere between Victorian and thrift shop.

“I beg your pardon?” Beatrice said.

“The cage,” the woman said. “It’s been waiting.”

Beatrice smiled politely and turned back toward the object. “It’s very…charming.”

“More than charming,” the woman said softly. “It’s a keeper of...between.

Beatrice blinked. “Excuse me?”

“My shop is filled with treasures imbued with surprising qualities.” With soundless footsteps, she walked around the counter. “This one’s meant for you.”

Beatrice let out a breathy laugh. “Oh, I’m not buying anything today. I just came in to ask for directions. My phone died and I—”

“But your guilt didn’t die,” the woman said, her voice a little firmer. “Anthony, yes? Your husband. The poison?”

Beatrice froze. “How...how do you know that?”

The woman didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped beside Beatrice and reached into the cage. Her fingers touched the bird that Beatrice now thought stared expectantly at her with tiny dark beaded eyes.

The swing moved slightly, though the woman had never touched it, and the stuffed bird had somehow come to be in her hand.

Beatrice stared. The silence outside. The unfamiliar streets. The phone, inexplicably lifeless. She was not someone prone to melodrama or superstition—but something was wrong, and part of her already understood it.

“Am I dead?” she whispered.

The woman smiled, her small, sharp teeth more disturbing than any scowl. No, dear. But you’re stuck.”

Beatrice felt dizzy. “Stuck?”

“Yes, in that guilt I detected when you stopped inside my door.” The woman turned to her. “That’s why you don’t recognize your own town. That’s why your phone failed. Fortunately, this beautiful birdcage exists between guilt and innocence. It’s a safe place you may find atonement.”

Beatrice wanted to escape, but she couldn’t summon the energy. Her shoulders slumped. “I just wanted to have dinner with a friend,” she said softly. “To meet Marnie. To feel normal again.”

The woman tilted her head. “Normal. Well, I’m not sure I understand that, but I do understand that Anthony was a cad—a womanizer, an abuser. He deserved to die. You helped him along.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, the world demands justice. And you must submit to that demand or be forever—”

“Stuck.”

“Yes.”

Beatrice looked at the cage. Her hands trembled. The woman didn’t have to explain what she meant. Beatrice knew.

“Let me help you inside,” the woman said. “Some prisons are better than others. You will be here until the next person in need of its services happens by and steps into my shop for life directions.”

And with a tap on her shoulder, Beatrice experienced a sensation of being wadded into a small bundle. Her skin retracted, wings replaced her arms, and sleek feathers sprouted from her body. With spindly claws, she clutched the tiny tree branch swing and stared through delicate white bars.

Two women gazed back at her—the shopkeeper and another one who waved and mimed, thank you before hurrying out the door.

On the street, cars were passing. Someone honked a horn. A woman stopped to peer inside.

Marnie? Wait. Please. Come in. Save me.

And now for the monthly IWSG Question!

Join Us Today!

Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG and hashtag is #IWSG.

The awesome co-hosts for the August 6 posting of the IWSG are Ronel Janse van Vuuren, Natalie Aguirre, Sarah - The Faux Fountain Pen, and Olga Godim!

Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.

Remember, the question is optional!

What is the most unethical practice in the publishing industry?

There are numerous unethical practices in the publishing industry, but as someone with an academic background, I find Data Manipulation to be the most offensive.

What that means is that when someone wants something to be proven correct, they manipulate the research data to support their premise or hypothesis. They create fake results or alter them so that they align with what they’ve set out to prove. Omission of data that is counter to their premise or hypothesis is just as bad,

If other researchers fail to conduct due diligence and proceed to base their work on false data, the damage is not only compounded but could also have serious, negative consequences.

I respect research, and I rely on it to point me in the right direction. I hate the thought of data manipulation because it undermines the honesty and dependability of research.

My Weekly Dose of Fiction on Substack is free. I offer paid subscribers free books when they’re published. If you want to support my writing, my books are available on Amazon. At this time, I have 7 young adult-crossover titles and 4 middle-grade titles.

A Weekly Dose of Fiction is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.