An Ankimo for Hastings & Other 250 Word Stories

I work well with deadlines, and conversely, don’t get much done without them. So when I decided I wanted to write more, and ideally get some feedback from real writers while I did it, I was fortunate to happen upon the NYC Midnight series of competitions.

They run over the course of the year, with stories that vary in length from 100 to 2500 words, and with time limits from 24 hours to 1 week, depending on the length and the round of competition. You are given a prompt for each story — a genre, a character, a word or some combination thereof.

It’s a nice forcing function in many ways — even apart from the deadlines — I doubt I would have discovered I rather enjoy writing romantic comedy any other way.

Anyway, while @artandfox and I are traveling in Italy this week, I figured I’d post some of the 250 word stories I’ve written over the last two years.

Enjoy.

An Ankimo for Hastings

“Agari!” thundered the itamae, and five white-clad apprentices scurried over with tea.

Hastings raised the steaming clay cup, and looked over the brim at Kazuhiro “King Kaz” Hayashi, the Head of Sales and Trading at Ecclestone. Legendary and ruthless, and legendary for his ruthlessness, Kaz wore the lofty title lightly. He murmured quietly to the itamae, gesturing in their general direction: four Associates, wet-behind-the ears and wetting themselves, competing for a spot on Kaz’s elite Strategic Investments team.

“Okonomi.” A statement, not a query.

Hastings’ mind raced: this was omakase, so he hadn’t expected to order — but all bets were clearly off. This wasn’t dinner. This, like everything else, was a test. Kaz was all about subtlety and invention, esoteric knowledge and unexpected insight. Anyone ordering salmon tonight was fucked.

Hastings had one ace, or ankimo, up his sleeve. He knew Kaz loved the fatty monkfish liver — and he knew this place steamed it in sake — a unique twist on the classic delicacy. Rare, subtle and perfect.

Scrivener was first. “Chutoro, onegaishimasu.” Attempting to make up for his obvious tuna order by tacking on a “Please”. Hastings caught an imperceptible eye-roll from Kaz.

Bickford-Smith was next. “I’ll have the Fugu.” Basic, basic Bickford-Smith. Poisonous puffers were strictly for idiots.

Then Pemberton. Son of someone rich, old and syphilitic. Antique silver cutlery preinstalled.

“Ankimo. Steamed in Kokuryu please.”

Kaz raised an eyebrow. Hastings’ throat was closing in on itself, crushing his words as it did.

“I’ll — I’ll have the same.”

Trading Faces

My first experience with demonic possession was accidental. One minute I was a regular Philadelphia pathologist performing a routine autopsy on a ritually scarred John Doe. The next, my spirit was trapped inside the corpse, while an Annulax demon took my body on a rampage down South Street.

Spectral transference was new to me then — it took me hours to escape and repossess my body, but I learned I had a knack for occult combat. I’m an excellent exorcist, a distinguished depossessor, and especially good at spotting the psychic tripwires that trigger transference. I guess one can find a calling anywhere — even inside a dead man’s spleen.

But this is not the same. A literal calling, a demonic summoning tone coming from inside my body — one I’ve never heard before. And I’ve been to the Calyx Penumbra, so I know my demonic summoning tones.

So I’m strapped on a rotating gurney in front of a high-speed camera — maybe I can get a picture of the bastard. After several minutes of stomach-churning strobe-lit self-photography I scroll through the images.

What I’m looking for is in the eyes — usually a flash of crimson in the iris, or a cyanochrome corneal streak. There! The cunning little -

Damn. I missed it.

I stare out of the computer screen, trapped in an image of my own face, as the Calyx demon slowly takes over my body, weirdly waggling my right pinky as it does.

That’s MY pinky, you sub-Satanic body-squatter. Time to get to work.

Love in the Time of Nuclear Winter

“Dear friends. Today, we celebrate love.”

Pleased murmurs. A distant cough.

“In a time of darkness, with joy as elusive as sunlight — these two beautiful souls — Esther and Elias — have found each other, and entered that ultimate earthly communion: matrimony.”

Cutlery clinks.

“Toasts are usually about the future. But since our future will be short, agonizing and irradiated, I will instead focus on the past. The not too distant past, where Esther met Elias by the butter churns, and magic began to stew.”

Smiles of recognition.

“Imagine a world before the skies were darkened — where our commune lived off the land, and fallout shelters were the domain of wacky Elders like Obadiah — just joshing, Obadiah — we are very grateful.”

Nervous laughs. Raised eyebrows.

“Esther’s milk delivery was late that day, and Elias’ cart horse ill. Two unrelated inconveniences that led to a chance encounter. They knew instantly that their lives were permanently intertwined — and nothing, not even a mushroom cloud — would prevent that.”

Shuffled shoes. A cleared throat.

“I realize you are impatient to partake in this feast of canned goods, so I will wrap up. Esther and Elias — as a bonded pair, much like two Hydrogen atoms — you stand strong against all comers: mutated livestock, marauding scavengers, even our likely hellish descent into cannibalism. Cherish each other, and the improved chances of survival that your union represents. Let us raise our glasses.”

Raised glasses. Mumbled hear-hears.

“To love in the time of nuclear winter. Long may you last.”

Baby Talk

“Pacey, honey, please open the door for Mama.”

“No!”

Letting her learn the word “No” was my first mistake. My second was not getting child-safe locks for the bathroom.

“Sweetie, Mama has to use the bathroom.”

“We’s busy!”

“You making more drawings?”

I’d found a trail of papers covered in crayon nonsense leading up the stairs and to the bathroom. My child has a great imagination, but she is no artist. Did she say “we”?

“Not drawings! CAN-TAY-SHUNS.”

Cantayshuns? Incantations?

Now I can hear her whispering — she’s a very loud whisperer, my child.

“You tell them not to hurt my Mama, OK?”

This is getting weird.

“Pacey. Who are you talking to?”

“It’s just Zazel, Mama.”

Zazel is one of her newer imaginary friends.

More whispering.

“Pacey Elizabeth Hewitt. You open this door right now.”

“Sorry Mama. I’m helping Zazel open the gate.”

“What gate?”

“The gate to Zazel’s house. It’s in our bathroom cupboard.”

The fucking medicine cabinet? Jesus, this stopped being funny a while ago.

“Pacey, you know you’re not supposed to -”

And then I hear it. A low, gurgly, inhuman voice. Like molasses over broken glass.

“The hellmouth beckons.”

I can hear Pacey saying shush, Mama will hear. I look behind me at the papers on the floor, covered in crayon. Is that a pentagram?

“Come acolytes, let the bloodfeast begin.” gurgles Zazel.

I hear a rushing sound, like a million bats taking flight. Leathery wings and claws flapping and scraping.

“OK Mama, opening da door now.”

(Cover image by Valentin Beauvais)