Photo-Microfic: The Bargain

Photo taken by Steven Ormosi with his Samsung Galaxy S3 and edited in G+. Click on the picture for a larger version.

The Bargain

The demon passed up through the table demanding his yearly sacrifice. I was expecting him, of course, as per the terms of our agreement. One tenth of my soul each year, paid in ten equal installments in exchange for a lifetime of happiness with my then-estranged son.  My son came to the house the very night I made the deal and we worked everything out.  I promised to be a better parent than I had been when he was young.  He promised to give me that chance.  It was all I wanted. 

My boy died in a crash two weeks later. I’d raged at the demon for having the gall to come for his pay at the end of the first year, but he only said, “Our bargain was for a lifetime, you didn't say whose.”

Each year he came to take what I had promised and each year he journeyed back to hell with a little more of my essence.

This was now the tenth year and I could not say that I was any emptier than after the first.

Photo-Microfic: Nightmare Alley

Photo taken by Steven Ormosi with his Samsung Galaxy S3 and edited in G+. Click on the picture for a larger version.

Nightmare Alley

It tore through town like a hurricane, leaving crushed cars and downed phone poles in its wake.  The creature was the size of a house and we could do nothing more than watch, rapt, eyes barely peeking over window sills in darkened living rooms, hoping against hope that it would not round on us.

Old Joe Smith was stupid enough to amble outside with his .45, drunk from the night’s 12-pack.  The slug bit into the thing’s carapace and it screeched some sound I’d wager’s never been heard before or since, then swiped him from the ground like a kid lazily snatching a doll from the floor. I swear it locked eyes with him for a moment. Old Joe was completely silent, hypnotized by the thing's stare. Without warning it bit his head clean off, dropped the rest of him from its slowly unclenching claw and continued right on through town and into the forest beyond.  The trees went down like tall grasses under a man's foot.  Joe’s blood sprayed the pavement on Howard Street the darkest red I can ever remember seeing.

An army man, name of Phillip, came through the next day and told us all that we were bound by law not to tell anyone what we had seen the night before.  He gave us money and told us to keep our mouths shut or we’d be disappeared quicker than you can blink.

And we did.  But I’m old now.  The money's gone and I’m dying.  And I needed to tell someone.  I can’t take these nightmares to the grave with me.  I just can’t. They’re yours now. All yours.

Photo-Microfic: Pit Stop

Photo taken by Steven Ormosi with his Samsung Galaxy S3 and edited in G+. Click on the picture for a larger version.

Pit Stop

The blown out husk of the convenience store breathed tattered, flapping plastic at me as I approached it.  I stepped on the crude no smoking sign on the way in.  The owners must have put the plastic on the windows before everything went bye bye.  I laughed to think of that thin sheet trying to do anything to stop the holy hell that Ma Nature threw at us.

I stepped through the mostly doorway, peeked up and down the aisles, and saw they’d been cleaned out already, just like every other store within the last thirty miles.  As I walked out, I spied one last pack of cigarettes behind the counter and snagged it.

Back outside, standing on the ‘M’, I lit up the first of the pack, took a drag and exhaled.  Then I got back to walking.

Photo-Microfic: Quiet Company

All pictures in the Photo-Microfic set were taken by me with my Samsung Galaxy S3 and edited in G+. Click on the picture for a larger version.  This picture features that pig on Jon Colgan's shirt.

Quiet Company

He stood there just staring at me, cigarette hanging from his lip.

“What?” I asked him, “What is it?”

He did not make a sound.

“Do you speak English?” I asked.

Still no sign that he understood or gave a damn what I was saying.

I blew it off, “Forget it then, don’t talk to me.  I could care less, just stop staring at me like that.”

I took the cigarette out of his mouth and maneuvered the series of ropes and pulleys so that his limp body was facing the other way.

“You’re in time out now, I hope you’re happy.”

Photo-Microfic: Storm's Comin'

Photo taken by Steven Ormosi with his Samsung Galaxy S3 and edited in G+. Click on the picture for a larger version.

Storm's Comin'

The weather man says it’s going to be the worst storm we've seen in fifty years.  I guess we have to believe him.  People all over the state are out buying supplies: water, gas, canned food, flashlights.  The wind is getting stronger outside. The smaller trees are beginning to bow like perfect gentlemen. We do one final check to be certain all the windows are closed. 

“Are we sure we have everything we need?” my roommate asks.

“We've got five candles and a large bottle of whiskey.  I think we’ll be alright.”