MicroHorror

“Ol’ Mickey Donald had a farm, A-E-I-O-U…”

“Would you get it right?” Sissy’s brother yelled from down the hall. “It’s Old MacDonald–E-I-E-I-O.”

“Ronald McDonald had a farm…”

“Now you’re just being silly,” Brother said as he pushed open the door to his sister’s room. He looked at the farm animals grazing in the middle of her bed. “What are you doing?”

“Playing Old MacDonald,” Sissy replied. She moved the cows toward the edge of the covers. “They’re stuck on a mountain and can’t find their way down to the farm.”

Brother just stared at his sister and shook his head.

“Have to use your imagination,” she said. “See, this cow is about to fall off a cliff.” She pushed the cow over the edge. Eeee.

“You’re nuts,” Brother said. As he turned to leave he muttered, “Sheesh. Old MacDonald…” But instead of walking back out the door, he stepped off the side of a mountain. “Eeee iiii…” Brother yelled as he fell.

“Would you get it right?” Sissy yelled from up above. “It’s E-I-E-I-O!”

“How were the auditions?” my wife asked when I finally dropped down beside her in bed.

“Horrendous,” I replied. “So many silly genre stereotypes–I laughed most of them off the set.”

“I vant to suck your blooood,” my wife teased.

“Exactly!” I chuckled, not really amused.

“No, really. I vant to suck your blooood,” she persisted.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I turned to face my wife–who wasn’t exactly my wife. There was something… “Ahhh!” I cried as she attacked my neck.

“You weren’t the only one holding auditions today, my sweet,” she murmured, right before I joined her in eternity.

He sat in his chair and waited. She said she would come and he did not doubt it. She’d come for his roommate earlier and had taken him. Away. He knew it was only a matter of time.

He fidgeted. He wasn’t scared; he just didn’t want to go. But he couldn’t tell her that. She wouldn’t have listened anyway—he’d seen her take plenty of others. Friends and acquaintances passed every so often. Most of them with smiles on their faces. He could never understand that. Where they were heading just wasn’t someplace he wanted to go.

You’ll see him again, she had said, laughing, when his roommate left. I know, he’d tried to respond. I know!

He soon heard footsteps; they were coming nearer. She was coming back like she said she would. For him.

“Time for supper, Mr. Grossman,” the aide called out, bubbly as ever. “Shall I take you to the dining room now?”

He grunted. What choice did he have? He’d had a stroke the previous year and couldn’t walk or talk. So the aide wheeled him down the corridor. He would see his roommate again as promised, at dinner. After all, she said she would come.

“Read to me what you’ve channeled so far,” she says.

I clear my throat. Death and destruction await the one…

“Cliché.” My muse frowns. “What else?”

I fumble at my manuscript and turn a page. Blindly, the Mummy exits the tomb…

“Derivative,” she says.

“But these are your ideas!” I protest.

“My ideas. Your anemic attempts.”

“This is my first stab at horror,” I rationalize.

“Ah, then,” she nods. “First rule of fiction—write what you know.”

“Could you tell me how?” I ask.

My muse produces a stiletto. “Here, let me show you instead.”