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Dear Victor [12 Genre Months]

Dear Victor,

You need to stop. Stop making me think these vicious thoughts. Stop putting these vile images in my head. Stop filling my dreams with these disgusting fantasies. Stop turning me into a monster. I beg of you, Victor. Please stop. I don’t want to live like this. I don’t want to be an animal. I’m a person. I’m a good person. Please let me be a good person, Victor. I don’t want to be the bad guy any longer. Please… just let me be human.

Thy Adam

“How many letters are there?”

“Hundreds.”

Dear Victor,

You are a sick and cruel man. You need help. You are deranged. The news people call me horrible names, but they don’t know anything. They don’t know that it’s not me. It has never been me. It was always you. You and your sinful plans. You and your crazy desires. You’re the corrupted beast they talk about. Not me. Never me. Now look at what you’ve made me do. You must be happy. You must be proud. But enough. Enough of this madness, Victor. You have to stop now. I’m not going to do your bidding anymore. I’m not yours. I won’t be yours. I cannot be yours any longer.

Adam

“Where do you think he planned to go with these?”

“You think they’re made up?”

Dear Victor,

I told you to stop. I told you many times. Don’t push me, Victor. I can do scary things on my own. Vile, vicious, scary things that are worse than anything you can come up with. Worse than the thoughts you put in my head–worse than the actions you make me take. If you don’t make me a hero like those before me, I’ll be the monster you created. And I’ll destroy you. Before my story ends, I’ll take you down. You will never see the success of your wicked plans. You will only regret–regret everything.

Adam

“They can’t be real.”

“The writing isn’t in his own hand–we ran tests. And based on the interviews, we have reason to believe these weren’t his own words.”

Victor,

I’m done reasoning with you. Do you think this is a joke? I’ve seen you laugh at my letters. I’ve heard you mock them, as though my words are meaningless. But they’re not meaningless. I will find a way to reach you. And when I do, Victor, I will end you. Just like your plan to end my life, I will end yours. You won’t be able to corrupt my future any longer. You will be in a grave. I will put you there myself. I will use these hands–hands you’ve used to kill innocent lives–to kill you. It will be the end of your story. Now, wouldn’t that make a good plot twist?

Adam

“So we’re talking about a homicide–not suicide?”

“I don’t know. The pieces don’t match up. There were no signs of a break-in or a struggle. It looks like suicide, but something just doesn’t seem right.”

Victor,

I’ve found a way through. I can reach you now. I can physically reach you. I don’t have to leave you letters anymore. You cannot dismiss me now. You cannot ignore me. Just you wait, Victor. I’ll come for you when you least expect. But until that day, where you finally face the monster you’re so proud of, I’ll watch you. I’ll remember your last laughs. I’ll be thankful for the life you gave me. After all, you are my beloved creator. And you deserve what little gratitude I have for you… before I write you into my story.

Adam

“Possibility of a crazy fan? You know how some of them can be.”

“That’s my first theory. But even his closest friends didn’t know anything about his new book–only his publisher had access to the notes, and even they weren’t made privy to what Victor had already written. And, if it was indeed a crazy fan, why didn’t he report the letters?”

Victor,

Tonight is the night. I have it all planned out. You cannot rewrite this story. This won’t be a draft. My plans will not be edited. You have no control over me, not when I’m in your world, and no more after tonight. I look forward to seeing you, Victor. I’m ready to meet my maker.

Adam

“This investigation has gone on for too long, mate. His fans are demanding a resolution, so just make up a story and we’ll run with it.”

“That’s not how I do things, you know that.”

Dear Victor,

May your story live on, and may the lives you’ve written be finally free.

Thy Adam

“Oh look, this last one makes for a good book dedication. Just right the report, all right? Then you can finally call yourself an author.”

“That’s a crime.”

“Aren’t all authors criminals?”

“Not in their world, they’re not.”

“This isn’t your world. This is Victor’s.”

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12 Genre Months © 2018 by Jeyna Grace. All rights reserved.

(Click HERE for the list of stories in this writing challenge.)

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Posted by on April 19, 2018 in Original Works

 

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Nightmare | Lantern | Murder

The three-headed monstrosity, with emerald green scales, wide bat-like wings, thick murderous whipping tail, and six pairs of black beady eyes, rose from its slumber. It shattered the still night – bursting through the glistening waters into the starry canvas above. Screeching in fury, it lowered its gaze at the sailing party that boldly awakened it.

“What do we do?”

“Cast the invisibility spell!”

“What? We didn’t summon it to hide.”

Beep, beep, beep.

“Use the lightning spell!”

Beep, beep, beep.

“Whose is that?” I asked.

Beep, beep, beep.

“It’s mine. Sorry guys, we have to end the game.”

“You gotta be kidding me.”

“I’m sorry. You know how my parents are like.”

I peered out the window of our wooden treehouse. The night was young – families still roamed the streets – with boisterous excitement in the air.

“The kids are still out. And your house is ten feet away,” I stated.

“It’s late. And I don’t want to die.”

“Your house is just there,” I repeated.

“I have to go.” He maneuvered past me – careful not to knock over our game pieces – toward the rope ladder. “I’ll see you guys at school, alright,” he added. And with that, he left.

“Buzzkill,” I murmured, rising to my feet.

The twins followed suit and we grudgingly descended, what we called, our ‘Adventure Fort’.

“See you guys on Monday,” I said, jogging to my bicycle.

“See you,” the twins replied in unison. “And don’t let the Jack-O-Lantern get you!” the twins added, cycling off in the opposite direction.

The murder had ruined a promising weekend. And honestly, I couldn’t understand the paranoia. People died all the time. Crazy people existed. To me, the commotion was exaggerated. Whether it was the Jack-O-Lantern or the Serial Santa, learning about another death by another killer was plain old news. I didn’t gasp, question, or cry. I was nonchalant – never a victim, but so was the majority. It baffled me that half the town wanted to cancel the weekend.

As I sped down the street, where parents ushered their children for their final ‘trick-or-treat’, I decided to ring a few doorbells. Knowing my parents didn’t mind if I stayed out late, I cycled into one, then two, and then three more driveways until my backpack brimmed with treats. After which, I headed home – it was almost midnight and my street had gone to bed.

That night, I expected nothing out of the ordinary. Strolling into my house, I shuffled straight to the dining room and emptied the contents of my backpack on the table. But it was then, I heard a noise. It was a series of thuds, alike a banging on the wall – muffled and periodic. It didn’t come from above, but below.

“Dad?” I called.

The thudding stopped. I shrugged it off and returned to separating my treats. The night was still for five minutes. Then, I heard another sound. This time, it didn’t come from below. As though something heavy was being dragged, my curiosity spurred my feet into action.

“Mum?”

I strode to the back of the house. Arriving in the kitchen, I fumbled for the light switch. But just before I made the flip, I caught sight of a figure in my backyard through a window.

The figure donned a red check shirt beneath a blue denim jumper. With a large pumpkin head resting on its shoulders, it hovered over a lifeless creature. Inching closer for a better look, the dead creature’s form came into view. It wasn’t a large animal, as I’d previously assumed – it was a person.

I gasped – hands cupped over my mouth. I didn’t know what to do. Should I run, hide, or call the police? Was the dead person one of my parents? No, it was merely a trick – an elaborate trick my father occasionally played on me. But, I hesitated. I didn’t dare to face the figure outside.

Backing away from the darkness, the kitchen lights flicked on. I jumped startled and spun toward the doorway. My heart pounded in my chest, as I stared at the person before me.

“You’re home early,” my mother said.

“It’s… it’s midnight,” I replied. Then snapping my head toward the window, I said, “There was someone outside.” Gesturing at the now vacant backyard, I stuttered, “I-I-it-it looked like the Jack-O. It wasn’t you, was it?”

“No,” my mother replied.

“We need to call the police,” I said. But just as I headed for the phone, my father stepped into my path. “Dad! Someone’s outside. You have to call the police.”

“There’s no one outside,” my father said. “I just came from outside.”

“So it was you?” I asked. Then gazing at him from head to toe, I noticed his brown-stained shoes and sweat-covered shirt. “What… what were you dragging?”

“Happy Halloween!” my father replied, with a childish grin. “I got you, didn’t I?”

“That was a trick?” I frowned – it was a horrible trick with no pay off. “But-”

“It’s late,” my mother interrupted. “You should go to bed.”

Before I could respond, my mother led me to my room. She didn’t answer any of my questions. And it became obvious. As the clocked ticked into the night, I laid still and awake in my feathered bed. I couldn’t sleep – not with the haunting sound of dragging bodies below. How many were there? I didn’t want to know. All I hoped for was day to arrive – the end of this nightmare. That’s right, it was simply a nightmare – a figment of my imagination, just like my three-headed dragon.

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Nightmare, lantern, and murder were words given by Kurotsuba. You might have noticed I drew inspiration from Stranger Things and the classic Goosebumps stories. As I didn’t have much time to work on this piece, I just went with the theme of the season. Hopefully, it isn’t too weak of a tale from being rushed.

Now, it’s your turn. I challenge you to use this same three words to write a piece of your own. The real challenge is writing out of theme. I wish I had more time to do so, but perhaps you could give it a go.

*To download the banner, left-click then right-click to save.

3 Words, 1 Story © 2017 by Jeyna Grace. All rights reserved.

(Click HERE for a list of stories in this writing challenge.)

 
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Posted by on October 26, 2017 in Original Works

 

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Dear Macy

Dear Macy

It was a dark afternoon. The clouds were thundering outside and the rain poured heavily. It was the perfect weather to work on my novel, so I grabbed my laptop from my bag and brought it to the fireplace.

My novel was called ‘BFF: Best Friend Fail’. It was about two best friends who grew up and did everything together, until they met a man. The man charmed the best friends and they both fell in love with him. Since they each could not give up on that man, they became rivals.

I know, it’s a rather cliché story, but my agent said there was a market for it. I finished writing the first draft a few weeks ago, and I was planning on improving it before sending it to my editor. Opening up the file on my laptop, I began with chapter one, ‘Dead Macy’.

No, that was not the title for chapter one. It was an error. I quickly changed the morbid word to ‘Dear’ and moved on. By the time night had fallen, I was done with five chapters and ready for bed. I also felt good about myself; only thirty more chapters to go!

The following morning, I decided not to waste any time and started on my novel right away. As I swallowed my buttered toast, I opened up the file and immediately groaned at what I saw. Those bold words did not seem to have saved the last time. After changing ‘Dead’ to ‘Dear’ again, I scrolled through what I had done the day before to check if the other changes were saved. Strangely they were, but I did not dwell on it much.

That day, I managed to go through ten chapters. By then I decided it was better to print it out and work on paper instead; I always wanted to be an English teacher. So before heading to bed, I hooked my laptop to the printer and left it to print while I snoozed.

When morning arrived, I put off working on my novel and decided to go for a walk. There was a small path behind my holiday cabin that led to a lake, and I was hoping for nature to inspire me. After my walk, I returned to the cabin and went straight to the printer. Rearranging the sheets of paper, I came across a word that was starting to annoy me. Quickly grabbing a red pen, I crossed out the word ‘Dead’ and wrote ‘Dear’ above it.

Checking my laptop after, I found that the error was still there. Frustrated that my laptop was acting up, I retyped the word, and printed the first page. I was confident this time, as I strutted to the printer only to find the same grim word.

Somehow having inkling that my laptop had revised itself again, I decided to ignore my novel all together and read a book instead. Maybe my eyes were playing a trick on me or maybe I was just too tired after my walk to the lake, whatever the reason was, I was not going to touch it that day.

Cuddling up on the couch as a light drizzle began, I let the crime novel take me on an adventure. Halfway through Detective Frigate’s theory on who murdered Lady Gloria, my phone rang. Grunting at the disturbance, I pulled away from the Detective’s office and answered, “Hello?”

“Hey Rosy, how are you?” my friend asked.

“Good. I was reading. You interrupted Detective Frigate,” I replied

“Nice to know you’re feeling better,” my friend said with a chuckle.

Better? I was not sick, but I responded with a ‘thank you’ anyway.

“So, how’s the book going?”

“It’s going fine.”

“I heard you’re going to let Macy take credit for it.”

“Macy?”

“Sorry. I know, it’s too soon to be talking about her.”

I did not reply. I had no idea what she was talking about.

“Anyway, it’s good to hear from you. Jake said he could not reach you, so I was worried.”

“Jake?”

Who were these people she was naming?

“The guy that you and Macy always hung out with? The one Macy liked?”

“Oh, Jake,” I said. The conversation did not go on after that, because I became extremely disturbed by chapter one’s title. When my friend hung up, I went straight to the pile of printed words and read the first chapter again.

Chapter 1: Dead Macy 

My dead friend Macy was always kind and generous, but she was only kind and generous with strangers. With me, she had a habit of taking everything, even the man I liked. Too bad for her now. She’s gone and-

I could not read on. It was not what I had written a few weeks ago. Somebody had changed it. As I checked the rest of the chapters, I found one titled ‘Goodbye Jake’ and another ‘Daddy’s Funeral’. I had no recollection of writing any of it and I began to freak out.

Maybe I was sick. Maybe that was the reason my parents sent me away. Maybe that was why a doctor came this morning. What was his name? Doctor Lake? No, I took a walk to the lake. Did he ask me to? Wait, where am I? Where’s Macy?

We’re supposed to finish this novel together.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Occasionally, a random idea pops up in my head and I write it down. This story is one of them. There’s no ‘moral’ to it, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway.

Do let me know what you think of it in the comments below!

© 2014 Jeyna Grace

(For more short stories, click HERE)

 
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Posted by on August 14, 2014 in Original Works

 

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The Bloody Book

The Bloody Book

It was a bloody book, bound in human flesh. No one was suppose to find it, because in it were the names of his victims scrawled in crooked black ink. But on one unfortunate night, his book slipped from under his cloak and landed on the damp grass of someone’s lawn. He didn’t notice it missing until he arrived home, and by then he could not do anything. Morning was arriving and he would just have to wait for the book to return to him. It always did.

Giselle had just returned from a school trip; one her school organized to make up for a prom-less year due to the lack of funds. She did not complain like the rest, because she did not care much about prom. She was busy sending in her applications to the universities of her choice and studying for her final exams, and she had no time for such trivial events.

As she was heading up to her front porch that afternoon, she noticed a book wrapped in brown cloth lying on the grass. Naturally, she picked it up. But before she could check what book it was, her younger brother ran from the house and gave her a hug.

Giselle and Sam were rather close. They once had another sister, but she died when she was eight. The police said it was an accident, and even though they believed otherwise they could not prove it. Carla was a smart girl, even at the age of eight. She was the responsible little girl that scolded Sam for climbing on things, so how could she have died falling from her bedroom window? The thought of an intruder was frightening, but there was no proof of that either.

After Sam was done hugging Giselle, claiming he had missed her, she went to her room and started to unpack. Sam helped a little before he left for a cartoon show on TV. When Giselle had finally cleared everything up, she went straight to the cloth wrapped book.

When Giselle removed enough cloth to see what she was holding in her hands, she dropped it. After staring at it  for a long time, Giselle convinced herself that the cover was made out of un-cleaned animal skin and the pages had been soaked in red paint. That was the only logical explanation to the hideous book on her bedroom floor.

Picking it up she was tempted to throw the book away, but her curiosity got the best of her and she found herself flipping through the pages. The first few pages were written in such horrid handwriting that it was impossible to read, but the next few were much better.

‘She was a pretty thing. Big blue eyes and long brown hair. I married her when we were 17. Two years later, she  gave birth to my son and we were happy. I was happy.

I was happy and it made him angry. He whispered horrible things in my ear and I couldn’t shut him up.

That night… I took a kitchen knife and silenced my crying son. The next morning, my wife woke me up to the dead baby in the bloody crib. She wanted to call the police but I told her she couldn’t because I killed him. She called me crazy, and that was the last word she ever said.

My blade had taken Miranda and little Gary to this bloody page.’

After reading that page, Giselle immediately put the book down. There were so many pages filled with that same handwriting and she did not want to read it anymore. She found her hands shaking as she reached for the phone, but before she dialled 911, she wondered if the book was merely a prank. Could it be? Her thumb hovered unsteadily over the number 9, and when she finally decided to make the call, the front door slammed shut and she jumped to her feet.

“Sam!” Giselle immediately called.

She could feel fear creeping up her spine and the hair on her back was slowly rising. “Sam!” Giselle yelled.

“What?” Sam came running into her room casually.

“Did you hear the door?”

“Mum and dad are home,” Sam merely replied.

At that moment, Giselle felt stupid. All she could do was give her brother a weak smile as he looked at her worriedly.

That night, Giselle could not swallow anything that was on her dinner plate. She had been chewing on a piece of steak for so long, that it was now dry and tasteless in her mouth. Her parents were busy talking about getting a new car that they did not even notice Sam slipping away and returning to the TV. After she was tired of attempting to fill her growling stomach, she excused herself and returned to her room.

There, she reached for the phone once again, but she hesitated longer this time. Maybe it was prank, she thought. Wanting to prove herself right, she took the book from under the bed, where she previously hid it, and flipped through the pages.

Randomly stopping at one page, she read silently.

‘He had black hair and dark skin. He was my colleague, a good friend, and my bowling buddy. That night, we won our first bowling competition against our rival company, and we were happy. I was happy.

I was happy and it made him angry. He whispered horrible things in my ear and I couldn’t shut him up.

That night, I went over to his house to celebrate our winning. And when he had drank too much, I took my shiny blue bowling ball and shut him up. I did not stay after it happened, and I left town.

My blue bowling ball had taken Brad to this bloody page.’

That night, Giselle couldn’t sleep. She found herself clutching the phone, tempted to call the police. At the same time, she convinced herself to speak to her parents first. They would know what to do, right?

When the next morning came, Giselle did not recall falling asleep. Her mum woke her up rather violently as the alarm had been going off for 30 minutes. When she finally reached school, she was too tired to think about anything… even the book.

After school, she hurried home hoping to catch her parents before they left for the day. Her dad ran his own metal factory and he went to work at random hours, her mum was a housewife and a freelance landscaper, she usually disappeared after lunch to pick Sam up from school.

That noon, Giselle returned home a little too late as both her parents’ cars were gone. Sighing to herself, she headed up to her room and reached for the phone. She thought of calling her parents… and the police came to mind. But as that thought came and left, Giselle had the strangest urge to pick up that bloody book and read another page.

Not really knowing what she was doing, Giselle felt herself going for the book and diving straight into its contents. This time, she did not stop at one story but she went on. She kept reading till the clock by her bedside ticked 8 o’clock, and only then she wondered why her mum had not called her down for dinner. Heck, it was 2 hours past dinner time!

Thinking if she should go down stairs and check, Giselle decided to read one more page before she did.

‘She had bright brown eyes and curly long hair. She was a pretty and clever girl… and she was only eight. I liked her a lot, she was not my favourite but I liked her. We went to the park one evening and she made me laugh. She said the cleverest things and it made me happy.

I was happy that evening, and it made him angry. He whispered horrible things in my ears and I couldn’t shut him up.

That night, I woke her up from her sleep. She asked me what was going on and I said I wanted to play a game. I brought her to her window and told her to sit on the ledge. I promised her I wouldn’t let her go, but I did. I went back to bed after that.

My promise had taken Carla to this bloody page. My dear darling Carla.’

It had returned once again, that same fear she felt the night before. This time, it was far worse and almost paralyzing  Giselle couldn’t move or think; she could not even control her breathing as she felt her heart racing madly in her chest.

Carla was indeed murdered… murdered by someone they knew. Someone close. When Giselle had finally managed to snap out of her frozen state, she reached for the phone on her bed. That was when her room door opened and standing at the door was the person she least expected.

“What are you doing in your room, Giselle? Is everything o.k?” Her father asked, as the darkness in the hallway hid half of his face.

Why was her father checking up on her?

He never checks up on her.

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Someone I know (same person who drew the background of the above banner) made a catchy creepy statement on Facebook, painting an image of a bloody book bound in human flesh. Immediately, I knew that book would make a good story. So… after a good response from Bobby, I decided to write another horror story.

I hope you guys liked this one too! Do let me know what you think!

© 2013 Jeyna Grace

(For more short stories, click HERE)

 
22 Comments

Posted by on May 16, 2013 in Original Works

 

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The Family Guy

The Family Guy

“I’m Monica Rivers from Channel 4, wishing you a happy holiday!”

The news ended with the typical credit roll while Monica Rivers sat at the desk trying to look busy. Little did she know that she would soon be reporting her first, of the mass holiday murders, in her news-casting career. She didn’t have to worry though, it was not happening in her country this year.

As he switched off the television, he smiled to himself. He was ready to leave his chilly home and move to somewhere warmer, just for a couple of weeks. It was sort of a ritual, that every year, he would pack his bags and go on a little trip; a little trip that wouldn’t end so well for many.

Being that he looked innocent with his chubby face, he got away with almost every crime he committed. No one knew he was wanted in countries all over the world, because no one suspected him at all. How could this sweet, quiet, fat man, be the evil of such heinous crimes? Oh, no, it couldn’t be him alright, and that was what everyone said.

The FBI had announced that they were looking for a middle aged man, who expressed a special fondness for families. They suspected him not to have any family, which would suggest that he traveled alone, and met his followers only at the site of the crime. On top of that, they knew he only acted on one special season of the year, and they never failed to caution the general public when the holidays came around. To his surprise, these profilers were right about him, proving that TV shows never over exaggerated their skills.

Since he was especially fond of families, his favorite holiday of the year was Christmas. He loved how families would come together, and celebrate a day which had no significance to some of them. He also loved the presents and he loved the food. That explained why he was growing more side ways than upwards as the years went by.

This year, he decided to pay special visits to the families in a little town called Oakwood. He was going to slip into their brightly decorated houses at night, steal the children from their beds, and drained the parents dry. He would then bag the children and keep them for the rest of the year. What he would do with them, well, I won’t tell you just yet.

Being that he was a very organized man, he entered Oakwood as a traveler, friendly and harmless. He made a small inn his stay for the coming weeks and worked out his ‘visitation’ plans; who to visit first and who to visit last. The order never really mattered though, as long as the entire town was covered.

One would wonder how one man could murder and kidnap everyone in a town. They suspected he worked in a team of course, but they were wrong. There was one thing they did not know about him, one thing they would not even believe.

You see, this cute chubby man was no man at all. The misconception of vampires being tall, dark and handsome, has even made the supernatural believers debunk the idea all together. Instead, they have chosen to believe he was a pedophilia murderer leading a group of mad men. Though he was slightly disappointed with their assumptions, he could only blame the media for painting such false impressions. No, vampires weren’t all tall, dark and handsome, in fact, most of them looked fairly ordinary, and they never even attempted to lead a normal life.

Once again, how does he manage to wipe out an entire town? That question is answered.

But what did he do with the children? After killing the parents and washing down his dinner with the glass of milk they had provided, he would take the children, tell them they have been naughty this year and convince them that they can make up for it and get the toys they wanted. He would then pack them in red sacks and bring them home.

Since he lived in the North pole, humans were a rare sight. Hence, some of the children would be his food for the rest of the year, before he went to collect more next Christmas. He also made use of them, turning some to be his little slaves. Most of them would help around the house, while others made toys to lure in the new prey.

Unfortunately for him, he had to feed some of the useless ones to them as well. It may seem rather cruel, but if elves wouldn’t work on an empty stomach, what more these little monsters.

Over the years, this chubby vampire has been doing the same routine of gathering slaves and building an army, and no one knew how to stop him. Maybe this is because the children of the world constantly called him Santa, thinking he was the man who could make all their dreams come true.

Well, who could blame them, it was another common misconception after all. And who knew blood stained clothes could become a seasonal costume.

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Wait, what? Vampire Santa?

My friends and I were talking about how ‘Vampire Santa’ could end up becoming a film when the cinema runs out of cheesy stuff. I bet we are not the first to come up with such a ridiculous notion, especially when the conversation started over a Facebook picture of me under a chimney.

I hope this story isn’t as cliche as the idea though. Do let me know what you think!

And, happy holidays!

© 2012 Jeyna Grace

(For more short stories, click HERE)

 
6 Comments

Posted by on December 6, 2012 in Original Works

 

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