Tagged: werewolf

Long in the Tooth

Flash Fiction Month 2017, Day 21

“Visiting hours are over, I’m afraid. They have been for about seven hours.”

“Ah. But I called ahead!”

“I see.” The nurse checked her notes. “Then you must be Count…”

“Please, Count Dracula is my father! Call me Vlad.” He reached out, took her hand, and kissed it in the most vampirically dashing way imaginable.

“Nice to meet you.” She wiped it on her shirt in the least inconspicuous way imaginable.

Kids these days. The old vampire hypnosis never seemed to work on them. A shame, as he could have done with a snack after the long trip. He supposed it was all that Netflix or Snapchat or possibly some fortifying effect of a diet consisting almost entirely of avocado toast. That had never been a problem back in Transylvania. Except it probably was now. Everything flown everywhere!

“Do you know which room it is?” she asked.

“Of course! 1428, same as my birth y…I mean my bus. Ah, ah, ah.” He gave a nervous laugh. “The 14:28. They only start in the afternoon. That’s why I couldn’t get here during daylight.” Continue reading

Damon L. Wakes’ Flash Fiction Day Stories

FFM Colour Bands (very large)The following stories were produced for Flash Fiction Day 2015. I’ll be updating this post with new stories throughout the day.


At a glance, the Human Fly wasn’t the most obvious choice of accomplice for a bank job. But X-Ray Ted wasn’t one to make decisions based on a mere glance. The Fly might not have the strength to heave a sack of gold bricks, or the mind-reading powers to get the guards’ security codes, he possessed one trait that no other supervillain had. Or wanted.

Super-corrosive bug vomit.

X-Ray Ted’s incredible X-ray vision had long ago revealed an odd quirk of this particular bank vault. The bulktanium mega-alloy of the door was capable of withstanding lasers, saws, and 99.9% of superhero eye beams, but for some reason had pretty much no resistance to being melted by acid. A can of supermarket own brand orangeade could probably strip the finish off. The Human Fly’s gastric juices could eat right through the hinges.

And so they did.

As the door of the vault crashed to the ground, the bank’s alarm began to blare. They would have only forty seconds until the cops arrived, but that was thirty-one more seconds than they needed. X-Ray Ted’s surveillance had been comprehensive. He ducked inside, gathered up a few choice—priceless—items, and let the Fly take his share.

The Human Fly hesitated, torn between a big bag with a dollar sign on it and a guard’s half-eaten bagel.

“Come on!” shouted X-Ray Ted, “We’ve got to go!”

The Fly took the bagel and stuffed it in the bag, which he heaved over his shoulder. He wasn’t smart, thought X-Ray Ted, but he wasn’t stupid either.

There were sirens in the distance. X-Ray Ted made a dash for the nearest window, the Human Fly buzzing noisily behind him. Ted jumped head first through the glass, did a flip, and landed on his feet in the alley outside. A standard superhero/villain move—banal, really—but it got the job done. He checked behind him.

The Human Fly was still inside, hovering just in front of the window.

BZZZzzzzzzzTHWAP! He took another shot at getting through the window, but brained himself on the wall next to it. BZZZzzzzzzzTHWAP! BZZZzzzzzzzTHWAP!

“It’s right there!” shouted X-Ray Ted, from seven feet away. “It’s right in front of you!”

BZZZzzzzzzzTHWAP! The Human Fly caught the top of the windowframe this time. BZZZzzzzzzzTHWAP! BZZZzzzzzzzTHWAP! BZZZzzzzzzzTHWAP! BZZZzzzzzzzTHWAP!

The sirens grew louder.

“Come on!”


Finally, the Human Fly found the window and made his way outside. Then straight back in. X-Ray Ted considered running off and leaving him, but that would seriously affect his bragging rights down at the supervillain local. He hopped back inside the bank and tried to shoo the Human Fly out through the window, but it just freaked him out.

BZZZzzzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!! The Human Fly made a lazy lap around the foyer.

The cops burst through the door.

X-Ray Ted gave up. This was no longer the perfect crime he’d had his eye on, and bragging rights were the least of his worries. He dove back out through the window, and was immediately tackled to the ground.

“Should have used the door,” remarked Commissioner Hindsight, as he slapped the cuffs on him.

10:41 Continue reading

The Samaritan of Fourth Street

Flash Fiction Month 2014, Day 30

Challenge #14: Write a 666 word urban fantasy story featuring a monk or holy person. It must begin with an argument, and the main character must be marginalised in some way.

“What did I tell you about coming here? Fourth Street’s ours!”

The voice carried all the way up to the window of Vittore’s fifth floor apartment. He glanced down at the street below, but couldn’t see anything out in the open. It was the alley with the bins again. It always was.

“And what did I tell you? This bit ain’t Fourth. You on our turf.”

“The hell I am! Get out of here, dog!”

“What did you just call me?”

“You heard…dog.”

There was a snarl, and a crash as something bashed into the dumpster around the side. Vittore grabbed his keys from the bowl, locking the door with a trembling hand. He knew that the fight would be over before he’d even hobbled to the elevator, but he had been a priest once, and despite—perhaps even due to—having been cast out of the church, he could not simply sit inside like the rest of the residents and pretend not to hear. The doors pinged open, and he stepped inside.

When the elevator reached the ground floor, Vittore was surprised to find that he did not need to go any farther. A girl in a battered grey hoodie was sitting on a bench by the main doors. Vittore’s neighbour Mrs. Rennolls was standing over her.

“You can’t just walk out of here.” She said it with force. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

Vittore stepped forward. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” He put on his most convincing voice, taking care to hold eye contact with his neighbour. “I’ll see to it that she gets home safely.”

“There’s gangs out there!” Mrs. Rennolls waved an arthritic hand towards the doors. “And they’re dangerous! All that fighting…”

Vittore had been momentarily taken aback—when he had a mind to persuade someone, they usually came around immediately—but he recovered quickly. Where polite persuasion failed, there were other methods. He stepped towards Mrs. Rennolls, baring his teeth. “You would do well not to interfere with what you don’t understand.”

Mrs. Rennolls shrunk back. “Alright, dear.” She started towards the elevator. “If you’re sure.”

Vittore waited until the doors closed and the floor number started counting up before speaking to the girl. “Are you hurt?”

“Just a little, Clanfather.” She unfolded her arms, revealing a sharpened length of dowel jutting out from just beneath her ribcage. When she tugged it out, the wound did not bleed.

“If that had been a little higher,” said Vittore, sternly, “you would be dust right now. Was that one trespasser really worth risking your life over?”

“It wasn’t about that one,” she replied. “Everywhere we go, they’re watching out for us. Everyone’s watching out for us. But they only stand out at the full moon.”

“I know, child.” Vittore placed a hand on her shoulder. “So choose your battles better. It will be a full moon tonight, but now you’re in no shape to defend the clan.”

She stared at her scruffy canvas sneakers. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll do better next time.”

Vittore spent the evening quietly watching TV. He would have liked to read, but his eyes weren’t what they used to be and the large print section at the library had little to offer him. He considered that he wasn’t much help to the clan now either. Unfortunately, for him there was no next time. The most he could provide now was a stern word or some brief advice, and even then there weren’t many opportunities. That was why, when he heard a muffled thud from the apartment next door, he went to investigate.

“Mrs. Rennolls?” he shouted through the wood.

“In here!”

Vittore reached for the handle, then hesitated. “Are you inviting me in?” he asked to make sure.

“Yes. It’s open.”

Vittore stepped inside and found Mrs. Rennolls collapsed in front of the sofa, tufts of fur sprouting from her cardigan, claws sprouting from her fingertips.

Yellow eyes looked up. “I think I’ve thrown my back out…somehow. Little help?”

If you’ve enjoyed this story, you can find my work from Flash Fiction Month 2012 and 2013 collected in OCR is Not the Only Font and Red Herring respectively.