Okay guys, let me give it to you straight. There are some things I’ve written that aren’t coming back. I have a junkyard of unfinished drafts crowding up the blog, and even more published works that promised more and more parts that I nonchalantly ditched. This is the endgame for those sad pieces. I do have a special place in my heart for these dramatic stories without plots, and so I will ask you to, in the comments section, vote on which of these I should work on. (Note: given my track record, don’t be surprised if I suddenly quit. If this happens, give me a hard stare and a good deal of peer pressure.) Enjoy!

Anubis, Death Hound of Duggins:

Life had a way of going wrong for Anubis. Day after day, week after week, His Girl would leave, going away to strange lands and scribbling things on that white stuff. To be fair, she always came back, but the thought of being apart was almost too much to bear.

Today was another one of those days. His Girl had said goodbye with a loving kiss and a warm, itch-killing ear rub. His Girl was the best. And I mean the best. But alas, life can’t always be perfect. When His Girl wasn’t there, he had no choice but to run around the property trying to find something to please him. So that’s what he did. He rummaged in all the usual places first: up the oak trees, (no squirrels could be found) down suspicious holes (not a single solitary snake), and inside every hedge in the area (not even a beetle). Life was definitely against him. Anubis walked around the skirts of the East Wood, morosely sniffing the ground at random intervals. He looked into the woods, not able to see past the first few rows of trees. He had never gone in, at least not without His Girl, but that was in a completely different side of the place. Anubis took a big whiff of the atmosphere of the Wood, taking notice of every scent. He could detect the ferment of rotting, spongy wood, the grassy wetness of the remaining dew. He could smell the creatures of the forest, the nutty and stimulating scent of squirrels, the regal yet evasive musk of the buck, and even, to the great interest of Anubis, the powerful odor of berries and blood – a bear.

The smell that overpowered all of these, though, was that of mystery. Some beasts, like Anubis, those with a bit of magic left in their veins, can detect traces of the untraceable, like the scent of loving-kindness of His Girl that hung around the place. But the depths of the Wood held no evidence of humans anywhere. He took a deeper breath, focusing harder, delving into the scents of millennia past. The traces of mystery receded as he went back in time, and then he found someone. Only one person in the entire wood, in all of the reachable history of the Wood. A woman, alone, and what’s more – alive! Anubis opened his obsidian eyes and yipped, a very immature sound for a grown dog to make, but now, basking in this extraordinary discovery, one that trumped even the bear, maturity could be overlooked. A three-thousand-year-old woman lurking on the unexplored grounds of the Manor! Anubis took the liberty of one more bark, then regained his composure. Should he go in alone? Should he wait for His Girl? That was risky – sometimes His Girl was away for weeks. Besides, she was always on the eager trail for strange and terrible things, and he was sure that she would be more than fine with him going in alone. Anubis took one more look back at the still and bright Manor, then trotted into the trees.

Ode to Readers:

So, here we are. As our more rooted patrons may recall, I once wrote a post by the name of, “Calling All Readers.” It asked you (with not a small amount of pushing/bribing) to follow us, so that we might win the race to 100 followers with a(nother) very good creative writing blog called Rhino Riders Ramblings, an institution I highly recommend following. Anyway, long story short: we lost. But we are well above 100 followers now, so, as a tribute to my dear teacher Mrs. Wolf (who suggested this post oh so long ago), and to Mrs. Rebecca, who started this whole shebang, and to all you other followers of this wacky, brilliant, at-times-laughable literary journey we’ve taken, I now present to you a tribute to… well, you. I do hope you enjoy it, and thank you a thousand times over for supporting us and staying followers through The Great-and-Terrible Blog-Post Drought Of 2021.

(Note by author: How utterly ironic is this? Also, I may get around to writing you people an ode someday, but, y’know, laziness)

Quarantine:

It was Wednesday. He had arrived on… Monday? That would be… day three. Dillan sighed. Eleven more days. Ten, not counting today.

The Monsters of Midnight:

Hi guys! If you have not read “Short Stories, Beginnings Only” by Samuel Clemens, now is the time to do so (right after you read this, that is). The beginning of this story was written by Samuel in the story I mentioned above. Enjoy!

Derrik lay on the old queen bed, completely alone in the dark, musty attic bedroom. He jerked up. There was another sound accompanying the low moaning of the wind, a scratching from somewhere beneath him. If this night was the same as all the others, then he knew what was coming. Derrik yawned, threw off the fading covers, and swung his lanky legs off the bed. He took a deep breath and looked down. In the dark, his gloomy chamber was even gloomier. The cogs of the oaken grandfather clock in the shadowed corner began to grind, preparing to chime. Derrik closed his eyes. The grinding ceased.

Dong. One.

Dong. Two.

Dong. Three.

Derrik knew the clock well, and knew that it had missed chimes four, five, and six for centuries. Instead, it made an eerie whirring sound.

Dong. Seven.

Dong. Eight.

Dong. Nine.

Derrik braced himself for the dizziness, the gut-flipping nausea.

Dong. Ten.

You might do it this time, Derrik, there’s a chance you could do it.

Dong. Eleven.

The world around Derrik began to blur, the clock started to illuminate the room with a blue, elfin light. The numerals on its face had disappeared – in their place swirled evil symbols. Two-thousand years and Derrik still couldn’t decipher them.

Dong.

---

Derrik awoke feeling like rubbish. He remembered vomiting in the void, and the evidence was all around him. He stood up, immediately felt dizzy, and fell down on the stone floor. He groaned. Derrik’s joints were stiff and aching. He felt like the Tin Woodsman in The Wizard of Oz, joints in desperate need of oiling. He had felt it all before. He had woken up like this hundreds of thousands of times. Some felt worse than most. Sometimes he didn’t even make it this far. There were the days when he fell on rocks. Derrik shook the myriad memories away and slowly attempted to rise again. He winced as his stomach churned, as his bones scraped against each other. He gagged. Don’t throw up, please don’t throw up. Derrik had already wasted a stomachful of sustenance, and he knew how long you could go without finding food down here. Three seconds – the churning subsided. He let out a breath. I’ve made it this far. He turned to his right and began to walk at a steady pace, limbs aching with each slight movement. He could barely see, but he had walked these lands so oft that he could find his way by the rocks smelled, the directions of the biting winds, and the distant undulation of underground oceans. He had been dashed to pieces on every rock. He had been frozen by every wind. He had drowned in every water.

Derrik was cursed by gods. Derrik was in Hell. Some who suffer eventually forget what they did wrong in the first place, but even after two thousand years, Derrik never had. And unlike the rest of those who did remember, Derrik regretted nothing. It was a strange irony, that the only thing that could make him smile in this torture was the thing that put him in it.

(Note by author: This is even MORE ironic. A beginning of a story continuing the beginning of a story. Ah, the bittersweet comedy of failure.)

Monster:

Hello everyone! Sorry that this is so late! I have been thinking about all of my past stories, like The Zwillings and Choose a Door, not to mention other failures like The Incredible House of Duggins, Unfortunately the Hamster, and The Unappreciated Princess Society, and I found that I really only ever care about one story at a time. I start The Zwillings, and I have an idea for a fantasy story, hence House of Duggins is born. I don’t care about any of these stories now, with the exception of my short stories. And I know why this is: I don’t make plots. I start with a concept and a beginning, and then I stop. So from now on, I will mostly write poetry and short stories, and make plots for all of them. This will mean that it will take longer for me to publish my stories, but hopefully the stories will be better. Thank you for reading my work for so long!

(Note by author: *Promptly doesn’t write story after talking about how he’s sick of giving up stories.*)

Un-named Mystery:

It was no mistake that Winslow Pinkleson, 324 Marlboro Way died that night. It was unexpected, of course, but it was no accident. If only – no, of course, we must start the proper way: begin at the beginning. It was summer, I think, or maybe it was spring, and – pardon? Me? Oh heavens, my manners have left me, allow me to introduce myself: T. Dusenvolt, PhD, wordsmith extraordinaire, at your service. You’ve heard of me, mayhaps, in the Vientiane Times? No? Does “The Zwillings” peal any bells? Bother. Back to the story, any-way.

As I was saying, it was some time in mid-autumn when it happened. The frosty winds blew relentless that bleary night, but never-the-less, the Dusenvolts frolicked. They had – pardon? Yes, Dusenvolts. Do pay more attention, you’ve made me lose the feeling. Where was I? Oh yes, frolicked indeed. We Dusenvolts could party, that much was certain. Twas my Uncle Benjamin’s ninety-eighth birthday, and the entire living fraction of the family tree came, plus everyone who was anyone in Wales. His Honor Judge Whindwyrm was there, accompanied by his daughter, who was, if you mind my saying so, the dream lady-friend of every young chap in my day. Not me, of course, I was much too practical for that sort of thing. Yes I’m telling the truth! In any respect her nose was too large for my taste.

If I may go on, the Countess Æborne of Montgomeryshire was there, against my will. She was much to young to be a countess, if you ask me. Why, she was more of a girl than a count, being sixteen and all. Still, she was vital to solving the mystery.

Of course, the Winebrows were there, connected to the family directly on my mother’s side. They weren’t a large part of the family, just Uncle Benjamin, Aunt Elin, and the twins, Carwyn and Cai. They were both middle aged and unmarried, and only one at a time talked. Some would say there were three in the family, because they were conjoined, but old Aunt Elin wouldn’t allow it. She new they were as opposite as day and night.

Most of the other Dusenvolts were there, save the ones across the globe. Actually, now that I think about it, cousin Matthew came from New York.

Kill the Man Ch. 1:

This story is dedicated to Henri Lawrence, a friend in the storm.

‘I have thought long and hard about how to effectively craft a beginning for the story, of and after much frustrated crumpling of paper, several sleepless nights, and more peer review than was tolerable I finally come to a decision:

Theophilus D. Logan was drooling. He couldn’t help it, but he was drooling all the same. Most people don’t care if you mean to do embarrassing things, especially if they are present. But thankfully, he was alone, save the birds tittering on a pile of books on his desk. “What an amateur!” They seemed to chirp. They wouldn’t be wrong, either. “Theo” as his associates called him, was new to his profession, so much so that he hadn’t had a client yet. Not saying that a lack of customers always implies newness, many unlucky people suffer from a shortage of business, but in this instance it does.

“And what was his business?” you ask. The answer to that question would be long and tedious, as Theo involved himself in everybody’s business, but I guess that’s what made him such a good detective. Private detective, he might add. Theo was not exactly a law-abiding citizen, so the very notion of him being a police detective was just nonsense. Not meaning to say that his morals were twisted, it’s just that sometimes he got too entwined in fishy people’s fishy business.

Regardless, Theo was asleep. He had been half-patiently waiting for two days while reading his enormous collection of books. Indeed, books covered almost every surface in his comfortable office: stacked on his desk, face-down on an antique sepia-toned globe, piled on a flaking harpsichord, even hanging left to dry on the prongs of a mounted deer’s antler’s after some unfortunate run-in with a cup of that had been forgotten on some unsuspecting pile of encyclopedias.

(And, finally, lastly, conclusively, my magnum opus, my creme de la creme, my piece de resistance, my most hilarious bit of writer’s block:)

The Incredible House of Duggins Part 4:

Jemima certified this with much pride.