October Writing Contest - Voting
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10-25-2009, 07:11 AM
A polite suffix that has no translation
Join Date: Mar 2004
Location: The Angry Dome
October Writing Contest - Voting
Frazzled for ideas for Halloween? Not sure what costume to dress up in? Not sure what ghost stories to bring to the night? Why not steal your ideas from the October Writing Contest and then vote for which story you found to be most enjoyable?
Sit back, relax, and enjoy the entries for this month's writing contest!
Please vote for your two favourite entries. Voting will close 30 October.
The winner will receive a shiny banner and the opportunity to choose the theme and style for the next contest.
Peccadilloes Gone Wrong
“I’m going to wait for the Great Pumpkin in the pumpkin patch Charlie Brown,” the TV said, the peanuts Halloween special was on, that could mean only one thing, one of the best days on the kid calendar had arrived, Halloween.
Danny and his kid brother Pete were sitting on the couch waiting to go trick-or-treating. Their parents were at a Halloween party until ten-thirty and told them they couldn’t leave the house until it was really dark, “at eight-thirty it should be dark enough,” their mom said, and it was at eight-thirty that they intended to leave.
“Are we old enough to be trick-or-treating by ourselves,” Pete asked Danny, “I am only twelve and you are fourteen.”
“Do you ever shut up,” Danny asked, “of course we are old enough, I am a teenager after all, that means I can fight off whoever may try to harm either of us.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Pete said, he looked at the clock eight-twenty, “only ten more minutes, we should get ready brother.”
“Yeah, ok, it is getting that time of night,” Danny replied, they went off to their rooms Danny dressed himself in his costume; he was going as Link from the Legend of Zelda series. Pete dressed himself as Harry Potter, lightning bolt on the forehead and all.
“Why do you pick out the most ridiculous things to be,” Danny asked, “last year you were a cherry for Pete’s sake!”
“Leave me alone and let’s go.” They left and turned to the right, quickly grabbing scoops of candy from the three houses that did a bowl with a sign that said, “please be respectful, take only one” every year they would dump the candy into their bags and step on the sign. The next stretch of houses, the people were home but old and did not remember things well so what they did for these four houses was stand there and ring the door bell until other people would show up and steal their technique. The next house never had their lights on, on Halloween. It became a tradition to mess with the mean man that lived inside. One year they took tooth paste out of one of their father’s boxes of tooth paste, he had so many because he was a dentist, and spread it all over the man’s car another year they got a hold of some spray paint from their older brother Hadrian, he was off in college now but was seventeen at the time, and they spray painted on the man’s door in big red letters ‘GTFO.’
“What do you have planned for him this year,” Pete asked his older brother, “I brought some toilet paper, and we are going to
“I don’t know,” Pete said unwillingly, “I think we should skip the prank this year, it was fun in the past but now it is kind of old.”
“Shut up you stupid brat,” Danny punched his brother in the stomach.
He fell to his knees holding his stomach, he began to cry. Finally he said, “why did you do that you jerk,” he coughed, “I wish you were dead.”
“Shut up and throw this at that tree.”
After committing their peccadillo for the evening they quickly rushed off to gather more candy, the man in the house had been watching them for years now and knew right where they live.
After gathering as much candy as they could, and unwisely eat some before it had been inspected by an adult, they headed home laughing and joking as another Halloween night began to slip away and they grew evermore tired by the second. Finally they reached their street and saw their parents car parked in the drive way.
“Mom and dad are home,” Pete said, “what time did their party thingy end?”
“At ten or eleven or something,” Danny responded, “who cares though, they said stay out until you get a good haul, and by the looks and feel of this bag we got a good haul.”
“Can you carry mine, it weighs like fifty pounds.”
“Yeah right I’ve got my own fifty pound sack over here that I can barely handle,” Danny said.
They walked in the house and dropped the candy sacks at the door.
“Mom, Dad we are home,” Danny yelled.
“It’s about time you two showed up,” the voice came from the living room, but neither of the boys recognized it, “I’ve had to kill your parents, something I was not planning on doing.”
“Who are you?”
The man scoffed, “you don’t even know who I am, you mess with my **** every year and you don’t know who I am.”
“Ooooo you said a bad word, I’m telling,” Pete said.
“Shut the hell up kid,” the man said he throw a can of corn at Pete.
“Ouch that hurt,” Pete cried, “I hate both of you, I wish you were both dead.”
“Pete shut up,” Danny cried, he glanced out the window, “don’t look in the backyard Pete.”
He glanced over, “M-m-mommy, daddy?” they were on the lawn in a pool of blood so thick you could drowned in it organs lay all around them and, they were stripped of everything including cloths and hair.
“They suffered a lot,” the man said shortly, “all because of you two, and that older brother of yours, he is lucky not to be here, I would have killed him too.”
“Danny I’m scared,” Pete said, backing toward the door.
“Don’t you think you can leave little boy,” he threw another can of corn at Pete.
“Leave my brother alone,” Danny yelled.
“Oh, well now don’t we have some scrot,” the man said, “you punched him earlier, right in the stomach too.”
“Please leave us alone,” Pete cried.
The man ran at Danny and grabbed him, “Pete, oh peeeeteeee, watch this,” he took an ice pick from his belt and stabbed him several times in the head then tossed the lifeless body on the floor, “be careful what you wish for Pete.” He inched his was to Pete, “any last words?”
Tears streaming down his face he said, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” the man smiled, “okay then, good bye” he ran over opened the door and ran out of the house, leaving Pete completely unharmed.
Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong.
Eleven chimes. Just one hour to go. Then we all die. Hunted. Become one of them.
To describe the beasts is like explaining the meaning of life. I can tell you only this: the beasts have fangs. Fangs that pierce your skin effortlessly. That’s when you join them. Become them. And there is no turning back.
You do not need to know who I am. In sixty measly minutes, you won’t care. Because you will be screaming, trying to escape me. I’m sorry. I’m oh, so sorry.
* * *
I sit beneath the tall oak tree out in front of my mansion. As I pluck a blade of grass from the ground, a cool, soft breeze rushes by me. I bring my knees in close and curl into a ball. I know the storm is coming. And I’m scared. Very scared.
When I look up, she is standing there. She is a child, about seven years of age. Yet I see wisdom and fear, even age in her dark, hazel eyes.
“Are you afraid?” she asks me. Her voice reminds me of the good and light in this dark, cruel world where all we do is wage war, kill each other, and live in perpetual fear. I nod in reply. “Give me your hand,” she instructs me. I oblige, letting her wisdom flow through me, yet not allowing it in. She pulls me to my feet. I shiver, though whether from cold, fear, or something else entirely I’ll never know.
“Why do come to me, little girl?” I inquire. “Why do you wish to help me when you should be hiding away from the monsters? They are coming.”
“Yes, I know,” she replies, smiling. How could she? There is nothing happy, nothing worth smiling about. The beasts are coming.
She takes me to the park, and we sit down on a bench. “Why do you shiver so?” she asks. I am still unsure how she could be so concerned about me when she should be very concerned about herself. Because the beasts shall come when the clock strikes midnight, and the bell shall toll twelve times.
“I don’t know,” I say. We sit on that bench for a while. Spend our second-to-last thirty minutes alive just sitting there. Breathing. Waiting.
When we finally stand up and she bids me farewell, the clock reads quarter-to. Fifteen minutes, then we all go to hell. Or hell goes to us.
It is deserted. And why shouldn’t it be? Everyone is probably in his or her bed, cowering in fear. I don’t know why I don’t join them. Perhaps it is because the monsters under the bed or in the closet are scarier, more dangerous. But no. That can’t be it.
I bend down and pluck another blade of grass out of the ground. I twirl it around my index finger, hoping for some comfort. The oak tree above me is menacing. Just like my mansion behind me. And just like the clock. Fifteen minutes. The beasts are coming.
I lay back on the grass. The morning dew covering the grass is cold. Though it is not morning. I shiver once more. The next five minutes seem like weeks. For I know that after these five minutes, I’ll only have two more five-minute blocks of time to live. That’s when the beasts come. And I think I hear them stirring even now. Yearning to awaken and feed.
I stand up. I walk down the street. I am alone. The street lamps are out. It’s just me and the darkness. I consider killing myself so I would not become a vessel for a new beast. But no. I am too weak at heart to do that.
As I walk down the lane, I hear only the trees whispering to the calm, cool breeze. Not a cricket chirps. Not child whimpers. Just the trees. And the beasts. They whisper in their slumber. They want to be free.
Ten minutes until midnight, and I continue my silent, cautious stroll down the lane. I pass my church and consider praying for mercy and protection, but not even God could protect me from the beasts. Please, O Lord, protect me from the danger that lurks just around the corner. No.
I walk until I reach the park bench where I sat with the child. I sit down. I look around into the darkness of night and see nothing. But it’s not like there’s anything to see anyway. Just the dark.
I ponder over the beasts. Who would be my attacker? Would it be one of my relatives? My mother was the last one before me. Last night. Her screams as the beasts grabbed her and bit her still ring in my ears. Where did the beasts come from? Stories tell of a door. And beyond that door, a world of evil sits. The door has never been seen, except by a few. It was in a valley in the mountains. People lived there. I feel very sorry for them. Oh, so sorry.
Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong.
The trees. They moved. The trees. They are shrinking. The trees. They are taking another form. The trees. They are the beasts. They have awakened.
One steps towards me. I gasp. I know that face. That child. I look at the empty space beside me on the bench. I look back up at the beast. I am certain. And I am content.
As the beast draws closer, I close my eyes. Was sitting with the child a dream? No. Then how is she a beast? I’ll never know. I feel oh, so sorry for myself. For the child. For you. For the world.
The beast slowly reaches down and takes gentle hold of my hand. I open my eyes. As I look into the beast’s angry yet sorrowful red eyes, I see apology and pity. Then it lifts my hand up, bares small, razor sharp fangs…and bites me on my hand.
I close my eyes, smiling. And I change. My eyes turn red and I my canine teeth sharpen. And I laugh. An evil, inhuman laugh. And I’m hungry. Very hungry. Oh, so hungry.
It had been a dream – and yet not a dream – that I had found myself passing along a singular track of gravel, which seemed to penetrate in a straight line through a forest in the later part of autumn. It was like a witch’s road, with spindly dead trees flanking the path like a wall of grey, their leafless claw-like branches scratching at the heavens, as though soundlessly expressing some blunted agony.
Then as I looked ahead of me I glimpsed a white goat standing before me on the path, that began to stand and walk on its hind legs as a man does walk, and I began to feel as though I had been given this trance – one of the best I’ve had in a long time – by the Devil.
The goat extended its cloven hand and seemed to be pointing at something – something like a towering edifice at the edge of my awareness; and when I glanced with a turn of my head at what it was pointing at, from between the grey, claw-like branches emerged a sprawling, Victorian manor that loomed over the surrounding woods.
The mansion charmed me, for it was possessed of a certain funeral gleam; a palpable sense of dread that was almost sweet as it quickened through my veins. The walls were cast stark white and the fences rimmed with silver in the fullness of the moon. The windows seemed like pools of ink, sockets in a skull.
As my guest and I began crossing the grounds of the manor (the sense of fear lightening my thighs somehow spurred me hence), I felt my brain somehow touched with images of the mansion’s past. Like tiny insect legs they crawled over one lobe, then the other, and I saw the mansion’s construction as clear and as vivid as I see my skittish pen upon this page. The house seemed to have been constructed in 1889 and completed three years after.
During the course of its construction, I saw, two stone masons were crushed to death beneath a wall of bricks when its hoisting rigging suddenly snapped. This revelation made me take stock of where I was: just up the coastline of Salem, Massachusetts, in historic Gloucester. I recall the native people of this region refer to this place as “the place where shadows walk,” and only then in voices strained with terror.
If the local mystic nonsense is to be believed, this mansion was once a haven for those who practiced black magic in the 1690s – the time of the Salem witch trials. Is that why I am here? The foremost debunker of urban legends, professor of criminal justice – a man of science and reason – here to disprove it all?
Yes, that must be the reason; even as the pale moon stretches long and threatening shadows over the walk.
I’ve more to fear from the house collapsing. Not that unkempt, rebellious student from my lectures, of course, who publically challenged me to spend one night in this accursed place. How could I refuse? My reputation, my honor, my pride demanded I accept!
And so here I am…
It was at that moment however that my guide’s grip was implacable upon my arm, and it urged me forward. I remember now – mayhap from the creature’s touch eliciting some unconscious response – the builders of this domain: an Edmund Havershim and his lovely bride Rosalind. Indeed, this had been called “Havershim Manor.”
Again I started having visions, for I felt the hundred insect legs crawling upon my brain, driving me half mad. The year was 1941. The last of the Havershim bloodline, Marcus Havershim, his wife Elizabeth and their daughter Hyacinthe, vanished without a trace overnight, leaving the mansion a vacant husk, and ‘twas on these occasions, I realized, a shift in occupants.
Would I blame the Devil for all these miseries? Perhaps, but they themselves compounded their woes beyond their proper share. Look at Marcus! The letter recovered from his study points to his own macabre delving into black magic and sacrificial rites, and falling victim to an ancestral curse. How charmingly Gothic this Havershim was. I can see how the insular, suspicious folk of Gloucester would be frightened overmuch by these rumors. And the references to the Masonic order of which he was allegedly a member, the Order of Thule. Perhaps further investigation of this forty-room estate will sate my ever-increasing thirst for what really happened here.
My guide led me on to the main staircase, where I soon became aware of the heavy airiness of the place, with its vaulted ceilings that seemed to grow ever upward, and the higher levels seemed obscured by some tenebrous shape.
Portraits on the wall ascending the stairs depicted a beautiful girl, no more than 15, with an unexplainable sorrow upon her countenance, and this enchanted me, for her features were pale as snow and the delicate curve of her jaw sat atop a slender white neck; framed by dark and flowing curls that set off the ethereal loveliness of that face; the face of an angel cast from another world. The portraits were oval-shaped and done in the Victorian style, and the girl’s eyes did nothing to lend vitality to her form. I then imagined how her voice might have sounded: soft, and musical, like that of a girl.
And then I was startled, which caused me upset as I have not felt fear – visceral fear – in many years, and wasn’t used to being afraid, as an icy cold chill passed through me. My guide did nothing: he merely stood with that look of animal savagery; so I turned and saw a man behind me on the stair. He was dressed all in black, in the Victorian style, with a tophat and long coat. I remember him lifting his head to reveal two gaping black holes where his eyes should have been, and his lips were like two soft, fat worms that he smacked together wordlessly; and his whole look was one of imbecilic savagery.
When I awoke I still felt feverish and thought my delirium worsening. As I tried to leave my room my guide – who had now become my jailer – was outside waiting for me. I tried to brush past him, but his hold upon my arm was waxy and cold, and the look of my arm had become sick and grey. My head still hurt from the visions the night before, of the many demons flying naked in the moon…
Christine was about to leave her house when the phone rang. It was Mr. Higgins, a man who lived two blocks down from her. She hardly knew him, but in a small town like Fort Providence nobody really cared for formalities.
“Mrs. Diehl,” he said. “I’ve heard that you are going to the train station in Ridgeley to pick up your husband. I was wondering if you would be so kind as to give my sister a ride. She has been visiting me, but I am unable take her to the station for the return trip. I don’t mean to be too much trouble.”
“It’s fine,” Christine said. She was uneasy-to have Mr. Higgins bring up the Ridgeley road would make anyone uneasy. “But make sure she is able to leave quickly. I need to be at the station at 11:30 to catch Jake’s train, and its already quarter past ten.”
“She is already packed. I’ll have her meet you at the porch. Thank you.”
Christine said goodbye and set down the phone. As she walked out to her car, she wondered why Mr. Higgins continued to stay in Fort Providence. After all, if Jake had been killed, Christine would have left town long ago. She started the car, feeling sick. Nobody liked to think of Mrs. Higgins before driving a car at night. She pushed the thought from her mind and drove off, reaching Mr. Higgins’ house within a minuets.
A woman stood at the porch. As the car approached, she stood up and walked over to Christine’s car. She looked about mid thirties, and was wearing a bulky blue coat, its hood pulled up in a vain effort to force back the chilly November weather. At her side was a small black suitcase.
“Hello, I’m Sarah.” She said as she climbed into the car. Her voice was strangely flat, without emotion. She was wearing glasses that were darkly tinted, even at night. “I hope it wasn’t too much for my brother to ask.”
“Oh, no. It was nothing.” Christine said warmly. She put the car in gear and pulled out. A slight drizzle began, which soon became a steady downpour. She flicked on the wipers and settled down for the thirty mile drive to Ridgeley. Christine again thought of Mrs. Higgins. She hadn’t known her that well, but her death had still shocked her. Her death was especially horrible, considering she had been a bride…and Mr. Higgins had been so proud of her.
Suddenly, a thought occurred to her.
“How did Mr. Higgins know I was driving to Ridgeley?” she asked.
The woman took a moment to consider. “He didn’t say. I guess somebody mentioned it.”
Christine thought back. “I think I mentioned it to Eddie, the mechanic. I told him when I stopped by to get an oil change today. Eddie must have told him.”
“Probably.” The Sarah agreed. Once again the car fell into awkward silence. Finally, Sarah broke the silence. “Do you carry a weapon, when you drive at night like this?”
“Why of course not, I-” Christine stopped, thinking a moment. “I suppose your brother believes a woman should. I would probably advocate the same, if I were in his place.”
“Mrs. Higgins death was certainly shocking.” Sarah said, still without emotion. “I was unable to come for the funeral, not that there was much left to bury. Whoever did it was very good with a knife. My brother tells me they still haven’t caught the killer.”
“He’s been staying in town to try to find his wife’s killer?” Christine asked nervously.
“But that would mean-”
“That the killer is still around.” Sarah finished for her matter-of-factly. “He was even mentioned to the police, by name. However, the police did not find the source credible.”
“You act like you know who the killer is!” Christine protested.
“Of course I do.” Sarah said with a scornful tone. She calmly pulled out a cigarette and lighter. Christine felt a shiver down her spine. In the light of the flame, she saw Sarah’s hands. They were devoid of nail polish. Instead of being rounded, they were square, like a man’s. On the back of the hands there was hair, like a man’s. Sarah was a man.
Christine’s heart began to beat, faster and faster. She needed to get out of here. She saw a light on the side of the road, and faintly remembered there being a gas station being located there. However she was already a quarter mile past when she realized she could have stopped there.
“This is about where Mrs. Higgins was killed.” The woman who was not a woman beside her droned on. Christine began to shake uncontrollably. Ahead she saw a light, a faint red light. She pressed the gas, hoping the stranger beside her wouldn’t notice until she caught up.
“You had your car checked today.” The voice beside her said. “You mentioned to the worker there that you were going to meet your husband in Ridgeley tonight. That wasn’t very discreet. If the killer found out…”
“You…you speak as if someone intended to kill me!”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. I wouldn’t be surprised at all.” The voice said softly. “There is something up ahead. It looks like an accident.”
There, in the middle of the road lay a motorcycle, the same one used by Eddie the mechanic. Eddie was limping out into the glare of her headlights. If she could get Eddie into the car, she would be safe from the stranger sitting next to her.
She rolled down the window. “Eddie, get in the back seat. I’ll take you to the hospital in Ridgeley.”
“It’s ok. I could drive there if I could just fix up my bike; I just need a little help.”
“I have a pair of work gloves in my case,” the voice beside Christine spoke. “I’ll give you a hand. Mrs. Diehl, if you will just pull up a bit, so you don’t block the road.”
Christine did as she was told. The voice spoke up “Don’t stop the engine. Mrs. Diehl, I am not a woman. I am George Higgins. My wife was killed near here by someone she knew. Shortly before her murder, she stopped by Eddie’s shop to have the car checked. Eddie and I were the only ones who knew where she was going. He must be the killer. I dressed up as a woman to fool him, and he is going to get a surprise tonight.”
The figure drew a revolver from the case. “As soon as I leave the car, drive away. Don’t look back.”
The figure stepped out into the rain, pocketing the pistol. In her rear-view mirror, she saw Eddie. When he saw the figure approach, he straitened, the false limp instantly vanishing. From his belt, he drew an eight-inch hunting knife. Christine’s heart began to pound. Quickly, she slammed her foot on the gas, pushing the pedal to the floor. She raced down the remaining ten miles of road, and her heart did not stop pounding until she reached the train station and collapsed safely into her husband’s arms.
What’s with all the Vampires?
Vampires. Much has been written about there creatures of the night. The damned Grimoire of Unbounded Souls calls them “insidious beings, often nigh-indistinguishable from the mortal men they prey upon”, the horrid Tome of Eldritch Lore mentions that “Vampyrs are the walking dead, lusting for the blood of mortals; their prey sometimes become Vampyrs themselves after Death has taken them,” and the horrible and accursed Twilight Saga Wiki says that “Vampires are normally extremely beautiful, and their skin is described as extremely cold and as hard as granite, and is often compared to alabaster.”
It was an autumn night. Halloween was fast approaching, and Susan was heading home after seeing a nice slasher flick with some friends, to get into the spirit of the season. In the alley to her left, she noticed a shadowy figure. A lot of these had been appearing in town lately; they could be seen in the dark only, moved like shadows and seemed to have a thirst for blood.
She had known that these were no ordinary humans, and had done some research into them. Having managed to obtain a tome on supernatural creatures, she’d concluded that she was dealing with mummies, and had armed herself with iron weapons, the main weakness of mummies according to the book. She’d also decided that, just to be safe, she’d scour the library for a book on supernatural creatures that wasn’t a bootleg from Hong Kong titled To Monster and Other Supernatural Living Thing Tome.
The mummy looked at her. It didn’t look much like the Tome described. It wasn’t as short as it should be, nor did it have a beard or a red pointy hat. It was actually fairly tall, and looked pretty decent. A certain breed of girl would have certainly found him very attractive in an annoyingly obsessive way, but fortunately for her acquaintances, Susan was decidedly not one of those girls.
“Do not talk to me!” the creature said. “For I am a vampire, and so we can never ever be together!”
“No offence,” Susan said, “but I don’t really have any intention of being together with you.”
“But I am a vampire! I’m a tortured soul yet incredibly romantic!”
“And I am Henry V, Holy Roman Emperor. Now leave me alone.”
“I will. It’s for the best if you do.”
Susan realized the vampire’s voice was somewhat mesmerizing. She looked into his eyes.
“His beautiful golden eyes are like the shiny gold of particularly beautiful shiny golden eyes,” she thought to herself as she was listening to his sad stories of generic angst.
At roughly this point she realized that she had an overwhelming urge to passionately embrace a dead rotting corpse, and ran away in pure soul-freezing terror.
The next day during lunch break at school, Susan told her friends about what had happened.
“What’s with all the vampires?” Simon asked. “They seem to be all over the place lately, with their angst and their mysteriousness and their egregious romances with teenage girls which are kinda creepy when you consider they’re usually centuries old.”
“I have no idea, but they have got to go as far as I’m concerned” Susan said. She looked at a group of annoying fangirls and added: “I nearly became... one of... them.”
“Yeah,” Simon said. “No way we’re losing you to them. We’ve got to stop them!”
“But how?” Howard asked.
“There’s only one way to find out. TO THE INTERNET!” Simon said.
They spent the next two periods scouring the internet for information rather than attending their American History class like they were supposed to, but this was okay as American history was boring as ♥♥♥♥ anyway. They learned the basic vulnerabilities of vampires were wooden stakes, garlic and crucifixes rather than iron, but found little information on how to deal with a situation where vampires were all over the place. They decided that that they would try again tomorrow during German, as German was only useful for talking to Germans and nobody liked Germans.*
Upon leaving the school building, the first thing they saw was a group of vampires in broad daylight. The sunlight made them sparkle in an ominously annoying way.
“They’re really taking over. This is the first time I’ve seen them walk around in broad daylight,” Simon said.
“If you want to, we can accompany you and keep those vampires at bay,” Howard said.
“Mind if I join you folks?” Simon’s older sister Lisa asked.
“Girl, what have you been eating?” Howard asked.
“Well you know the Bayats from Washington Street?” Lisa said. “They invited me to dinner, and they happened to be serving kebab with a special garlic sauce using a traditional recipe from Mr. Bayat’s Anatolian home village. Delicious.
“Ah,” Howard said.
“As they say, a clove of garlic a day keeps the annoying ♥♥♥♥♥y vampires away. Also, you know those small wooden sticks that they sometimes give you after dinner?” Lisa asked.
“You mean toothpicks?” Susan said.
“Yeah, those. Turns out they’re for clearing bits of food from your teeth and not for eating.”
“You ate toothpicks?” Howard said.
“Yeah. Not terribly many, though.”
“I’m not gonna ask,” Simon said.
“Wait,” Susan said, “aren’t toothpicks basically really small wooden stakes?”
“In a way, I guess,” Lisa said. “So what does it matter?”
“And you’ve eaten garlic?” Susan said.
“There wouldn’t happen to be any way to get all of that out again the same way it got in, would there?” Susan said.
“Well, I happen to always carry a few pills to make people throw up. You know, just in case I might need them,” Howard said.
“What on earth would you need those for?” Susan asked.
“Turning a person into a living garlic and wooden stakes cannon to be used against vampires,” Howard replied.
“Eh, sounds perfectly reasonable,” Susan said. “Now let’s get this over with!”
Lisa took a few pills, and before long her dinner came back up with unprecedented force.
“Aim for their hearts!” Simon shouted as Susan pointed Lisa at the vampires, who exploded from the deadly concoction of toothpicks and garlic. They kept obliterating vampires well into the night, but eventually they reached the very last one. Upon being hit, it exploded into a million pieces.
The vampires were gone. The town had been saved from a serious annoyance, and everybody had learned a valuable lesson: Turkish food was a very effective as well as delicious way to get rid of vampires.
* Encyclopaedia Britannica, Revised 14th Edition, “German Language”
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