The Haunted Deep Fryer

A Very Greasy Halloween Special

A beep sounded from the back of the deli, the timer had hit zero and started automatically hoisting the basket out of the bubbling oil.

“Boneless wings are up, Scott.” Mike yelled from the front, while fishing out an eight-piece meal for a customer. The drumsticks were stuck to the grate at the bottom of the tray as always.

Scott grabbed the fryer basket and turned the crispy oily chicken bits into a big bowl, and then pulled out the bag of sauce. General Tsao- no, General Tso, or just ‘General’s’. It didn’t matter, everyone just called with ‘spicy asian.’ Cultural appropriation at its best.

It’s hard to get each piece of chicken covered with the sauce. If you have time, you can make sure they’re perfect, but nobody had time in this place. Scott picked up the bowl by its least sicky edge and tossed it. A few pieces immediately flew out onto the ground.

A glint of something in the chicken caught Scott’s eye. Pulling out the tongs, he fished through until he found it… an eyeball. “Mike, come check this out.”

Mike paused his flaunting attitude for the moment. “Okay, I’ll be right back with your spicy asian wings, ma’am” He went around to the corner behind where the customers could see. Scott was there waiting for him, glistening eyeball sitting between the ends the tongs.

“What the heck… it’s not mine, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Mike made eye contact with Scott, just one to be precise, as the other one stayed fixed in its glassy gaze. In all truthfulness, it was indeed glass; he had lost the real one in an accident as a child. Don’t make mention of 3-D films or “Keeping an eye on it” to him.”

Scott squeezed it slightly. It gave, just a bit, like a bouncy ball. A tiny bit of sauce dripped off it into the wings. “What do we do with this chicken? I mean, it came out of the fryer with it mixed in.” Scott responded.

“I can’t give this batch of chicken to customers. What if there’s another… I don’t know how something like that can show up just randomly in a fryer. That isn’t even a chicken eye.” Mike grabbed the eye from the tongs, then promptly yelped and dropped it. It was still hot. It rolled beneath the fryer.Continue reading “The Haunted Deep Fryer”

For November

November is just coming up.  For those of you who weren’t around several months ago, I participated in Camp Nanowrimo and wrote “Wall of Trump.”

November is the real thing.  National Novel Writing Month  50k words in one month. However, now I’m not working a full-time job.  I’m writing the Sequel to “Mother of Mars;” you know, the post that had been pinned at the top of this blog since pretty much the beginning.

ajuud
via: 

I’ve held myself back from wanting… needing to write this, but now is finally my time. For now I’ve put Hell to Pay on hold (thus “End of Book One.”)  It will be most likely come back in December.  We’ll see what content I’m able to put out otherwise

Before that starts… maybe some Halloween themed scary story?  I’ve never done such a thing.  Maybe comment if you have some sort of idea, for at the moment I have nothing.

 

 

Normandy Day One

So my host family rented a big house here in Normandy, and invited me along.  it’s beautiful.  The house is charming, the ocean is vast, and I’m in good company.

How it works, however, is that up in my room where I can have peace and quiet to edit videos and write is too far away from the wifi signal, so in order to write blog posts or find proper media for my vlogs, I have to come into the common area where everyone else has access to me.  Oh well, work gets done nonetheless.

I foresaw that I would create about two vlogs for this week, as the pattern seems to be, but I can already tell I have enough footage for another two after this one. Stay tuned!

A Trail of Iron

Hell to Pay: Chapter 12

Teivel awoke.  It was dark outside, save the moonlight drifting down from the waxing moon, almost full.  He felt the crusty dried blood on his arms.

The ground was cold underneath him, and the trickling water played a calming tune in the background.  Sitting up, he gazed into the trickling water.  The moon shimmered lightly in the stream.

Damp clothes still clung to his body, sending numbing chills up his arms and legs.  His stiff fingers slipped into the water, and he ran them up and down his arms, washing off the blood.  Teivel could feel the cuts in his arms, forming disgusting crevices in the form of the symbols he relied on.

He picked himself up, taking a minute to remember where he was. He had fallen into the stream, and crawled across.  The only thing he could do was continue.

His sack sat in the mud, soggy papers resting beside him.  They had become completely ruined, but everything he needed from them was now a part of him, either in his mind or carved into his arms.  Taking the papers in his hands, he ripped them ungracefully with a wet tear.  The two halves went into the stream, drifting lightly into a rock downstream.

The air was still, and beside the stream, the night was quiet.  Tranquil, Teivel picked up the bag and slung it across his back.  By the light of the moon, he could find a path through the trees.  The darkness was his ally, if nothing at all. Continue reading “A Trail of Iron”