Susan has enjoyed story telling since she was a child. In grade school she was particularly into telling ghost stories with her cousins in her Grandmother’s dark and eerie basement. Susan as an adult writes an eclectic variety of stories. Below are a sample story and bits and excerpts of some longer stories.
“MY MONSTER” (note to reader, she still loves ghost stories. This one was winner of a Dimestories three minute fiction honor)
It was a dark and rainy night. Wait, it was a crisp October evening–Autumn moon type night.
Hold it! The description of the weather has no importance to this story of fright and terror.
The operative concept is–it was HALLOWEEN! I’m NOT talking about HALLOWEEN and innocent apple bobbing or gypsy fortune telling
I’m NOT talking about the being scared by witches—air born on brooms, skeletons rattling bones, ghosts vaporizing. Halloween holds for me something much more frightening.
Somewhat like Dracula and that first bite, but unlike Dracula my Halloween Monster is not deterred by garlic and a wooden stake through the heart will not stop it.
My Monster begins like Dracula, the gentle touch of lips, then the soft bite of teeth, the taste upon my tongue. Then it grabs me with a grip tighter that a Frankenstein on a caffeine high.
My Monster owns me! It appears all so innocent–the little miniature chocolate Hershey bars, awaiting trick or treaters. Just sitting in the bowl, but they are lying in wait for me. A ghostly whispers calls my name, saying, “Just one touch, one taste.”
I take one from the bowl, slowly peel off its outer label, the one with the words of seduction “Hershey Chocolate”, slide down its tin foil, gently bite, taste, enjoy. I take out another rip off its clothing of paper and foil and devour.
I now grab two, one for each hand, can I manage three or four at a time? “YES I CAN!”
The next day the Hershey Chocolate bowl is empty. But they are not really gone, just shape shifted to my hips and thighs.
“Trouble don’t leave no skid marks” (excerpt – mystery, humor)
A woman had reclined herself on my kitchen table as if it were a piano. She was beautiful, and the way she was singing the song “Long Time Blues” was beautiful. This would not have been a problem had I known her, had I invited her, and had she not been dead since the 1940s. Her name was Gilda. She had come because, “trouble don’t leave no skid marks”…
“String of Pearls” (excerpt, mystery, serious)
I found her dead. She was my mother. I had been her daughter. Her bedroom reflected on its surface and in its depths, her depression. A suicide. No reason to think murder
The pill bottle had toppled over on her mahogany night stand. Round white pills, spilled as if from a broken pearl necklace, spilled onto her night stand, onto her floor, onto her bed. She had evidently swallowed the pills that had not spilled with a glass of bourbon over ice. More than half the bourbon remained, small portions of ice had yet to melt. Mother was still warm but had no pulse, no breath…