Archive for the ‘Short Story’ Category

Short & Sweet Ghost Stories

October 31, 2017 Leave a comment

Eclectic Voices

Some quick and spooky ghost stories from our Eclectic Voices Writers. Happy Halloween!

by Jeff Folschinsky 

I stay, because they don’t know the danger. I stay, because if I don’t they’ll die. They think they’re alone, but they’re not. I’m here, so the rest don’t dare come. I feel them though, just on the outside looking in. I feel their hungry eyes lusting after them.

They dare not enter though. This place is mine, and they know it. My piece of heaven, my piece of hell, my piece of death, and I am god here. Here I make the rules. So I stay, so that they will be safe. I stay, so no other will die.

by Laura Lee Bahr

That voice in your head.

It’s not yours.

There’s a ghost in the machine.

You are the machine.

Who is the ghost?

Ask yourself,

Who thought…

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The Promise — Eclectic Voices

August 17, 2016 Leave a comment

by Jeff Folschinsky Do you believe that there are things out there, that are beyond our understanding? Like for instance that the universe itself is capable of being a living, breathing entity. Able to affect the world around us in ways we could hardly understand? Nothing like God or the Devil mind you, but something […]

via The Promise — Eclectic Voices

Musings of a Drunken @#$hole #7

February 6, 2016 3 comments

Glass of whiskeyI’ve been thinking about death lately. Mostly because of what happened to my Aunt Jenny. I think it’s because the randomness of it just blows my mind, but I guess death just has that kind of effect on people. Making the randomness of life seem, well, you know, random.

I mean I always heard about snakes coming up through people’s toilets, but I just thought it was like one of those urban legends. Like alligators in the sewers or republican socialism. I mean it’s not supposed to be one of those things that actually happens in real life, but it did.

My cousin Tommy found Aunt Jenny sitting on the toilet, dead as a doornail. Of course at the time he didn’t realize she was dead since it was pretty common to find his mother passed out on the toilet. Especially after she had one of her all nighters dancing along side Mr. Jose Cuervo.

Unfortunately Cousin Tommy’s usual remedy of pouring ice water down her back side. Followed with a tomato juice and Alka-Seltzer chaser didn’t work in reviving her, because she was, well, dead.

Just sitting there on the toilet with a surprised look on her face.

No one was quite sure what had happened until the coroner took her off the toilet and there it was. A dead snake, just floating there.

As strange as it sounds I felt a little sorry for that snake. Apparently Aunt Jenny was on a high fiber diet, so that snake got a face load when it bit her on her back-end. I guess that’s what some would call poetic justice but it still seems like an awful way to go if you ask me.

And while I felt sorry for cousin Tommy’s loss, it was the randomness of it that truly haunted me.

I mean truth be told, Aunt Jenny was a mean old cuss, so there was only so much mourning one could do for her, but the way in which she went really got you thinking. I mean you’re here one minute doing your business on the toilet, and then the next a snake bites you on your back-end, sending you off to the great beyond.

I mean if that doesn’t hurt your mind just thinking about it, I don’t know what will.

I mean she was taken from this plane of existence in a random act of randomness. Which doesn’t seem at all as nice as being taken in a random act of kindness, and not nearly as profound as being taken in a random act of, oh hell, I don’t know, profoundness. If that’s at all possible.

I mean, I have to tell you, this thing has got me looking at life in a whole different light now. Not to mention it has me thoroughly checking the toilet before I do my business, because you never know when the cruel hand of fate is going to come and bite you on the rear; literally.

All I have to say, is that I hope when my random end comes. That I, like Aunt Jenny, sitting on that toilet of ill-fated destiny, will also have the opportunity to slap fates cruel agents of randomness in defiance. Whether it be with my metaphoric hand or like in Aunt Jenny’s case, metaphoric flatulence. Let me go down swinging, because if this has made me realize anything, it’s that life should be more than a random act of randomness. Also it made me realize the city really needs to do a much better job of cleaning the wildlife out of the sewer pipes.

Hey, I’m just sayin’.

Musings of a Drunken @#$hole #6

January 23, 2016 2 comments

Glass of whiskeyHere’s one for you — last week a woman walks into this bar. Skin as white as snow. Like a modern day Snow White; well, if Snow White smelled of cigarettes and self loathing. Her aura permeated the room like a dark and mysterious bouquet that most at the bar were familiar with. A mating call to those daring enough to answer it. A cry in the dark asking, “dear lord, let me feel something, if only for a moment.”

I resisted the urge to answer. Not because I was a good man. But, because I found it more entertaining to watch the first wave of sharks starting to circle. Most moving on, recognizing too complex a meal when they see one. Others trying to go in for an easy kill, only finding themselves the prey. Victims of someone wanting something more than they could every offer her. A smile came across my lips as I watched their bloody escape. Making their way back into the cold and welcoming darkness from where they came. Most likely to lick and recover from their wounds.

It was only then that I decided to approach this fair skin maiden of sorrow. Taking a seat right next to her and nothing more. Sitting there in silence saying nothing, which I figured right off the bat put me in a better position then all others that had sat beside her. Silence had become a friend of mine long ago, so I had nothing to lose by just sitting there. Just indulging in my morbid curiosity in finding out what would happen next when she would finally break.

“I suppose you would like to buy me a drink?” She finally asked.

“No, but if you buy me one, maybe we could start the journey to discovering what ails us both.”

She tried to contain a slight laugh, and a moment later signaled the bartender to fix me up.

Most would consider this a victory but not caring about the outcome either way, I just accepted it for what it was.  A free drink and distraction from the normal monotony of my nightly visits to this particular watering hole. Communication with another person can be nice but when you’re not use to it, it can be awkward as hell. The urge to try and escape into the darkness like the others was almost too hard to resist.

Instead, I just accepted the drink and continued to just sit there with her, in a comfortable silence. Letting each other know on some basic level that, yes, we do indeed exist, and it matters.

I often think of my fair skin maiden and the quiet drink we shared together, and when I do, I raise my glass in a silent toast. “To my modern day Snow White, may she be feeling something, if only for a moment.”

Musings of a Drunken @#$hole #5

December 31, 2015 Leave a comment

Glass of whiskeyThere’s a cockroach walking across my table, and no one, including myself, is doing anything about it.

Sort of says a lot about a place like this, don’t you think?

A disgusting creature walking amongst us, and no one notices. Or do they notice, and it just doesn’t seem to be out-of-place? Maybe that’s because in a place like this, it doesn’t seem out-of-place at all. The reason that the cockroach walks so freely amongst us, without a care in the world, is because, in a place like this, the differences between a cockroach and a customer are almost indistinguishable.

A depressing thought to be sure, but it begs the question, how this came to be?

There’s nothing particularly wrong with a place like this. I’ve been to many like them over the years. There’s nothing different about it then any of the other places I frequented. The customers are certainly not of any lower class then you would expect. And the drinks, well the drinks seem to flow with the acceptable consistency that helps its inhabitants reach their desired state of mind.

So let me again ask. Why does the cockroach walk so freely amongst us, in a place like this?

I’m sure that you probably have your own theory, but for me, I feel it’s about Love.

Yes, love is the reason that, in a place like this, the cockroach walks so freely amongst us. It’s the reason, that in a place like this, we find the line between customer and cockroach is so blurred. We find ourselves, in a place like this, most likely by ourselves for various reasons, but ultimately I think we find ourselves in a place like this, secretly searching for Love.

Of course most of the time we have to settle for the love that comes in a glass with the perfect consistency of chilled Gin and Vermouth in it, with just the right about of olives.

Love comes in many shapes and sizes after all, and it’s easy to lose sight of that, and that’s the reason that, in a place like this, that the cockroach is at home, because in a place like this, we ultimately want to love ourselves, so it’s necessary for us to love the cockroach.

Why else would it walk so freely, in a place like this? Certainly if it’s presence offended us, we would just squash it and be done with it. We don’t though, do we? We leave it alone, because secretly we are routing for it. Aimlessly walking through a place like this, we route for it, because we know, in a place like this, after a couple more drinks, we’ll be doing the same. Walking aimlessly amongst the other cockroaches, trying to find love. So, in a place like this, we love the cockroach, because in a place like this, we really just want to love ourselves.

This is only a theory of course. Buy me a drink, and we’ll discuss it further.

Musings of a Drunken @#$hole #4

December 20, 2015 1 comment

CompBookSmallA ragged little book with my nonsensical musings. That’s all I really need.

Beer stained and wreaking of stale pretzels. Sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?

Would you believe some people would call that gross and pathetic?

Me, I prefer to think of it as a treasure chest of revelations; located at the bottom of a toilet. Once you get over yourself and stick your hands in, there’s no telling what you’l find.

But that’s how it is with most things isn’t it? You have to run the risk of getting shit all over you, if your ever want to get to the meat of the matter.

Of course, this point of view might only be temporary. After this next drink, I could feel completely different.  Well, here’s to self discovery.

Musings of a Drunken @#$hole #3

November 27, 2015 1 comment

FedoraI wonder; when exactly did we all become fearful of the fedora? Did the hipsters and the too-cool-for-schoolers get together and pass a mandate against it?

Did the seemingly superior fashion sense of our gay and ethnic counterparts being able to “Pull Off The Look” better, intimidate us and make us decided to abandon it?

I mean I wear mine not as a fashion statement, or as some poor pathetic attempt at raging against societal norms. No, I wear mine simply because its comfortable. It fits perfectly on my head, and does everything that a hat ought to do. Keeps the hair out of my face, and the sweat from my eyes.

A friend of mine attempted to theorize that it’s just plain old fashion, and doesn’t say anything about who we are now. I think about this theory as I look around the room and see a sea of baseball caps, and can’t help but wonder. What a cap turned backwards on the head of some drunken slob sitting next to me is trying to say, sporting a cap of a team he clearly doesn’t possess the athletic prowess play for.

Longing, perhaps?

Is that why the fedora is feared so? Not because it evokes longing of something we might  not ever have, but something we did have once; and lost.

Innocence, perhaps?

Maybe that’s why people look at me so strangely when I walk down the street. My hat reminds them of a more innocent time. A time when they had hopes and dreams, and anything was possible. Before compromise made it’s way into their life.

Compromises they made based on fear. Fear of what was or wasn’t thought about them, and why they even gave a crap to begin with.

Maybe that’s it, maybe that’s why the Fedora is feared so.

I’m not sure, but deep thoughts like this deserves another drink; don’t you think?