Everyone dies. It's the morbid curiosity of when and how that makes horror so enticing.
Once Upon a Dead Gull is a combined work of short stories and flash fiction. Spoiler alert: it has nothing to do with seagulls and everything to do with what is real and what isn’t.
Roses From Ishmael
Ishmael thought the flowers would be a nice touch. Roses were her favorite, red roses to be exact. These were slightly black around the edges and void of fragrance, but they were roses nonetheless.
Scary Man Bridge
The asphalt road was lined with trees; huge oaks that dappled the lane with shades of gray. Gaps in the tree line gave way to dips and slow running creeks with rickety overpasses one could only appreciate from the bed of a slow moving pickup. Red and Jinus hung their slim shoulders over the side of the truck bed and played silhouette games while Paddy steered between potholes and contemplated the horror he might inflict on the way home, harmless dread as he saw it. Why is scaring little girls so funny? He thought for a moment, but just for a moment before spitting a stream of thick tobacco juice. “Sorry about that.” He laughed watching the girls in the rear-view mirror wiping the brown spray from their arms.
Odd Man Out
Odd Man Out. Those were the first words that came to mind when I woke up, after the swirling and buzzing stopped. I suppose I was always somewhat of an oddball. No, in retrospect I’m certain of it. I was an odd number; a lone wolf; an awkward square trying to fit into a round peg. It seemed my shoulders were always grating against ceilings I couldn’t see as my feet constantly sank in slush I mistook for sand. There was too much I didn’t understand.
The phone rings and it is that stupid pre-recorded voice again, “Hi this is _____ with credit card services...” She’s changed her name but that doesn’t matter I just call her Bitch and hang up.
I am sick, feverish and I need antibiotics. The first call of the day could have gone either way. It could have been the nurse saying the doc had called in a prescription and I would feel better soon but no, it is that pre-recorded stupid slut who probably doesn’t really exist! If she did exist I would track her down and pound her round smiling mug in to a pulp. Cranky? Yeah, I am cranky. I don’t feel good and misery loves company.