Three Beginnings of Maybe Somethings

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Did these each in about ten minutes for writing prompts with a local writing group. I should probably try to finish/expand the Godworm story.

Also, this blog has been a little sleepy lately. I need to write things that don’t belong as 55-word-stories more often.

On to the beginnings:


God used to only eat mountains.

Once every generation, His great snake-like body would
burst from the plains near the peaks that ring the world. It only takes God a few hours to devour a mountain, His mouth open wide, mile-high chunks of rock stretching Him as they make their way to His stomach. Then He returns to Heaven below for another generation.

The Bible tells us to build our cities on the plains, not the mountains. But even the Christians know that. You’d have to be stupid to flaunt God.

We were right to exile the Christians from New Eschaton, but it was not right to refuse them access to the trees from the forest to build their own city. Without that wood, they were forced to go to nearby Mt. St. Sarah to mine for building materials. I suppose they could have traveled to the muddy hills far to thse east to build a city like the Adobe did, but most of them would have died on the journey. Looking back, that would have been better for them.

God knew. He can find the mountains whenever he’s hungry. God doesn’t have to hunt, like we do. He just knows.

When God rose from the plains near the Christians’ new stone city, we thought it was their just reward.


The most gifted muscatooner ever was Valerie Smythe-Jensen. You could hear the brass and percussion and strange theremin-like undertone of her muscatoon day and night. Some say she would forget to eat for days, lost in the mental feedback of hallucinations that muscatooners experience when playing, an experience that they can never communicate in their music. But Valerie Smyth-Jensen could, and did.

She got to where she played non-stop, seemingly unaware of her surroundings, while her agent frantically tried to charge everyone within hearing distance. Limo companies bid for the right to transport her to venues, and people paid top money to be the driver, taking her as slowly as she law would allow, getting a personal one-audience-member experience for the duration of the journey.

But, of course, nothing lasts forever. The mind and body can only withstand genius for so long. Valerie Smythe-Jensen entertained the entire free world for twenty years, until she died of an embolism at the age of twenty-six.


Tom-o-Lantern sometimes had terrible, horrible ideas, and they brightened his face like a Jack-o-Lantern. Thus the name. One day his face lit up like a solar flare, and his friend Dracula Ben knew someone would suffer soon.

Dracula Ben, a short, ruddy-faced man, hated the name Dracula Ben. It was given to him due to nothing more exciting than his general unapproachability. No one wanted anything to do with him, though nobody ever had any particular reason. Or at least nothing they’d share with Ben. And so his only friend in this world was Tom-o-Lantern.

That day, when Tom’s face went up like a flash, like never before, like there was maybe a bomb behind it, a mushroom cloud back there somewhere, that day, Dracula Ben knew it would be trouble for someone. He hoped it wouldn’t be him. He hoped, in fact, that the brunt of what looked to be a particularly bad Tom-o-Lantern idea would fall on the broad shoulders of Jose “Trick or Treat” Sullivan.

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