Why the changes, you may ask? Quite simply, I felt that NFP was failing in its original mission. Beyond my difficulty in getting a daily post up M-F, I was putting far to much of my own style and idiosyncrasies into the prompts.

NFP prompts are supposed to inspire, and to that end, future posts will be in the clipped, sparse style approved by newspapers worldwide.  Just the facts, and I’ll leave the details to you. Also, instead of daily posts, there will be just one post on Friday, containing anywhere from three to seven fictional news snippets to start your weekend writing off right.

Of course, if you have your own NFP-style prompt, you can still leave it in the comments. All of the ones left in the comments will be posted at the end of the month in a special entry. And, as always, if you write a complete story using one of the NFP prompts, you get a free T-shirt.

And now, bask in the difference:

#164 – Designer Releases New Living Clothes Into The Wild
A prominent fashion designer’s new line of live plant clothing is making headlines all over the world. The clothes are a specially genetic-engineered form of plant life, able to mimic the contours of the body and survive by siphoning off the sweat and dead skin cells of the wearer. “It’s the latest in green fashion,” the designer said, adding that in addition to green, the clothes can be grown in blue, yellow and fushia. The designer dismissed the claims that the plants would gain sentience and kill the wearer to better feed off of its essence as “unlikely.”

#165 – Generational Ship Reaches Destination, Colonists Confused, Frightened
The Captain of the generational ship Nebuchadnezzar is unsure about what do next, now that they have reached their destination. “I’ve lived my whole life on a spaceship. As did my parents, and their parents,” the Captain said. “And now we have to farm? We’re just not prepared for this.” The Captain blamed the lack of preparedness on a holodeck malfunction 123 years ago, and “that time everyone went crazy and burned all the books.”

#166 – Giant Monster Shrunk To Human Size, Works Minimum Wage Job
Titanasaur, formerly the monster than destroyed most of the Eastern Seaboard, now works the very docks he once demolished. Shrunk his from impressive 50 feet to a mere 5ft 10in, Titanasaur now struggles to lead a normal life among the longshoremen. “There’s still a lot of hatred, I can feel that,” Titanasaur says. “I can understand that. But I’m trying to give back.” Titanasaur who once strode the planet like a god made flesh, now spends his days unloading ships and spending time with his girlfriend and her two children. “I’m not the monster I was,” Titanasaur says. “I had a lot of anger back then.”

Clothes Make The Character

Chau’s medium was fire. She sculpted it, with the help of two specially designed bracelets. The bracelets shot out flame from Chau’s wrists, and she moved her wrists–her whole body, really–in such a way that changed the shape of the flame. He sculptures were unique, etherial, and very much in demand.

Chau would say she bended fire to her will, and would then be surprised at the laughter this would cause.

Of course, they did not know about Chau’s fierce battle with the fire elemental that resulted in her bracelets…

Clothes Make The Character

Reggie’s mother had told him that his cape was not magic. It would not allow him to fly, despite being the same color red as Superman’s cape. He should not try to jump off the roof, or a tree, or the cliff face down by the river. The cape was not magic.

Reggie knew this. Of course the cape wasn’t magic. The ring he had found in the woods, however…

If you’re like me, not only do you enjoy a well-designed tie, but you are also anxiously awaiting the next IRON MAN film. While I do not own a necktie made of steel and LEDS–though who knows what may happen between now and Balticon–the idea of “power clothes” is nonetheless an appealing concept. Clothes do not necessarily make the man or woman, but they are extremely important to a character. And, if they have added features like a television screen or a taser blast, so much the better!

I should point out that this week is your last chance to get a free News From Poughkeepsie T-shirt. All you have to do is write a story with a beginning, middle and end, that’s inspired by one of the prompts in January. You can put your story, or a link to it in the comments or send it right to me at newsfrompoughkeepsie (at) gmail.com. My favorite gets the shirt.

Next week, everything changes!

Clothes Make The Character

Gwenna had worked extremely hard on her hat. Most anti-grav helmets were bulky, lumpy affairs. But Gwenna was a woman of taste. While she understood the safety concerns, she knew that most of the helmet’s bulk was padding. Gwenna promptly ripped out the small, discrete circuitry in her newly purchased helmet, and lovingly placed it inside her favorite felt fedora. The lack of stabilizers meant that outright flying was out of question, but Gwenna found that she quite enjoyed floating a few feet above the ground. And the anti-gravity assist to her jumps was thrilling.

As that mugger realized when Gwenna easily kicked him in the face….

Great Detectives – Gladiator

“Do you miss it, Gaius?” Titus raised his hands to the empty coliseum, receiving the cheers of thousands of imaginary spectators. “The roar of the crowd? The thrill of victory? The feel of a sword in your hand?”

“I used a trident,” Gaius said, his arms folded. “And I am quite happy to have reached a point in my life where I no longer have to wield one.”

“You were a glorious fighter, Gaius.”

“I was a slave,” Gaius gave the old man a look that could cleave stone. “If the only reason you brought me here is to wander down memory lane….”

“No, no…down here, by the lion gate.” Titus motioned for Gaius to follow, and pointed to a dark spot on the ground. “My man Taro was found here. Beast of a man, he was right here. Battered and bleeding.”

“Hardly news, Titus. A gladiator dying in the coliseum.”

It was Titus’s turn to glare. “You might say that. But Taro did not die in contest. He died here alone, without an eye on him. He died in the dust, like a dog. And he was not the first.”

“Someone is killing gladiators off-stage?” Gaius put a pensive finger to his lips. “Fascinating…”

Great Detectives – Cavewoman

Mara circled the body of Grun, her keen eyes never leaving the corpse as she walked. She was looking for a wound, an injury, anything that would have caused one of the strongest men she knew to drop dead. The rest of the tribe blamed the gods, but Mara had trouble accepting that.
With eyes as good as hers, Mara had trouble believing in what she could not see.

And all she could see now was a world without Grun.

Mara gently kicked the dead man’s head with her barefoot, causing it to loll to one side. The folds in Grun’s neck smoothed, revealing tiny wound that was once hidden my a crease. Mara stretched the skin tight with her fingers and stared at the hole with her magnificent eyes. This was the killing blow, here. As unlikely as it sounded, it had to be. All other options were exhausted.

And now Mara had a mystery to solve….

Great Detectives: Midwife

“I don’t know why you brought me here,” Sally said. She eyed the dead man uneasily. “I’m no good when they leave this world. I do my best when they come in.”

“You’re the only one I think of,” Charity said. “I would be cold myself without you. And now look. Two girls and a boy to call mine…and mine alone, now.” She touched the corpse’s cool knuckles.

“I am sorry for your loss. Your husband was a good man.”

“Thank you, Sally. It seems such a shame. To fight under General Washington, survive the war and the cold and all of that, and then just die here, at home? What sense is that?”

“No sense at all….” Sally began. She had barely looked at the body when she came in, but now she could not get close enough to it. There was a strange discoloration around the mouth, blue-black and sticky. “Charity, love? Did Bob here have any enemies?”

“Bob? Not that I…you don’t think someone killed him, do you?”

‘I’m not sure…and I won’t until we open him up. I’ll go get my tools….”

Great Detectives: Samurai

The daimyo’s messenger came to the poet for the third time, and for the third time, the poet rebuffed him.

“The daimyo requests your presence, General,” said the messenger, despite knowing exactly how his words would be received.

“It is in the nature of the daimyo to request,” the poet said. He did not look up from the bonsai tree he was methodically pruning. “Just as it is in my nature to deny such a request. It is the luxury of poets that we can ignore daimyos.”

“But you were a general in–” the messenger began, but was cut off by the quick motion of the poet’s knife toward his throat.

“I am no longer a general, and so do not claim that title. I need not be defined by anyone but myself.” The poet relaxed the knife, and returned to the tree. “That being said, this is the third time in as many days you have seeked my acquiescence. Why does the daimyo need an old poet so badly?”

“The daimyo’s son has died…” the messenger began.

“I am done with death. Your master knows that.”

“It is not the death that requires your talents. The son had dishonored the family, and committed seppuku, with his own father as his second. The circumstances of the death are not in question. The daimyo had requested your presence, Gen–Poet, because the head of his son can no longer be found.”

“I see. Tell your master I shall present myself at his home, as requested.” The poet stabbed the pruning knife deep into his worktable. “The game is afoot!”

Finally got out to see Guy Richie’s “Sherlock Holmes” last night. Whether Robert Downey Jr’s filthy action hero fits your vision of Sherlock or not, it is an incredibly enjoyable film, with just enough charm and wit to balance out the explosions.

It got me thinking about how resilient the character of Holmes is. Even filtered through the lens of a modern action-thriller blockbuster–or through a android on a space ship–the character remains a singular presence. There are many versions of Sherlock Holmes, but they are all recognizable as the character, deerstalker hat or no. The character of the Great Detective is so elastic, you can remove his Victorian trappings and shove him into a hospital in New Jersey and he still remains as fascinating as ever.

This week, let’s see how far we can stretch him…

Great Detectives: Barbarian

Iber was killed by a franscisca. Everyone believed that, because the small throwing axe was buried in his shoulder. The villagers came to agreement that Corbus the Black must have done it, as only Franks used fransciscas and Corbus was the only Frank they knew. Armed with rusty swords and farming implements, they searched up the hills and down the river, but they could not find him. For Corbus the Black was in the one place they did not think to look.

Corbus the Black was with the body.

“Someone wants the village to believe I killed this man,” Corbus said to his companion, Wisigard.

“Looks pretty damning,” Wisigard said.

“Hardly,” Corbus motioned to the wounds on the corpse’s torso. “If I was going to kill this man, I would have thrown the franscisca at him, not hacked at him like a blind man caught in a spiderweb. Even if I missed–which I do not–there is a reason I carry sword.”

“You don’t think these wounds caused by a sword?” Wisigard bent over the body to get a closer look.

“Not in the least,” Corbus said. “But you’re the barber, Wisigard. You tell me….”

Cyborg Parts

It looked like just a lump of metal to Kayla. “This is it?” she asked, poking the lump with an uncertain index finger.

“Indeed it is,” said her surgeon. “Your new cybernetic soul. Comes complete with Compassion9000 OS, the nTrospec processor, bluetooth compatibility, and an after-life time warranty.”

Kayla was unsure. But then, she hadn’t been sure of anything, recently. Not since that botched exorcism that left her indecisive and callous, needing a prosthetic soul to replace the one lost in the ether.

“Will it hurt,” she asked her surgeon.

“It will weigh heavy on your heart at first,” he said. “You’ll get used to it.”

Cyborg Parts

Honor’s daughter hasn’t eaten in 8 months. She had her stomach replaced with a cold fusion nutrient generator. She has restock it with bacteria every week, but it’s a small price to pay for never having to eat again.

Honor, a chef, doesn’t understand it. Her daughter says it’s just like her Honor’s retractable palm blades, but Honor doesn’t think it’s like that at all.

“These knives are tools,” Honor says. “They help me do things. What does that furnace in your belly help you do?”

“It helps me be free,” she says, walking away from Honor…

Cyborg Parts

Jaime loves to fly. He loves running along the runway, taking a huge leap, and soaring off into the sky.Jaime flys through the clouds just like he always imagined. And it’s just as good as he imagined.

Because most of it is in his imagination.

Jaime is actually flying, but he can’t truly feel the wind through his hair, because he doesn’t have hair anymore. Jaime’s brain was put into a five and half foot long drone plane. Jaime’s brain thinks it’s still in his own body; it thinks whatever his handlers want him to. They gave him a girlfriend the other week, because he’s been so good at his job.

Jaime’s job is scout around enemy areas and report back. But recently, there’s been a change in his duties. Jaime’s handlers have just given him a small, nuclear payload…

Cyborg Parts

Junli can see the dust around Sara’s head with perfect clarity. He can zoom in past her face, and see the expression of the person behind her. He can see the pores of her skin, the blood vessels in her eye, the moisture on her lips. He can see how her face changes when you lie, and how pleased she is when she thinks she’s gotten away with something.

Junli can see Sarah’s disdain, plain as her nose.

Junli’s robot eyes were an elective piece of surgery, something that few doctors would do. But Junli found one who scooped out his healthy eyes and replaced them with sophisticated cameras he sees through now. Now, nothing escapes Junli’s sight. Nothing at all.

Nothing except how hard Sara is trying not to break his heart…

And what better inspiration than cybernetics? The very melding of man and machine! The idea of robotic prosthetics, of replacement parts that cannot only do what your original bit could do, but more. Stronger, or faster, or merely with little blinking lights. The possibilities are fascinating.

Cyborg Parts

Hana’s hands are made of steel
Her hamster’s small and furry
One day when Hana squeezed to hard
And made hamster curry!

That schoolyard taunt fallowed Hana like the smell of motor oil from her cybernetic hands. A piano prodigy, her parents spared no expense to get her to be able to play again after the car accident. Her hands whirred and clanked, but they had the dexterity to tackle Rachmaninoff. They were also capable of crushing a hamster, as Hana unwittingly found out in front of the entire 4th grade.

Hana would let her hands touch anything living after that. Not the new hamster her parents got to replace the old one, not even her parents. Only the cold ivory of the piano keys…

When 3 Wishes Aren’t Enough

The largest room in Edward Grouse’s dedicated to his collection. It is filled with bottles, lamps, rings, and various articles of antiquity. Each one has been properly checked, rechecked and cataloged. It is the largest collection of genies in the world.

Edward Grouse has calculated how many wishes he will need to get everything he wants. And he’s very close to finding enough genies to grant him each and every one.

He just needs one more…

When 3 Wishes Aren’t Enough

I’ll think about it

Barney didn’t wish. Didn’t feel the need. Sure, there were things he wanted–his brother home from Iraq, for example–but he didn’t feel right wishing for that. It felt like cheating. So he thanked the genie, but told him to get back in the lamp. Barney didn’t want to truck with any of it.

Naturally, the genie was more than a little miffed that his new Master had no need for him. So the genie decided that it was going to do everything in its power to make Barney wish. And it’s power was considerable.

The genie was going to make Barney wish even if it killed them both in process…

When 3 Wishes Aren’t Enough: the Genie’s Union

The Genie’s Union meets every epoch or so, to discuss matters important to their employment. Benefits are rehashed endlessly, and the clear class conflict between genies of lamps and genies of rings does not make the discussions easier. Elderon, First Among Omnipotents, keeps things in hand, but genies have a history of getting their own way eventually.

Take, for example, Coperniqui, Thirty-Seventh Among Omnipotents. Coperniqui is going to bring forth before the Union an issue that gets knocked down every meeting, an issue that almost all genies are opposed to: the increase of wishes per customer from 3 to 4. Coperniqui is going to put in front of the Union, and Coperniqui is certain that it will pass.

For Coperniqui knows that very existence itself hangs in the balance…

Let’s just pick up where we left off, eh?

When 3 Wishes Aren’t Enough: Holding the third in reserve

“You’re killing me, here!” the genie said. But Margery was unmoved. She had her dream job, now. She had wished away those last stubborn 23lbs. There was no immediate need for that third wish.

“I do not intend to waste my final wish,” Margery said. “If I only get three, I want all three to count.”

“I need you to wish a third time,” the genie said. “Not want, not desire. Need. Seriously. You are killing me.” The genie’s arguments became quiet, and reserved. “If you don’t wish a third time soon, I’ll die.”

Margery didn’t understand, and said so. And so the genie explained just how short, and long, genies’ lives are…

Christmas is a time for wishes. It’s part of the holiday’s DNA. Which got me thinking about the classic Arabian Nights’ saw of the genie who grants 3 wishes. Now, what happens with 3 wishes has been pretty well documented, but what of those who can’t make up their minds right away? What if you make the wish for infinite wishes? And what do the genies think about all of this? That’s what this week is all about.

Since January starts later this week, we’re going to go head and start another t-shirt contest. Same rules as last time apply: to get a chance to win a shirt, all you have to do is write a story–that’s beginning, middle and end, folks–inspired by one of the prompts in this week and January. You can put your story, or a link to it in the comments or send it right to me at newsfrompoughkeepsie (at) gmail.com. My favorite gets the shirt.

Last time the winner was Scott Roche, who looks quite smashing:

When 3 Wishes Aren’t Enough

Toby was surprised. The genie coming out of the lamp? Well, that was expected. He had rubbed the thing expecting some sort of genie. But what surprised him was the genie’s response to his first wish: infinite wishes.

“Granted,” said the genie. “Your wish is my command.”

“You mean, I get infinite wishes? That really worked?” Unbeknown to Toby, a pink bicycle appeared behind him. A pony, a red Corvette, a diamond ring, and a yacht quickly followed, popping out of thin air.

“Of course,” said the genie. “Of course, they won’t necessarily be your wishes…”

Road trip..on a miniature sleigh, with eight tiny reindeer

“I don’t normally pick up hitchhikers, the fat man in the sleigh said. “But you look like you need hand.” His reindeer looked restless, eager to be on their way. The fat man, however, looked like he had all the time in the world.

“This can’t be real,” I said. “I stopped believing in you years ago.”

“I don’t take it personally,” said the fat man. “Come on in. Where you headed?”

“Silver City, Utah” I mumbled as I climbed into the lollypop-red sleigh. The fat man moved over a gargantuan bag, and cleared as much space as he could. This could not be real. But I could feel the sleigh as I sat down, I could smell the reindeer. It could not be real, but it had to be.

“You’re a long way from home,” the fat man said. I shrugged and nodded. “Luckily, it’s on the list. Hope you don’t mind me making a few stops first…”

Road trip..though a fantasy world

Wardeler stood next to the contraption with clear glee, but Astrid was nervous. Wardeler’s glee always made her nervous.

“What is it?” she asked the wizard. Astrid hesitantly touched the device’s wheels, the boiler, the gears. The elements were all familiar, but the combination disturbed her.

“It is an automatic mobile!” Wardeler said, rubbing his hands together. “I think it will be just the thing for your quest! It seats four! Oh, the rest of the magician’s guild will be so jealous!”

Astrid placed one hand on her sword hilt, the other hand on her forehead, and said a small prayer for strength. It was going to be a long quest.

Road trip..though space

Barnaby wanted snacks. Toloro had told him no stops–the trip to Xiston Beach was 37 lightyears, after all. With no stops on the way, the boomdrive should get them there in about 6 hours. But for Barnaby, 6 hours without snacks was unthinkable.

So against Toloro’s better judgment, they stopped at Wegan’s Buy Cycle on Nesak Prime. Unfortunately, the rotating fuel station was being held up by none other than the Chinga and Slingo, the Slaughter Sisters. And they took a shining to Toloro’s XJ61 VW shuttle, which, as it turned out, made a more than adequate getaway vehicle, even with Toloro still behind the wheel.

Turns out, the Slaughter Sisters were planning on hitting Xiston Beach themselves, they just have to make few detours on the way….

Road trip..though time.

Cindy was just about go off shift when an elderly couple in silver jumpsuits approached her.

“Excuse me, Officer,” said the woman. Her red hair and white teeth stood in proud defiance of clear age of her face. She motioned to her companion, who sported white hair and huge sunglasses. “My boyfriend Barry–he’s not my husband, don’t call him that–Barry and I were on our way to the Paleolithic, and I think we’re lost.”

“We’re not lost, Myra,” Barry said. “I’ve been traveling this time stream for 60 years. We’re in 1963, right? The year? 1963? I know how to get back from 1963.”

“No,” Cindy said. “This is…um…this is 2009.”

“I told you. Why can you never ask for directions?” Myra turned to Cindy. “Can you tell us how to get to the Paleolithic from here?”

I’ll be honest, I missed you guys. Hiatus ended up taking longer than usual, due to a very important project that I cannot talk about just yet. It’s big, though. Super big. I’ll say more about it when I can.

It’s nearly Christmas, which puts me in the mind of road trips. My family is a handful of states away, so the holidays are chock full with plane reservations and Google maps printouts. Some might brush off the journey as a means to end, but to me, the distance traveled has always been as important as the destination.

After all, how can you get to where you’re going, if you don’t know where you are?

Road trip..though Purgatory.

“Hey, Bea. It’s Dante. No, I can just barely hear you. No, No…it’s not Hell. It’s Purgatory… PURGATORY!!! Yeah, I didn’t think there’d be service out here either.

I think this is the Fourth Terrace….I SAID THE FOURTH TERRACE!! YEAH! LOTTA ANGRY PEOPLE! RIGHT! Hey, I think I see your Uncle Dave! YOUR UNCLE DAVE! Nah, I’ll leave ‘im alone. I’m glad he’s dead, too.

Look, Virgil says we’ve got to keep going, I’ll let you know when we reach the sumit. I SAID I’ll CALL YOU BACK WHEN WE REACH THE SUMMIT! OF PURGATORY! PURGAT–LISTEN, I’LL JUST CALL YOU BACK, OKAY?”

As you may or may not have noticed, there has been no News From Poughkeepsie content this week. This will continue onto next week, but we’ll be up and running again on the 16th. Indeed, NFP shall rise like the phoenix, more beautiful and terrible than ever, outshining the very sun. Because that’s how we roll, here at ISBW. Outshining the sun.

But before NFP crawls into it’s November chrysalis, there’s some lingering October business to take care of. Namely, who one this fabulous piece of clothing?

None other than Scott Roche, for his compelling werewolf-coming-of-age story:

I sat in my chair, keeping his gaze. “I want you to think about the talk we had in the bar. You are embracing the worst of our natures instead of the best. We don’t attack the animals that belong to others. We don’t drink more than we can handle and let that cause us to be foolish. It’s bad enough that we have to be here, we don’t have to give them the satisfaction of knowing that they’re right.” I nodded east in the general direction of what passed for civilizaiton.

The anger turned to petulance. “Yer tha one denyin’ who ya are Doc. Tha wolf takes what it wants and so do real men.”

I took a deep breath. It wasn’t the first time I had heard this sort of talk. Plenty of our young men were angry. They came here without family, without any resources, and banded together, teaching each other the ways of life. “Is that right? Tell me Zach, would your father approve of this?” I gestured encompassing his appearance.

“Ah Doc you know I didn’t know my father.” He looked at the clean pine floor

Scott’s also basing his NaNoWriMo novel on his continuation of another NFP prompt, which tickles me to no end. Anyone else doing this?

Tomorrow’s Ghosts

Trixie knew about ghosts. Ghosts were merely the residual electromagnetic field left over after a person passed away. Usually, it dispersed. But Trixie had developed a way to capture this energy, and contain it for further study. As a hospice administrator, she had access to a multitude of ghosts from all walks of life. Trixie kept them in jars in the basement, along with her notes, equipment, and pet cat Irvine. Irvine didn’t like the ghosts in the jars.

Unfortunately, Trixie’s not the only one with access to the basement…

Tomorrow’s Ghosts

Edward was the best cleaner in GLOBE. He scrubbed clean the data of land that had been abandoned or reclaimed, removing any remnant code that might be lingering, any booby traps the previous tenant left behind. New Wheel, the company that created GLOBE, had brought him on as contractor, but had since hired him full time. The turnover rate for virtual real estate was surprisingly high. There were always houses that needed cleaning.

But one house would not go quietly. It’s elements refused to be deleted. More than that, it called to Edward. Called to him to come in. Edward thought he knew everything about GLOBE…what could possibly be the harm of a virtual house?

Of course, once Edward entered, the house had no intention of letting him leave…

Tomorrow’s Ghosts

In the pale light of morning, Konomi can see them coming. They flood the streets, moving slowly on treds and wheels, legs and springs. She can see them, the disgarded robots of the city. She can see them attempt to do what the have always done.

And she can hear their screams when they realize they cannot…

It should be noted that not only do we have only 5 more days until the deadline is up for the official News From Poughkeepsie “Press” T-Shirt, we have two strong contenders for it. Anthony O. Miller II has contributed his version of Zombies VS Cavemen, competing head to head with Scott Roche. But that doesn’t mean YOU can’t enter in and snag the shirt away from either of them! 5 days, and nearly 30 prompts to choose from. I’ll admit, Scott and Anthony have set the bar pretty high, but I’m sure someone can top it.

Finishing out our themed month this week is a classic of the genre: ghost stories! Ghost stories are essentially stories of memory-ghosts are people who refuse to be forgotten, who continue to effect the world after their bodies pass away, staying in the houses they used to live in, the roads they used to walk down. Perhaps the true horror of ghosts is what that they tell that not only is death coming for us, but that it doesn’t change a thing.

The thing about ghost stories is that they are all old stories, continually retold and rewritten, with new details added and others removed. The phantom rider becomes a ghostly truck driver. The maiden at the crossroads becomes the lost prom queen. The pirate with a bloody sword becomes a maniac with a bloody axe. The stories become ghosts themselves, with a hint of their origins, remaining, but still able to send shivers down a listener’s spine.

So what might tomorrow’s ghost stories be like? Who will haunt the future?

Tomorrow’s Ghosts

Gary had upgraded years ago. His body was gone, incinerated, and all that was left behind was a cloud of dust and thought. Nanites bore the weight of synaptic processes, now, sending electric impulses back and forth as they flew through the world. He never missed his old body, he said. He had given up a bum knee for the ability to fly on the breeze, given up taking a crap for being able to move molecules into fireworks or flower petals. It was a better life now, he said.

He didn’t miss his old body at all.

Which was he was so startled when his body started following him around…

Zombies Versus Rabbis

Moishe could hear the way they clawed at the door, the wood doing little to muffle their hungry groans. “Rabbi, don’t you think we should…?” Rabbi Auslander’s glare evaporated the word from his mouth.

“Not until the lesson is finished. Now. What are they?”

“…Qlipoth…”

“So is this jar. Be specific!” The wood of the door began to crack.

“Thagirion! Thagirion! They’re Thagirion! The disputers, the painful movers, the demons called the Zomiel, great black giants that are always working against–” Again, all words were lost in the face of the Rabbi’s gaze.

“Thagirion would have sufficed. You’ll make a good Rabbi one day, Moishe. Should we survive the night.” The old man reached into the large carved chest in the corner, and drew out a long parcel wrapped in blue velvet. With callous disregard, Rabbi tossed aside the velvet, revealing a intricately engraved shotgun.

“Now that you know what they are,” he said, checking the barrels. “Allow me to show you how to stop them…”

Zombies Versus Suffragettes

Susan stood at the door, and glared at frightened women. “You think this is scary?” she said. “Stinking corpses wandering around outside? You think that’s scary.”

Georgette was the only one that nodded, but several others looked down at the floor, ashamed.

“This isn’t scary. The fact that we live in country without representation, that’s scary. The fact that we’re thought of as second class citizens, that’s scary. The fact that we are considered less than human beings, that, my dears, is scary! These…walking dead men don’t frighten me half as much as the live ones.” Susan raised the fire ax she had found up to her eye, as the light glinted off the edge. “And I for one am not about to die at the hand of either.”

“But there’s so many!” Georgette whimpered.

“There’s many of us, as well,” Susan said, he voice as hard as the ax blade. “Standing together, we shall take our lives into our own keeping! Now, who’s with me?”

One by one, the women stood to face the dead men outside…

Zombies Versus Vikings

Sigur, who was called Foxskin, due to length of white fur that adorned his shoulders, saw the boat first. He called Otir, his giant of a commander. Otir had seen the blood of battle twice as many times as Sigur had, and Sigur was a old soldier of twenty three years. Surely Otir had seen this before.

But Otir was as loss for words as Sigur. The ship, burning like a funeral pyre, crept through the ice. Against the powerful wind it came, toward them and nothing else. A legion of flaming oars jutted out from the immense vessel, doused themselves in the icy waters, only to ignite again once raised from the steam. Bolla, the shield maiden, who had the best eyes of the lot, spoke that men crewed the vessel, men who were as powerfully ablaze as the ship they rode on.

Sigur could not believe it, until the flaming ship came close enough for the entire crew could feel the heat. Bodies detached from the incinerating husk, and swam toward Otir’s ship, the charred corpses wailing and gnashing their teeth.

Not even aware he was doing it, the man called Foxskin drew his sword…

Zombies Versus Samurai

Minamoto no Yoshinaka looked at the approaching army in disbelief. The dead? Armed? On horseback? Not in all his battles.

“All my sins have returned. All the deaths I claimed, now seek to claim me.” The mighty general turned to his first captain, expecting to see similar surprise on her eyes. But Tomoe Gozen’s face remained hard.

“Tomoe,” he said, steadying his horse. “Have you seen this before?”

“I have seen the dead,” she said, unsheathing her nodachi. She balanced the immense sword in one hand, while the other gripped the reins of her horse. “I have walked in an apple’s-depth of blood, and seen corpses that bite and tear. I will bring you their heads, General.”

“That will not be necessary…” Yoshinaka began, but Tomoe Gozen held up a hand.

“I apologize, General, but it is. Lest they return. By your signal, General.”

“Go,” said Yoshinaka, as Tomoe Gozen led her squadron toward the gaping, savage maws of slain warriors…

We’ve done vampires, we’ve done werewolves, so now it’s time to wade hip-deep into another horror staple: ZOMBIES! Now you might say that zombies are played out by this point, to which I respectfully disagree. Zombies in a modern context are played out. The walking dead in a historical context, however?

There’s some meat on those bones.

Zombies Versus Cavemen

Thrag lived for the hunt. He saw himself as predator, and could lead his tribe to take down even the largest mastodon. But this…this was beyond what he knew. The dead rising from their graves, wearing the moldered faces of family, faces of the tribe? This was madness. Even old Turlock, the shaman, was no help.

Indeed, he had been one of the first devoured.

Thrag and a handful of the tribe had sealed themselves up in a cave. Most felt comforted that the dead weren’t getting inside. But not Thrag. He was too much of a hunter to play at being prey.

Thrag did not understand why the dead walked, and why they hungered for the flesh of other tribesmen. He understood two things: the strength of his arms, and the strength of his stone ax. Trusting in those, Thrag moved aside the barricade….

Werewolves this week, and the winning submission comes from Jason (Anthraxus). It’s a bit of fanfic, but who among us doesn’t have a little fanfic rolling about in our heads? Perhaps if you ply me with enough fine scotch, I’ll tell you all about my STAR WARS stories…

Smurfette staggered into the giant forest outside of the village. She tripped, losing one of her white pumps in the low undergrowth, and leaned against a cattail growing at the river bank she had reached. A shooting pain in her stomache caused her to curl up in a ball, tears streaming from her eyes.

“Why did I eat that weird muffin?” she thought to herself through the terrific pain that run up and down her spine. “It just smelled so smurfy good!” She gasped and cried out in horror as the change began to over take her. Her smooth blue skin rippled and erupted in tufts of rough aquamarine fur. She felt the seams of her white dress split and the shapeless hat fall from her head as her spine lengthed and broadened.

With a shake she threw away the last few scraps of clothing that clung to her supple, bushy body. She leapt into a break between the trees and turned her head to the full moon above. “Smuroooooo!” she howled, and stalked off into the trees toward the cluster of large mushrooms where she new small, smurfy flavored prey awaited.

Scott Roche does another bang-up job extending one of the prompts over at his site. It’s worth noting here that Scott’s the only one who’s completed a full story based on an October prompt, so he’s a shoe-in for the t-shirt. Anybody want to give Scott some competition?

Werewolves I Have Known…

Red Claw made sure to stay away from the others during the full moon. She wasn’t sure what happened during her transformation, save that she always woke with a sense of loss and shame. Better to have it happen deep in the woods, far from the eyes of others.

The transformation hit Red Claw’s legs first, the bones cracking as they stretched. She felt her hair fall to the grass, her toes lengthen. Her spine creaked and snapped as it readjusted, and she found herself standing on two legs with surprising comfort. Red Claw’s snout collapsed in on itself, forming a small nose and mouth. Red Claw put her newly dexterous fingers up to her smooth jaw, testing the full lips and flat teeth.

Red Claw ambled unsteadily on two legs toward the lights at the edge of the woods, compelled by instincts she barely understood…

Werewolves I Have Known…

Neil didn’t think much of the wolf bite he got a few days ago. He had kept it a secret from his superiors, naturally–there was no way he wasn’t going on this mission. Anyway, it seemed to heal up just fine.

But as he got out the capsule, he started to feel a little…off. Itchy. Something growling in the back of his throat, something growing inside his stomach. Something was wrong. But it didn’t matter. What Neil was about to do was historic. Plenty of time for a check up back in the capsule.

Neil gave a short hop on the surface of the moon, and turned his helmet toward the camera.

“That’s one small step for man, one giant lea-AAAAARRRRRGGGH” Neil screamed as the transformation took hold of him, tearing his suit on the lunar surface…

Werewolves I Have Known…

Handful Jones never wanted to be any trouble. He was a clumsy man, too right. And lazy, sure enough. And if you were to say he’d never held down a job for longer than two weeks, well, that would be a fair point. Handful Jones will agree with you on all of these notions. But he will not let you call him a murderer.

Even though he was found knee-deep in the viscera of his friends and neighbors, blood on his mouth, hands, overalls, Handful Jones continues to protest his own innocence.

“It wasn’t me,” he says. “It was the wolf…”

Werewolves I Have Known…

“There’s a pie in the car,” Lost Corrie says. “I can smell it.”

Lost Corrie sits in the passenger seat, with her knees up by her chin. She has refused to wear a seat belt. “If there’s an accident, it doesn’t matter. I’ll just turn into a wolf.” This her answer for everything, from why her shoelaces are untied to where her parents are. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll just turn into a wolf.”

The lack of a full moon does not seem to bother her.

What does bother her is the smell of pie she knows is in one of the grocery sacks Mrs. Chilton has neatly arranged in the back seat. She can’t stop smelling it. Lost Corrie knows that the pie is not for her, but for Mrs. Chilton’s mother, even though Mrs. Chilton seems much too old to have a mother. Lost Corrie thought she could handle the pie smell, but it has been an awful long drive. And the last thing she wants to do is upset Mrs. Chilton.

“It doesn’t matter” Lost Corrie thinks. “I’ll just turn into a wolf…”

Before we get to this week’s theme, I just want to remind everyone about this fine shirt that’s going to be given away at the end of the month.

As I said last week, the only way to get one of these bad boys is to write a story–that’s beginning, middle and end, folks–inspired by one of the prompts in October. You can put your story, or a link to it in the comments, or send it right to me at newsfrompoughkeepsie (at) gmail.com. My favorite gets the shirt.

On to this week’s theme. As was pointed out in Sunday’s comments, werewolves follow naturally with vampires. Werewolves are less mysterious than vampires, however, and their mythology much more concrete. Full moon = wolf. It’s hard to improve on that.

So this week, rather than taking werewolves apart, we’ll be spending time with them. Too many of these NFP entries have been plot-focused, so I think it’ll be nice to be character focused for a week.

Werewolves I have known…

Zach says he doesn’t mind the change much anymore. Says he’s come to terms. We’ve all got our rows to hoe, he says, his isn’t any different. Old Roger Gilbert mutters something about his destroyed rabbit hutch and my he has to pay for Zach’s hoeing, but no ones pays him any mind.

Zach says he’s a changed man, but he didn’t need to say it. We can all see the return of Zach’s beard. He shaved it off right after he got bit, and it’s good to see it back. Zack said he didn’t want hair on his face, not while human. Good to see human nature–and probably a bit of sloth–win out.

“I’m okay,” he said, ordering another beer. “I’m a werewolf.”

“Naturally,” said the bartender. “You everyone else in this town…”

It’s my first wedding anniversary today, so I’m going to keep this short. We’ll just get right to the stories.

David Niall Wilson gets on the Sunday Edition for the second week in a row for inspired tale of vampires and dentists:

Walter leaned back into the dentist’s chair and scowled menacingly at the ceiling. He had only a few hours until Brendan’s party, and one didn’t attend a Brenda Devoe party with one chipped fang. Not if one intended to mingle with the “elite”.

The dentist leaned in close.

“Open wide; let’s see what we’ve got here.”

Walter somehow managed to deepen his scowl and comply with the request at the same time. The Dentist, Dr. Brody, poked and prodded at the offending tooth with the very sharp tip of a dental tool. He muttered something, but Walter couldn’t quite hear it.

“You gunna figz it?” Walter couldn’t speak clearly with a mouthful of saliva and dental tools.

“Excuse me?” Dr. Brody drew back slightly.

“You gonna fix it?” Walter repeated, a bit more coherently.

“I’m afraid this cap is damaged beyond repair,” Dr. Brody said. The man smiled brightly as he delivered this news, and Walter tried to sit up – vaguely thinking about strangling the smile off the dentist’s face.

“I have to have it fixed,” he said. “It has to be fixed by tonight. It’s … important.”

“I see,” Dr. Brody replied, putting a finger to his chin and looking perplexed. “I don’t suppose you could tell me why?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Walter said.

He turned away suddenly. His face was a wash of sullen angst. He’d practiced the expression in front of a mirror for hours.

“You never know,” Dr. Brody said. “I might. It’s that important to you?”

Walter nodded without turning back.

“Well then,” Dr. Brody said cheerfully. “I think I can help. By tonight, you say?”

Walter nodded again. He turned, chancing a glance up into Dr. Brody’s face. In that instant, the Dr.’s smile vanished. He opened his own jaws impossibly wide, showing long, needle-pointed fangs. Walter scrabbled back and away, but escape was hampered by the dental chair and equipment.

“Now Walter,” Dr. Brody said, his voice suddenly low and menacing, “hold still. If you want to rise and grow fangs by tonight – you’re going to have to be a little more…cooperative.”

Honestly, I’m a little jealous I didn’t think of combining vampires and dentists first. It seems so obvious on the face of it…

The always dependable Scott Roche gave us stylish continuation of Wednesday’s prompt entitled A Liquid Diet . Check it out.

I’ve been looking through my notes, and it looks like I don’t really have anything appropriately “monstery” for the last week in October. So I’m gonna open it to you guys. What should the last week be about? Zombies? Mummies? Trick or Treaters? I leave it to you!

Vampires work like this…

It could happen to anyone.

It happened to Rachel. Rachel awoke with the thirst. She awoke, pale as the moon, and took off through the window. Neighbors found her the next morning, blood caked on her mouth and hands. At the police station, Racheal spoke only of her confusion. She was thirsty. Why? She didn’t know. Shee leapt out the window because she knew thats how she could quench her thirst. How? She didn’t know. Just like she didn’t know where the blood came from, or how she survived a jump from the 4th floor.

It happened to Matt. Matt awoke with the thirst, but never made it out of the house. His wife found him, teeth sunk deep into the throat of their dog. She came downstairs because she thought he was burglar. Matt hissed and shielded his eyes from the light of her flashlight. His distended canines dripping and gleaming.

It could happen to anyone. The thirst comes on you, and rides you ’till morning. You’re it’s creature, then, a beast of the night. It’ll leave in the morning, only to find another to animate with its wicked hunger. It could happen to anyone.

It could happen to you…

Vampires work like this…

They aren’t human. They were never human.

They’ll deceive you in the dark, mimicking human speech. Guttural moans combine with pheromones to sound like seduction, but it’s not real words. No more than those leathery wings are opera capes. It’s a beast that walks like its prey, a wolf dressed as a sheep.

Vampires cannot be bargained with, for your life is all they want. They cannot be reasoned with, because they live for the hunt. They do not feel pity, or remorse, for you are nothing but food. And once they catch your scent, they will not stop until their teeth are in your veins, and your life in their stomach.

Michaela, who thought she had left violence and savagery behind with her dress blues, is just now learning all this…

Vampires work like this…

“It’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s simple lifestyle choice, a dietary system, and one that has considerable benefits.”

That how Dr. Max Shreck starts his book “The Health Secrets Of A Hematopathic Doctor” (1967). In it, he described how his health had not much improved by becoming a vegetarian and how this led him to try a completely liquid food regime, consisting entirely of blood. He said:

“The results were electrifying, within a few days I felt much stronger with a return of my former enthusiasm. Many of my patients whom I had been able to convert to this new diet also reported similar results.”

Unsurprisingly, with the health benefits presented so, Dr. Shreck had started movement that took the country by storm…

Vampires work like this…

No one would burst into flame when the sun comes up. That’s ridiculous. The sun, as it always has been, is an illuminator, a life-giver. And vampires have plenty of reason to avoid the sun, as the light of it’s rays reveal a harsher truth than even fire: in the light of the sun, a vampire looks–and feels–its true age.

And so Immithalia hobbles through her days, a rag and bone woman who can barely walk, caring for her sister, whose appearence in bed approaches skeletal. Her neighbors smile at her as she putters with her gerainiums, and laugh as she nakes jokes about how hard things were “in the old country.” She’s just an old woman, after all.

Immithalia waits for the night, waits for the darkness to reveal her beauty, her savagery. And then she and her sister, her sire, her lover, join hands and hunt for the vitality of youth…

This official News From Poughkeepsie “Press” shirt will never be for sale. I will not be giving them away at cons. I will not barter for them, even if you have fine aged cheese. The only way you can get a shirt is to write.

Write a story, based on any of the prompts in October. It can be short, it can be long, but it must have a beginning, middle and end. The writer of the awesomest story gets the shirt. You can post your story in the comments, or link to it in the comments, or send it to me directly at newsfrompoughkeepsie (at) gmail.com. That’s all you have to do.

As I said, it’s Halloween season, so we’re going to be studying monsters all month. This week, we’ve got my wife’s favorite monsters: vampires!

Vampires work like this…

You get a hundred years. You drink the blood of the youthful, the vital, you get a hundred years of life. Back when most people didn’t live to thirty, this seemed like immortality. But now? Now the promise of blood means little.

To Grigori, who has watched lifespans increase without the constant murder that surrounds his existence, the promise of blood is a joke. Other vampires may sit around and accept it, but not Grigori. He’s going to make the promise of blood mean something again.

Even if it kills him…

Yeah, yeah, it’s Monday. Maybe I should just just merge the Sunday and Monday into one massive, monstrous post. Shout out in the comments if you have opinion on keep Sunday separate or not.

The theme was “Westerns” which got alot of strong responses. My favorite was by David Niall Wilson, which just cracked me up to no end:

The creak-wheeled wagon rolled into town leaning heavily to one side and smelling of dust and gun oil. The horse plodded ahead slowly, as if he knew where he was heading, which was odd; the driver was conspicuously absent.

Heads turned to watch the wagons passing. A boy, barefoot and filthy, ran out, looked into the driver’s seat, then ran away as if the devil had bit him, his face white.

The wagon pulled to a halt, and Sheriff Bony Ridge stepped away from the front of the saloon. Bony hitched his britches over too-thin hips, settled his guns, and strode across the street to the wagon. His heart raced, but he didn’t let the fear show. You could never let the fear show when you were the law.

The wagon creaked, and Bony jerked. Then, angry at himself, he hurried his last few steps and peered down into the wagon.

The tiny twin barrels of miniature six-guns pointed straight between his eyes, which went wide.

“I’ll be goin’ to hell in a coal bucket,” he said softly. “…Shorty McGraw.”

The tiny cowboy hopped to the seat and fired. The sheriff hit the ground hard. People turned and ran in all directions, followed by the shrill echo of tinny laughter.

Scott Roche topped last week’s record of two prompt extensions by providing three this week, all worth checking out. I expect four out of you in the next few days, Scott.

I’ll have Monday’s prompt with the weekly theme and a special October contest up later this afternoon.

Western…as high fantasy

“Merlin! I’m callin’ you out!”

Merlin did not come out of the tavern. Merlin wanted nothing more than to crawl back into a bottle of whiskey, and forget about the dark wizard who waited on the dirt road outside. He had a shot in his hand, and by the gods, he was going to keep drinking until he blacked out.

Only, Arthur was there, wasn’t he? The boy deserved a better role model than a drunken wizard. If he was to be the future of this land, then Merlin had to show him. And getting drunk, while desirable, never brought about a positive future.

“Boy,” Merlin said to Arthur. “Fetch me my wand. Looks like a bully needs to be shown some manners.” Merlin left the whiskey on the bar; their would be plenty of time for that after…

Western…in modern times.

“Hello, I saw your ad on the message board? ‘Have BFG, will travel?’ That’s you, right?”

“That’s the part everyone focuses on, yes.”

“You do have the gun, right?”

“In game? Yes…but I prefer not to use it.”

“But you will use it, right?”

“I will. If the situation calls for it.”

“You’re gonna need it. I’ll just tell you right now, you’re going to need it.”

“Miss, can you tell me what the trouble is?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. See, it’s about my brother. I think he’s fallen in with goldfarmers….”

Western…on the schoolyard

Big Lucy’s Black Hats were the terror of recess. No snack cake was spared their greed, no shin spared their wrath. The teachers were useless. The Black Hats were the queens and kings of Tombstone Elementary, and they knew no one could challenge them.

No one, that is, until the new girl arrived. Her name was Marshal, and she wore a white hat…

Western…as religion

Bobby Joe believed in The Gun. He had met other Marshals, men and women who appeared pious, but who threw aside the Lessons of The Gun as it suited them. To them, wielding the gun was about power. To Bobby Joe, however, it was about salvation. Out here in the Wild, it had to be.

Bobby Joe said a prayer for every bullet as he loaded his weapon. He thought about about the two marauder gangs outside his door, ready for war. He though about the town they were about to tear apart as scratched at each other. And he thought about the Lessons of The Gun.

“This about salvation,” he said, walking into the streets. “This is about salvation…”