No Service

This is a dark, flash fiction piece. 

No Service

Every week I dread it, the drive to pick up my son from his mother’s house. My son isn’t the one I despise. It’s my bitch of an ex and her new husband. They love to shove their new life and wealth in my face. Why else would they live in a mansion in the middle of damn nowhere?

The drive consists of winding roads with no streetlights for miles. Not to mention it’s two hours from where I live.

Stupid bitch.

She did this on purpose.

My hands turn to crank the radio but there’s nothing, just static. Not even one damn channel to listen to. At this point I’d listen to classical, it’d be better than the silence.

Night has already settled in, casting gloominess to my mood. I reach for the bag of peanuts and shove a handful in my mouth.

I round a corner, going faster than I should when something catches my eyes. Someone is lying in the middle of the road.

I swerve to avoid crushing them but the wheel slips from my grasp. The car is reeling out of control as I grip it tight and put it back center.

My feet slam on the brakes as the car slides to a stop. The fresh rain made the road slick and I’m lucky I didn’t drive into a ditch.

My breath is ragged as I calm myself down, thinking of how close I came to losing it. I breathe in and out, just like therapy.

I crane my neck backward, the body still in the middle of the road. Not moving.

“Shit,” I mutter.

I reach for my cell phone to call for help. I dial 911, but get the No Service signal.

“Of course,” I toss the phone in the middle console and step out of the car.

I approach slowly, creeping like a panther. “Hello? Hey Buddy!” I call out.




The man’s face is crooked the other way. I kneel down to get a better glance and roll him towards me.


It’s him. Her new husband.

Blood pools on the concrete.

He’s in a jogging outfit; someone hit him and took off. Not that I blame the culprit because he’s such an asshole.

“Shit.” I say again. My hands rub the back of my hand till it hurts.

His chest rises and falls, he’s alive. What should I do? There’s no way to call for help. If I move him I could do more damage, but I have to take him with me. It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?

I mean, I couldn’t just leave him out here, in the middle of the road, dying.

Or could I?



Phone Call: Short Story

“Tell me who it is?”

I’m trying to figure out the voice of the caller. He sounds agitated, it’s late and I’m home alone.  “I think you have the wrong number.” I answer.

“You’re Jessica right?” The man fires back.

“Yes,” I hedge. My body begins to tingle, how does this man know my name?

“Tell me who did it? You know who, I need their name.” Scorn drips from his tone.

This guy sounds so angry. I still have no clue what he means. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“If you don’t tell me, I’m going to come and wring the answer out of you!” He threatens.

I hang up the phone and toss it on my bed. What a weirdo. I shake off the jitters and enter the living room to heat up a cup of tea.


My heart jumps in my throat. Nobody lives around me for miles, who the hell is knocking on my door this late?  I bolt to the bedroom to call 911, just when I reach for my phone there’s another call. It’s his number again.

Author note: This story is based off a nightmare I had. Thought I’d turn it into something useful because this dream scared the hell out of me. There may be a part 2 to this. 


Image from


Why I Love Short Stories

Lately, writing short stories is my jam. I get an idea, write it down and go from there. I throw in a few twists and hope something great comes of it. Sometimes, I surprise myself. Most of the short stories I write fall into the horror category.

Here are a few reasons I love short stories.

Everyone has time to read a short story

There is no big commitment like reading a novel, they can read it while waiting for an appointment or before bedtime.

You get feedback instantly

Since it’s a short story, they’re likely to give you feedback quickly. It could be your writing style, editing help, and what they liked about it. I ask for what they liked and didn’t like.

It will improve your writing

This helps in two ways, it makes you write more and the feedback can make you change bad habits. I’ve been told a few times that it’s hard to connect with my characters and I don’t give enough detail. These criticisms help me become a better writer.

They’re so much fun to write!

I have about ten short stories right now. Once you write one, more will follow. A simple idea can make a short story and improve your creativity.

What’s your thoughts on short stories? Anyone have any favorites they want to share?






Dirt (100 Word Story)

Marty sticks the shovel in the ground and soft dirt rises to the surface. Little worms squirm out, desperate to find another hole to hide into. His t-shirt is dripping with sweat. He picked the hottest part of the day to work.

He’d just moved in with his new wife. It was her house, and he wanted to fix the garden. Since the death of her latest husband 10 years ago, the garden died. It was littered with dead flowers and leaves.

He hadn’t told her he would fix the garden. She said it was too much work. “The weeds are so tall you’ll get lost in there.” She said. So Marty waited till she left for work to tackle it.

The shovel digs deeper and it strikes something hard. It’s not a rock or a box. Marty gets on his hands and knees to inspect. The dirt moves away, revealing the culprit.

Out of all the things Marty could find, he wasn’t expecting to discover a human skull in his wife’s garden.



Mirror (100 Word Story)

I smack the blaring alarm and stumble out of bed. It’s time for the dreaded workday. Some days, I’d rather eat a bowl of nails then do the 9 to 5.

The room is dark as I shuffle to the bathroom, careful not to jam my toe on the corner like I normally do. It always hurts like a bitch.

The flicker of the bathroom light is blinding. After rubbing my eyes until they’re raw, I take a look in the mirror. My hands fall to my mouth. The person staring back, is someone else entirely.


It Watches (100 word story)

It’s at the foot of the bed watching, it always watches. Her body freezes, should she stay still and hope it goes away? Should she run? It’ll catch her if it wants. It’s too fast because it’s not part of this world.

It’s been watching her entire life, it gets a littler closer each day.

Every time she gets goose bumps and her mouth taste like pennies. Chills run up her spine and sweat pools behind her neck. Why won’t it go away? What does it want? Is it a nightmare?

It’s not a nightmare, it never is.

It’s real.

It wants her soul.

It takes it.



Don’t camp overnight by yourself they say. It’s dangerous they say.

I trek through the green forest, branches smack me in the face but it doesn’t bother me. This is why I’m out here; to experience nature, to be free, to getaway.

Although the mosquitoes are a pain, even after using a can of bug spray they keep buzzing around. I smack one on my arm and the guts spread then wipe it on my pants.

It’s only a two-night trip, many women camp alone, right? Well, I am. I will dominate nature and make it my bitch. I have all the right gear, skills and attitude for this, at least I keep telling myself. Besides, the photographs I take will be amazing for the photography contest. My next months rent check depends on winning.

Sure, I could have picked a less scary place to camp; they don’t call it the Dark Trail for nothing. There are stories of people disappearing or seeing things that couldn’t exist, like ghosts. The stories are by loonies anyway.


The Dark Trail isn’t so dark. It leads to the most beautiful waterfall in the area. Pictures of it are non-existent since the area is apparently haunted. Most people get so frightened they don’t stay the night, or don’t return at all.

I hike ten miles to my destination by the lake, using the GPS. Sweat has saturated my clothes leaving them damp. I peel them off and hang them from a tree to air out. After I set up my tent and build a fire, the sun is setting.

It’d be a good time to grab photos before it gets dark. I pull out my Canon and snap a few. First of the lake, trees and then someone next to a tree.


A figure, standing is all black with nothing to show. I jump up and gasp, moving away from the lens. My eyes wide open but there’s nothing there. It’s gone. I peer back through the lens, nothing, just a bird taking a crap on a rock.

I shake off the jitters and try to focus. I saw someone, I swear.

I call out across the lake. No answer and the air is stale and humid.


Darkness is near and I don’t feel like having a S’mores anymore. I crawl in the safety of the tent and grip the sleeping bag close. The woods aren’t haunted and it’s in my mind. I’m asleep within minutes.

The next morning dawn breaks and I crawl out of the tent. A few scattered clouds create a dark cast. I don’t hear any birds chirping, it’s silent like nothing is alive. After stretching out, my eyes gaze forward and stop.

My camera, it’s in the middle of my campsite. How did it get out here?

I pick it up and look around. There are no animal tracks. Did I sleep walk and drop it in the middle of the night? No, I didn’t even wake up to pee. I woke up still clutching the sleeping bag. A chill crawls up my spine.

I turn the camera on and scroll through the photos. My heart stops and fear enters my veins like an IV. No matter what explanation I come up with it’s not rational, there’s no way I took these photos. They are pictures of me asleep in the tent.


Thank you for reading! All feedback is welcome! Pictures taken from

I will be posting more short stories soon!