Posted in Absurdity, Humor, Mystery, Short Stories, Uncategorized

Death by Peanut Butter – a short story (finally!!!)

I wrote this short story for school, based on the writings of Canadian humorist Stephen Leacock.  Leacock wrote a hilarious piece outlining the essential cliches of 19th-20th century serialized detective fiction.  It’s available online under the name “The Great Detective.”  (An even funnier version of the discourse exists under the name “Frenzied Fiction,” which I found in my grandpa’s well-worn copy of Leacock’s Laugh Parade.)  The punchline of my story is that, once again, the butler has “done it.”  This time, however, he has done it is to himself.

On the subject of Canada, I’d also like to thank my aunt for bringing three huge jars of Canadian peanut butter when she visited the week I received this assignment, as they served as my inspiration to write this. 😀


The Great Detective and I were sitting down to a hearty breakfast when we heard the frenetic pattering of footsteps in the stairwell.

“A visitor, I presume,” my ingenious flatmate remarked as he spread a generous amount of peanut butter on his crumpet.  “It must be – and surely, he must be distressed, for the way he mounts our staircase is uneven and heavy.  Either that, or he is a drunken lout who has read too many of your stories, seeking my autograph.”

“Perhaps,” said I, fondly recalling the last case I’d dutifully chronicled for The Brand.  (You ought to read it after this one!) Continue reading “Death by Peanut Butter – a short story (finally!!!)”

Posted in Flash Fiction, General Fiction, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Written Works

“Long Lost” – flash fiction

This is a flash fiction I wrote a few weeks ago, in a sudden burst of inspiration.  This is a scene from a much bigger, discombobulated storyline that I have no plans of formally developing anytime soon.  The characters have backstories, names, personalities, but I think a touch of ambiguity helps to make this ficlet palatable to the rest of the world. 😛


She’s the first thing he sees when he finally opens his eyes, the faint traces of pain hazy through the medications.  “Hello, Dad,” she says quietly.  Her words are laced with sadness and longing.  There’s more she wants to tell him, but now’s not the time – will there ever be another?

He greets her weakly by a name that’s not hers.  But she holds his hand and lets the conversation run to mundane things, things that hadn’t happened to her.  She’s making up the answers as she goes along.

Someone tells her it’s time to go – the voice is impatient, gruff.  The gruffness conceals years of jealousy, and pain.

She excuses herself, promises to return later.  A lie.  “It was nice seeing you,” she says, glancing over her shoulder.  It was nice meeting you, she wants to tell him.

The medications are potent.  He drifts back into a dreamless, restful sleep.

Some hours later, he receives another visitor.

“Hi!”  Her familiar eyes shine bright with relief.  “You’re feeling better!”  She’s holding back – she can’t tell if it’s a good idea to hug him around all the tubes and wires.

Faintly, he returns the smile.  “Good to see you again,” he says, studying her from the cot.  “You changed your hair.”

She runs a hand through her hair.  “What do you mean?  It’s always been like this.”

His scarred brow furrows in puzzlement.  “Hm…  It looked different when you came in before.”

“Before?”  Now, it’s her turn to be confused.  They’ve had him on a lot of drugs since….  “You must’ve dreamed it.”

He grows silent.  Somehow, that doesn’t seem right.

Posted in Absurdity, Doctor Who, Fanfiction, Figgies in the TARDIS, Humor, Science Fiction, Short Stories

“Jenny” – a Flash Fiction

Happy New Year, everyone!  (As usual, I’m a bit late in wishing people things.)  Let me tell you, I’ve always wanted to write a Doctor Who fanfiction about Jenny (the Doctor’s daughter) and a certain hit song by Tommy Tutone.  Well, here’s a little something I wrote in literally three minutes.  (This one’s for the Figgies in the TARDIS. 😉 )

 “I don’t know, you guys,” said Grace uncertainly as Cece and Emii reached for the TARDIS’ telephone.

 “Oh, come on, Grace,” Emii chided.  “Haven’t you ever wanted to know who’s at that number?”

 Cece and Emii sang out the numbers as they dialed, which only made Grace roll her eyes.  “Eight-six-seven-five-three-oh-niiiine!

 The two mischief-makers waited anxiously for the call to complete as dialed.  Finally, somebody picked up.

 “Hello, Dad!”  a cheery voice that sounded like a cross between Peter Davison and Sandra Dickinson sang out from the other side.  “I thought I recognized your number on the caller ID!  What a pleasant surprise.  I thought you’d never call!”

 Cece nearly dropped the phone.  Emmi caught it and pressed the receiver to her ear.

 “Hello?”  the cheery voice persisted.  “Anybody there?  Oh, I know, you must be breathless from all the running you do with that Donna woman.  I’ll just wait for you, ‘kay?”

 Cece cleared her throat.  “Er, sorry … wrong number,” she stammered hurriedly.  Then, she hung up.

 Grace eyed the two younger girls curiously.  “Well, that was odd.”

Posted in Fantasy, Flash Fiction, Miscelaneous Musings, Mystery, Novels, Science Fiction, Short Stories, The Writing Life, Written Works

Story scrap: “Premonition”

The other day, I decided to freewrite something.  The end product is a short piece that I suppose could be a prologue to a much longer sci-fi fantasy story.  I don’t know how far I’d be able to take this one, since I’m not particularly good at fantasy stories.  I’m calling this one “Premonition,” about a girl who can foresee future events, some calamitous, some not.   The question is, what is she supposed to do with this information?  Is the future – and the past – writ in stone, or can her actions in the meantime make a difference?

 I saw the flames as they licked the tops of the tallest trees, destroying not only the dry, autumn leaves, but the creatures that called the forest their home.  I saw the wreckage on the highway, the crumpled heaps of two cars and an eighteen-wheeler truck.  The truck was relatively intact, the bright banner advertising a soft drink company still emblazoned on its side.

My mother’s body was being wheeled away from the scene on a stretcher by two paramedics, a sheet covering her from head to toe.  Her bloodied arm dangled limply off the side, exposed; somehow, the charm bracelet she’d worn for as long as I could remember had survived better than she had.

The orange blanket around my shoulders did nothing to quell the chill going through my body.  It wasn’t just the shock of the crash.  It wasn’t the throbbing pain in my shattered leg.  It wasn’t the droning of the tactless police officer to my right as he asked me questions I couldn’t answer.

I’d seen this exact event before.  If only I could have stopped it from happening.


It’s definitely in need of extreme polishing, but it’s a start. 🙂

Posted in Absurdity, Doctor Who, Fanfiction, Figgies in the TARDIS, Humor, Miscelaneous Musings, Science Fiction, Short Stories, The Writing Life

Greetings from Camp NaNoWriMo + Short Story

Hello Mother, hello Father….  (If anyone knows what I’m referencing and you’re under fifty, you’re officially cool in my book.)

I’m a camper at the idyllic, online retreat writers know to be Camp NaNoWriMo (not Granada), where people who can’t make the November event or just want an additional similar challenge over the summer can write and have fun!

My project is to write 10,000 words’ worth of short stories over the month of July.  My goal is to write about a thousand words per day, give or take, and since this isn’t for a school project, I’m sure the words will flow like endless rain into a paper cup.  (If John Lennon wrote books, I can only imagine what other artful, odd metaphors he might use.)

Plus, the handy-dandy word count recorder thingie on the Camp NaNo site predicts that I’ll need to write a minimum of 250 words per day to meet my ultimate writing goal, so my personal per-day goal cuts me plenty of slack.  I can take generous breaks if I need, but let’s hope that won’t happen too often.

Today, I finished one of the short stories I was writing for my project.  I don’t have a title for it, but it’s basically a discombobulated prequel to the first Figgies in the TARDIS story.  It presents some odd theories as to where the FITT cast comes from, some awkward moments between Time Lord and companion, and some vague references to a certain time-traveling uncle.

That said, enjoy my on-the-fly handiwork!  (Seriously, my other writings go through minimal editing before I share them with anyone; this is an exception.)


 The Doctor lounged on an inflatable … well … lounge chair in the middle of the TARDIS’ swimming pool, engrossed in his favorite Agatha Christie novel, a facsimile edition from the far, far future, long after Jack Harkness, ideally, should have died, of Death in the Clouds.  There were benefits, as it were, to having a swimming pool in the library.

Continue reading “Greetings from Camp NaNoWriMo + Short Story”

Posted in Doctor Who, Fanfiction, Figgies in the TARDIS, Flash Fiction, Satire, Short Stories

“Stuck in an Elevator”

I mentioned earlier that a Figment user has been sharing her daily writing prompts with us.  Today, I was inspired to write a short piece based on her latest prompt: Put two people who hate each other in an elevator for 12 hours. What happens?

Naturally, it had to be about Cece and Jack. 😉  Enjoy the fireworks!


I stepped inside the elevator, feeling self-conscious in front of the mirrored walls.  I tried not to stare at the sole other occupant, a strange fellow in a navy trench coat and hat.  He was all too familiar; if I was lucky, he wouldn’t feel the same way about me.

“Captain Jack Harkness,” he said in an oily voice, extending his hand to shake.  “Who might you be?”

Yup, in his timeline, he didn’t know me yet.

I decided to ignore him.  That was the best thing to do.  The last thing I wanted to do was disrupt the time stream.  The second-to-last, have to talk to the most annoying man in the world.  Somehow, I couldn’t picture him being the posterchild for his town as a boy; what about him appealed to them?  If Jack Harkness told me to move to a place, I’d go anywhere but there.  And I wanted to be anywhere but this elevator.

The elevator began its slow descent down to the ground floor.  Chin up, Ryder, I told myself.  You’ll be at the parking garage with Bessie and the Doctor in no time.

When you’re in the vicinity of Jack Harkness, expect the unexpected.  Naturally, the unexpected happened: the elevator froze.  Literally.

Judging by the sound of the Norwegian-accented voices that started singing “Let it Go” as the temperature started to drop, those weren’t Idina Menzel and Demi Lovato behind the mic — or the controls.  It had to be Ylvis.  They’re infamous for pranking elevator passengers.  At least they weren’t singing “What Does the Fox Say?”

“Well,” said Jack, eyeing his own reflection in the mirror, “I guess this means we’re stuck in here.  All alone.  With no one else to talk to.”

I slumped against the hand rail, groaning.  Here I was, stuck in an elevator for who knows how long, accompanied by none other than–

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your name now, will you?  Otherwise, I’ll just make one up and call you that.”

–Captain Jack Harkness.

“Is ‘Rose’ okay with you?”

Posted in Doctor Who, Fanfiction, Figgies in the TARDIS, Mystery, Science Fiction, Short Stories, Written Works

“Child of Time”

I wrote this after seeing Doctor Who’s “The Angels Take Manhattan”, but before I saw “Asylum of the Daleks” or any of the stories centering around Amy’s baby.  Therefore, I did not know that *SPOILERS* Amy could not have kids anymore.  But you never know, she could’ve seen a doctor in the 30s. 😉

Child of Time

(by Allison Rose)


It was a dark and stormy night.  Just like in the books, River Song mused as she walked down the cobblestone streets of London.  She needed to get started on a book of her own.  It seemed everyone’s lives depended on this action, but River felt it necessary to do it in the company of the two most important lives she’d ever known, the lives who’d been given up to save the world, over and over again.

She glanced down at the paper on which she’d hastily written down their address.  (Somehow, she didn’t feel right using all of her technology here.  It seemed far too peaceful.)  A flash of lightning illuminated the brass number plates on each building.  Only a few more blocks to go before she got to the right place.  221-B Baker Street.

Finally, River stepped quietly into the building, escaping the heavy, pelting raindrops for the moment, and mounted the stairs.

Rory answered the door when she knocked, clad in the most comical blue pajamas River had ever seen, and a pair of glasses perched lopsidedly on his prominent nose.  He looked flustered and confused, as though he’d just been woken up inconveniently from a deep sleep.  Most likely he had.

“Hello, Father,” River said, smiling mischievously. Continue reading ““Child of Time””