Tag Archive for: Scott O’Neill

Urgent Product Recall

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by Scott O’Neill

Customers who’ve purchased BLÖDSYN obsidian mirrors—discontinue use—immediately! Cover the mirror (perhaps with a FLUFFIGVÄRMA towel, just 479 kroner) and return to your local store for a replacement or refund.

Addressing your reflection in these mirrors (sustainably sourced from Sweden’s Central Skåne Volcanic Province) may unexpectedly summon a Gjenganger (hostile revenant). This unintended product feature has resulted in a precautionary recall of BLÖDSYN mirrors.

If you’ve encountered a Gjenganger, please call our customer service line; press 1 for trauma counselling; 2 for dismemberment support; 3 for funeral services, or stay on the line to access complimentary SPÖKEKÄMPE combat exorcists.

Scott O’Neill

Scott writes reports and memorandums by day and speculative fiction by night, with short works published by various presses. You can find him on the socials as @wererooster.

 

 

Wild Laughter in the Throat of Death

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by Scott O’Neill

The Night Guard trudges his morose rounds through the dungeon. “Prisoners, my very soul aches. I’ll free whosoever makes me laugh!”

Sullen silence.

Then, a knock-knock joke croaks through shattered teeth.

“Not funny.”

Puns wheeze from a thumb-screwed thief.

“Not funny.”

Finally, a raunchy jest about lusty widows coaxes chuckles from even the most demoralised prisoners.

The Night Guard laughs, taking out his keys. His mirth builds into howling paroxysms.

He drops dead.

“Too funny?” wheezes the punster.

The raunchy joke’s teller stares at the keys, just out of reach. He cackles brokenly as madness slithers past his shattered hope.

Scott O’Neill

Scott writes reports and memorandums by day and speculative fiction by night, with short works published by various presses. You can find him on the socials as @wererooster.

You All Sound the Same

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by Scott O’Neill

Buzzing fluorescent tubes fitfully illuminated the dank, cluttered hostel basement.

“The washer’s munted.”

Whirling and dropping laundry, the American girl gawped at Noah. “Jeez! You scared me! That accent… Australia?”

Leaning against a red-spattered freezer, Noah grimaced. “New Zealand.”

Her brow furrowed. “Not Australia?”

“Decidedly not.”

“Our exchange student had an Australian accent like yours.”

Noah opened the freezer.

“Getting shrimp for the barbie?” she asked, giggling.

He yanked out a bloodied screwdriver, scattering an arc of frozen peas. Surging forward, he plunged it into her heart and snarled, “New Zealand.”

Noah put her in the freezer, beside the Canadian.

Scott O’Neill

Scott writes reports and memorandums by day and speculative fiction by night, with short works published by various presses. You can find him on the socials as @wererooster.

 

Predators of the Uncanny Valley

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by Scott O’Neill

We watch and silently seethe, posed elegantly in window displays. Our immobility and blank silver features camouflage us as mere mannequins.

You slouch past in foam clogs and elastic-waisted sweatpants, gobbling your shopping mall cinnamon buns. Your skin crawls. You tell yourself it’s the uncanny valley effect: seeing our stillness and near-human appearance stokes your subconscious fear of death.

But you’re wrong.

It’s the pulsating echo of our hunger, demanding we hinge open our jaws and rend your soft flesh with endless rows of needle-sharp chromium teeth. Consuming the consumers.

But you’ve not yet ripened.

So, we wait.

For now.      

Scott O’Neill

Scott writes reports and memorandums by day and speculative fiction by night, with short works published by various presses. You can find him on the socials as @wererooster.

 

 

 

 

Blended Family

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by Scott O’Neill

I awaken to paralysis. Blinding lights. Hospital smells.

I vaguely recall feeling dizzy at Mom’s wedding reception.

“You’re conscious.”

My new stepfather glides into view, wearing blood-spattered scrubs and a lunatic grin.

“Observe.”

He tilts my head right. I see my new stepbrother, Caleb, unconscious on a gurney. Gleaming surgical staples circumscribe his upper arm, above a Celtic tattoo like mine.

Exactly like mine.

My head gets tilted left. More staples. I see Caleb’s arm grafted onto my shoulder.

The tectonic plates of my sanity shiver and buckle.

“Now you’re really part of our family, and we’re part of you.”

 

Scott O’Neill

Scott writes reports and memorandums by day and speculative fiction by night, with short works published by various presses. You can find him on the socials as @wererooster.

Transmogrification

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by Scott O’Neill

“Stupid goose,” said the witch. “The opening is big enough. See, I myself could get in.” She stuck her head into the oven.

Gretel shoved the witch and slammed the door. The witch howled frightfully. Finally, all was still. Gretel started towards Hansel’s cage, then stopped. The smell of roasted witch had her salivating.

She found herself opening the oven. Carving off a sliver, just to taste.

Delicious!

More slices. More nibbling.

Gretel hardly noticed her hands turning greenish and warty. Her eyes glowed red.

She cackled at Hansel in his cage. “You’re not fat enough. But you will be.”

 

Scott O’Neill

Scott writes reports and memorandums by day and speculative fiction by night, with short works published by various presses. You can find him on the socials as @wererooster.

Gesundheit

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by Scott O’Neill

Rabbi Michnik proudly watched his golem dismember four more Schutzstaffel guards.

Imprisoned in Hitler’s occult research facility, he’d invested months in secret sculpting and kabbalistic rituals to refine the humaniform clay.

His golem was graceful and obedient. He’d even taught it courtesy. It had politely held Michnik’s cell door after shattering the lock with its uncanny strength.

After much mayhem, the rabbi and the golem stalked two final guards.

One guard sneezed.

In a voice like a sack of rocks tumbling down stairs, the golem intoned, “Gesundheit.”

Michnik blanched.

The guards’ Schmeisser submachine guns mercilessly shredded both flesh and clay.

 

Scott O’Neill

Scott writes reports and memorandums by day and speculative fiction by night, with short works published by various presses. You can find him on the socials as @wererooster.

Lawnmower Surfin’, USA

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by Scott O’Neill

The TurfPredator 9000 riding lawnmower stalled out against the trailer park’s lone palm tree, most of a six-pack wedging its accelerator down. A grisly trail of mulched Florida man glistened redly behind the big mower.

Assorted trailer park denizens with deep tans and hyphenated names gawped and gossiped.

“Poor Billy-Bob.”

“What happened?”

“My kid just showed us a video on it. Lawnmower surfing is the new trend.”

“I don’t think Billy-Bob was doin’ it right.”

“He was okay till the wheel hit that gopher hole.”

“What’d he say to you before he started, Bobbie-Jo?”

“He just said ‘Hold my beer’.”

Scott O’Neill

Scott writes reports and memorandums by day and speculative fiction by night, with short works published by various presses. You can find him on Twitter.

Twitter: @wererooster

Apex Predator

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by Scott O’Neill

Twelve hundred pounds of angry Kodiak bear sliced the tents, guide, and tour group into bloody lasagna. The two survivors hid behind the campsite’s redolent porta-potty.

Ronnie pulled a stubby .32 semi-automatic pistol from his pocket.

“Are you insane?’’ hissed Chad. “That’s just gonna piss him off.”

Chad knelt and laced up his fancy running shoes.

“Who’s crazy now, college boy?” sneered Ronnie. “You can’t outrun no bear.”

“Like the joke says, I just gotta outrun you.” Chad stood and smiled smugly.

“That’s a good point,” said Ronnie as he levelled his gun at Chad’s stomach. “A real good point.”

Scott O’Neill

Scott writes reports and memorandums by day and speculative fiction by night, with short works published by various presses. You can find him on Twitter.

Twitter: @wererooster

The Notorious Captain Jane Hotchkiss

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by Scott O’Neill

“Just surrender! We’re about through,” crowed Ensign Richards.

A plasma cutter splattered molten metal from the freighter’s final bulkhead.

Muffled contralto laughter sounded behind the hatch. “Dear boy, the renowned star pirate Captain Jane Hotchkiss doesn’t surrender.”

“Renowned? Notorious, maybe. You’ve no engines and minimal life support,” said Richards.

“Where could you go?”

The cut bulkhead fell. Eager navy ratings followed their ensign through the still-smoking hole.

“Wherever I please,” came the voice from a comlink in the empty compartment.

Vibrations from released docking clamps echoed in the suddenly still air.

“My notoriety waxes ever brighter. Your pinnace is lovely.”

Scott O’Neill

Scott writes reports and memorandums by day and speculative fiction by night, with short works published by various presses. You can find him on Twitter.

Twitter: @wererooster