The Phone Booth

This is from a Fiction Writing Prompt from a writing workshop at The Bookmatters in Milford, OH: Write a scene or story from the point of view of someone or something watching. It could be a ghost, an animal, the furniture coming to life, etc.

People visit me all the time, and I know all their secrets. There's one in particular that if the world knew, it'd be over for him. Fortunately for him, he doesn't know I know.

One day, he blurted out his supposed human name: "Clark". He mumbled something about how stupid he'd been for rotating the Earth to turn back time. Now, before that, I'd known him as Superman, and I knew that because someone yelled it upon his exit.

Oh, and he's good at making sure no one finds out his secret identity. Someone once tried opening the door, and what was I supposed to do? I'm an inanimate phone booth. So he used his super strength to hold the door closed. Using the ends of his fingers! And the idiot on the other side knocked and knocked. Fortunately, Supes' super speed prevented that delay, which would've allowed Lex Luthor to purchase the land for his world domination scheme. How do I know? Supes dropped his newspaper, and I read the headline: "Superman 'uncloses' the deal on Luthor".

Oh, Clark. Stick to saving the world. Leave the real estate puns to the professionals.

Another time, after the guy moved to Metropolis, he couldn't figure out where to put his clothes. What does he do? Uses his super strength again to compact his clothes into the slot under my phone. Then he pushes the phone book in. Left no trace of his clothes. I'm telling you, the guy's good.

Anyway, today Superman... Oh, shit! Luthor's goons just shot me! Broke a piece off of me. What the hell, man? I can't scream for help. Ugh.

There he goes, Supes, ready to save the world. Too bad his world doesn't include me. Oh, sure, he'll save squirrels. Congrats, Mr. Squirrel! Probably shi... do squirrels wear pants? You get the idea.

But what about dear old me? I'm unable to call anyone for help. Can't even use the phone inside me. 

Now, wait? What's this? I'm... I'm flying. Thank my God the great Alexander Graham Bell I'm saved. Superman, thank you! You've...

Oh boy... Oh no... you're... you're using me as a weapon?! He's throwing me at Luthor, and I hit him. He's destroyed. I'm destroyed. But, hey, so are his stupid world domination plans, amirite? I did it. I saved the world. I'm Superman.

THE TACO VAMPIRE

 This is from a Fiction Writing Prompt from a writing workshop at The Bookmatters in Milford, OH: Think of an alternative vampire that survives on something other than blood.

The guy at the taco stand humphs when he sees me again. He knows what I'll ask for, those end-of-day bits, and all that greasy, juicy goodness. But that's the only way I'll feed. I hate blood. Can't stand the taste of human flesh. But a vampire must feed, no?

The taco guy's sweaty, highlighting that sweet spot all vampires aim to stick their fangs into. But I turn away, otherwise I'll throw up. Have you ever seen a vampire throw up? It's not pretty. Blood and gunk and... guts. Like they say, "You'll puke out your guts." That came from us vampires; you're welcome.

Now, as a true Mexican, I can't pass up the tortillas the taco guy hands me. And once I pay him, plus give him a generous tip for my nightly requests, I fly away, figuratively; I haven't made it that far in my vampiric evolution. Plus, he'll freak if I literally fly away. 

Soon, Sheldon the vampire meets me. What a dumb name for a vampire. Pssht. Still, he laughed when I told him mine: Ernesto. Ur-nes-tow, he said. Meh. Well, fuck you, Sheldon, and your stupid name.

I show him my bag. "Here," he says instead and throws me a bone, meat and blood still on it. And upon seeing and smelling it—the rot, the pus, the way it stains my shirt—my bloody saliva comes up. No guts in my throat, though.

So, I kick his offering, but Sheldon, who's mastered super-speed, zooms past me and grabs his meal before it touches the ground. Yeah, he's very particular about his food touching the floor.

"Shelly's joining us," he says. What's up with the "Sh" vampire names in my life? And how did I make the vampiric cut? I'll never know. What's true is that, one night some fifty years ago, as I enjoyed Taco Man's al pastor tacos, a pineapple piece fell out of the taco, and as I grabbed it quickly with my hand, Sheldon came out of nowhere and bit me. Taco Man, twenty years old then, had turned away for one second, and Sheldon got me, like a mosquito in a disgustingly humid night.

"What's your secret? To your staying so young," Taco Man once asked me.

"Your tacos," I told him. "What's your name again?"

"Chava."

Fuck, another "Ch" name.

Anyway, he's my saving grace. I'd have starved decades ago if it hadn't been for Chava. God, no... Shoot, I said the "G" name, and now I have heartburn. But I would've died if not for his tacos, and we vampires can't have that, death. You ever seen a dead vampire? Of course you haven't. Only in movies.

I offer Sheldon my food. He hisses but gives it a sniff after. He's giving in. And he's got one. Thank G... well, you know Who. After fifty years, Sheldon finally gets a taste of my Taco Man's food.