A little while ago I wrote a short story for the L. Ron Hubbard "Writers of the Future Contest". I did not win, and I know why, my story is really more horror than Science Fiction or Fantasy. But I decided that I will post each chapter here on my blog. There are 37 very short chapters, for a total of 15,000 words, about a fifth of a modern novel. Here is the start.
Maxwell stood in the booth brandishing his bat like a sword, staring at the clown with all the menace he could muster from deep within his terrified frame. “Where did he go?”
“No where in particular.” The clown let it slip out with a half-wheeze at the end, like he was waiting to deliver a punch line.
“What did you do with Clair?”
“Nothing,” He smirked, and gleamed, and beamed. The clown was a-twitter. "Really… I don't know what you're talking about."
“Why are you doing this?”
“No reason.” The clown shook with silent laughter.
“Do you believe in God?”
The clown stopped his laughter, “What?”
Maxwell then cracked the clown across the jaw with the bat. With a sickening thud, crunch, oh-I-bet-that-hurt noise, its jaw twisted and snapped in numerous places as blood flew from its mouth. The clown dropped motionless and dead at Maxwell’s feet. The blood from its mouth splattered across the previously muted black and white booth and did nothing to change the décor. It bled black.
“Well, now it isn't a matter of belief anymore.” Maxwell then lifted his bat again and smacked it down across the face of the clown until it was mangled and pulped.
Maxwell picked up the kits. “Hope you guys are still alive.” Maxwell pried at the trap door until it finally sprung loose, revealing a solid stone floor. It was clearly evident that in spite of the clown’s lifeless form sitting several feet from him, there was a significant amount of unexplainable supernatural goings-on in what he had just witnessed. He was somehow unable to wrap his head around it regardless of how prepared he thought he had been. This was outside of his reach, and now he was alone.