posted @ 8:00 pm in [ SPASMS -two word ]

 Wow! You guys sure are creative. And insane. Your suggestions are all so good, it’s hard to pick.

Then again, I feel badly if anybody gets left out (Hi, Mishey! You’re not too late!), so I’m extending this two-word thing until I get up tomorrow morning. I’ll pick the title and write the SPASM then.

Until tomorrow.

xo, Amy

posted @ 6:06 pm in [ SPASMS ]

Kansas is boring.  TWISTER!  It’s a TWISTER!  Wicked Witch of the East.  Look out below!  Oops!  New shoes.  Toto, I don’t think we’re in – Munchkins.   Lollipop Guild?  Mayor.  Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brick – Scarecrow.  Needs heart.  Join forces.  Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brick – Tin Man.  Needs brain.  Comes along as we follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brick – Lion.  Lion snarls.  Oops, Lion needs nerve.  Four now as we follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brickPOPPIES!  Getting verrrrry ssssleeeeeepyyyyyyy…  Wake up.  Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brickFLYING MONKEYS!  There are FLYING MONKEYS!!!  Aaauuuggghhh!!!  Wicked Witch of the West.  Attack.  Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brick – Emerald City.  Wizard.  Weird.  Frightening.  Wizard unmasked.  Wizard is just some little dude.  Glinda the Good Witch.  Clicking heels, “No place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home…” 

Oops, it was all a dream.  Kansas isn’t so bad after all.  Maybe we should cut back on the poppies.

The End.


Copyright 2004-2006 Amy Frushour Kelly, who hasn’t watched “The Wizard of Oz” in years, and who has never, to her knowledge, seen the film — or read the book — in its entirety. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

posted @ 5:55 am in [ SPASMS ]

The murders were horrible.  Grotesque.  The product of an evil heart and a deranged mind.  He was sickened every time he picked up a newspaper. 

But the final straw, the death that drove him to action, never made the papers. 

Bosie awakened him that morning with an urgent shaking.  “It’s Eddy!  That disgusting Ripper has killed Eddy!”  His young lover was hysterical with grief and rage and fear.  He held Bosie close, stroking his hair while he struggled to comprehend what he had just heard.

Eddy was a renter, a male prostitute of his and Bosie’s acquaintance.  Eddy was a sweet young man, loving and kind and funny.  Now gutted and mutilated, left to rot on a carriage house floor.

Holding Bosie close, gently murmuring soothing words into his hair, he began to form a plan.  He would need Bosie’s assistance, as well as his complete trust.

They discussed the plan over a breakfast neither of them felt inclined to eat.  That afternoon, Bosie and a group of close friends enlisted the aid of Ellen Paine, a female prostitute who had known and liked Eddy.  She had the necessary connections.

While Bosie was out, other arrangements had to be made.  A knife specially made for gutting fish was taken from the kitchen cupboard.  A book of anatomy was studied.  A map of the Whitechapel area was closely studied.  An ample cup of courage was drunk, then another.

At midnight, they made ready.

No prostitute in all of Whitechapel walked that night.  They might not earn much this evening, but such sacrifices seemed small compared to the burden Ellen Paine faced. 

She walked the alley in fear.  Bosie and his lover waited in a shadowy recess only a few feet away, but what if…?

A gentleman approached her.  He looked so very respectable that Ellen didn’t think he was the one. 

Until he offered her a grape.

Ellen screamed and turned to run.  The Ripper lunged, but it was too late.  Doors flew open on either side of the alley. 

Perhaps the Ripper recognized some of the prostitutes, both female and male, who tore off his clothes and restrained him mute on the alley floor.  Perhaps he recognized Bosie, the son of Lord Douglas.

Certainly the Ripper recognized the face of Oscar Wilde before he leaned in to cut his eyes out with the sharpened fish knife.


Copyright 2005-2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

posted @ 5:47 am in [ SPASMS ]

“She’s pretty?”

Donny shrugged.  “She gives you head, you’re not looking at her face.”

“Yeah.”  Brady drummed his fingers on the dash.  “She pretty, though?”

“The fuck’s it matter?”  They pulled off the highway into town.  “She’s a little different.  But she’s got a great mouth.”

Brady swallowed.  Different than what?  His stomach was tied in enough knots already over his first blowjob without wondering if this chick was a burn victim or something.

Not that Donny knew he was a virgin.  No way was Brady copping to that.  “You’ve been with this girl before?”

“Yeah.”  The car slowed.  “We’re here.  All we do is go up to her and say we’re Joey’s friends.”

“Then what?”

“Then she does her thing.”

Brady nodded and slid out of the car.  He was tall, but his body hadn’t grown into his height yet.  At seventeen, Donny was a year older, but he still had baby fat.  They stood in front of Donny’s car a moment, watching the group of kids in the church parking lot.

Donny led the way.  He knew some of them.  They passed a joint.  Brady coughed pretty bad but managed a decent hit.  Donny smoked half a pack a day, so he had no problem.  They brought out the Jack Daniels from Donny’s parents’ liquor cabinet and passed it around.

Donny nodded toward a quiet blond girl and said, “We’re friends of Joey.”

One of the other girls sighed.  “Gina…”

She giggled.  “You want what I do for Joey?”

Donny shrugged.  “Sure.”

Gina looked back and forth between Donny and Brady and smiled.  “Okay.  C’mon.”

They followed her to a tool shed behind the church.  It was unlocked.  “Close the door.”  Brady pulled it shut and she fumbled for the light.  There was something about the way she talked.

She knelt on the floor and tried to open Donny’s belt.  He did it for her.  “Thanks,” she giggled before leaning in.

Brady turned away and looked around the shed.  It was so small they were all practically touching.  He tried to shut out the wet noises, Donny’s noisy breathing.  Donny came, whimpering like a girl.

Gina smacked her lips.  “That was fun.  Do you think I am pretty?”

Brady realized she was talking to him, trying to undo his jeans.  There was something familiar about her.  He didn’t know her, but she was like someone he did know.  He recognized her mannerisms, the way she talked, how she couldn’t do buttons—

Brady nearly knocked her over in his rush to get out.  Donny found him resting his forehead on the car roof.

“Dude, what the fuck?  Look, Gina’s upset, but I think she’ll still—”

“I got nothing to say to you!”

Donny’s jaw dropped.  “What?”

“She’s retarded, Donny!  She’s fucking retarded!”



“Dude, she’s not like your sister.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s doing!”

“She’s just slow!”

Brady’s knuckles cracked when they hit Donny’s jaw.  They didn’t crack the second time.


 Copyright 2005-2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

posted @ 5:43 am in [ SPASMS ]

Dexter was a professional apologist.  A hired expert in communicating regret and contrition for corporations that had committed egregious sins against humanity, civil liberties, the environment, or individuals. 

These days, he was in high demand.  When insurance companies that purchased policies held by Jews killed in the Holocaust decided not to fulfill the monetary obligation to the policyholders’ families, Dexter was there to offer poignant words of remorse without budging an inch.  When Big Tobacco appealed a decision to award financial restitution to people dying of nicotine-related cancers, Dexter explained their reasoning by diverting attention to the sovereignty of the individual.  A drug that was supposed to alleviate blood clotting during pregnancy proved to cause birth defects, and Dexter was present to express sincere sympathy while absolving the pharmaceutical manufacturer of any wrongdoing.  Recently, a popular fast-food chain succeeded in deforesting an entire subset of Amazonian rainforest, conferring extinction upon seventy-four separate species.  Dexter’s solemn pronouncements and heartfelt promise to plant an acre of new trees were so inspirational that the corporation made a poster of his speech and hung it on the wall of every conference room in its main and regional offices.

In his suicide note, Dexter made no apologies whatsoever.


Copyright 2005-2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

posted @ 5:16 am in [ Snake & Freaky John Novel ]

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posted @ 6:20 am in [ reader participation -SPASMS -two word ]

I’ll be writing today’s SPASM tonight, and I’d like your help! Please leave a comment of just two words (no more than two, please!) at the end of this post. When I get home, I’ll pick a comment, use that as my title, and write a story to go with it. The old “Two Word Stories” rules apply (here, in case you’re not familiar with the concept). 

Don’t worry about your words not being good enough, or whether they go together or whatever. Just try to avoid profanity and obscenity. I provide plenty of that as it is.

This’ll be fun!

xo, Amy

posted @ 6:36 am in [ book -buy stuff -SPASMS -update ]

Hey, folks! Things have been happening at Castle SPASMS. Obviously, I’m writing them again, but there’s more:

1) I’m planning to self-publish a collection of about 200 stories. The stories are already written, of course, but there’s an actual designer designing the book, and I’m not sure how long it’s going to take. Even if it takes months, it will be worth it, because this lady is GOOD. I’ll keep ya posted.

2) I have a CafePress shop. I don’t think I ever mentioned that on LJ, because the shop is small and kind of sucky, but you can check out what’s there if you like:  If I get my act together, I’ll be updating the products to reflect instead of the URL for my LJ.  Anyway, if you’d like to buy a SPASMS mug or t-shirt, go for it. I’m thinking of buying a mug for my desk at work.

3) You might’ve noticed that some of the new SPASMS are a tad longer than before. I’ve always tried to stick with 500 words or less, but writing novels will tend to make you verbose. They’ll shrink to 500 as we go, probably. Think of it this way: More SPASMS for your money! Oh, wait. You don’t pay for these, I give them to you out of the kindness of my own heart! Well, just be grateful, then. 

Thanks to all who’ve been with me for the long haul (since 2004!) and thanks to my new readers. You guys rock. Go forth in triumph.

xo, Amy

posted @ 7:24 am in [ flower -garden -SPASMS ]


It snowed, but only in the front yard.

The back was a lush paradise of verdant grass and foliage. Cool, tropical-scented breezes tickled the leaves. Exotic orchids bloomed around the patio. A puddle near the back of the yard that had never dried from the previous year deepened, clearing and becoming home to koi and miniature frogs. A single lotus blossomed among the lily pads.

It had been a typical suburban garden until the new housekeeper came. Olga was Hungarian or Ukrainian or something. She barely spoke English, just like anybody else from the agency. Olga wasn’t a spectacular housecleaner. There were dust bunnies under the couches and trails of dirt below the cupboards. But the very day she started, a vase of flowers that Mrs. Belleci was going to throw away came back to life. Mrs. Belleci didn’t immediately connect the two events. She was more concerned with Olga’s substandard vacuuming.

Mrs. Belleci’s children were the first to notice the changes in the back. Her son brought an orchid in from the yard and gave it to her. Where did you get this, Mrs. Belleci demanded. From the yard, he said. Mrs. Belleci didn’t believe him, so he insisted she look. It hadn’t come together yet, and there were no signs of actual work—no shovel, no plant containers—but somehow, the yard was being transformed into a botanical garden.

Mrs. Belleci went to confront Olga. Clearly, this was why the housekeeper did such a poor job. Well, gardening was all well and fine, but Olga was being paid to work, not play with flowers. Olga said she didn’t go in the yard. She stayed in the house all day. To prove it, Olga showed Mrs. Belleci the soles of her shoes. They were clean.

Olga continued to work for the Bellecis, and the garden continued to grow. Autumn had arrived, but the trees hadn’t changed their colors. Leaves littered the street in front of the house, but it was still summer in the back. Olga went on a week’s vacation in November. The garden languished. Within minutes of the housekeeper’s return, the grass was green again. The neighbors’ yards were bare and frigid. It was January, after all. Mrs. Belleci’s yard was sunny and warm.

One day, Mrs. Belleci asked Olga to come sit with her on the patio. Mrs. Belleci gave Olga a glass of iced tea. When Olga entered the yard, the flowers opened.

You have a great gift, said Mrs. Belleci. You should not be working as a lowly maid.

I have nothing to do with this, said Olga.

I am going to remove the walls around my yard, so that our neighbors can see your work and appreciate your beauty.

I have nothing to do with this, said Olga. Do not tear down your walls because of me.

I must, said Mrs. Belleci. It is a crime not to share this.

The next day, a team of men came to take down the fences. By the end of the day, the snow had melted from the surrounding neighbors’ yards. By morning, the neighbors’ trees were budding.

Olga was suddenly very tired.

Mrs. Belleci made Olga lay on the couch. She rubbed Olga’s feet. The Belleci children brought Olga tea and chicken soup for strength.

By nightfall, Olga could barely find the strength to speak. I must leave, she whispered.

No, Olga. Please don’t leave. You make our home so beautiful.

I must.

The next morning, Olga’s room was bare. Mrs. Belleci and her children searched the house. Olga had gone.

The flowers by the patio were already dead.

Mrs. Belleci cried.


Copyright 2008 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.


posted @ 8:09 pm in [ perdiferous -SPASMS ]

Thanks to all who commented and e-mailed me reagrding this post. I was really tired when I posted it, and I neglected to mention that it was a standalone piece. We did two separate stories with the same title, which is why I captioned it “Take 2.” Here is the first. We didn’t post the second one because we weren’t sure whether to develop it further.

Anyway, glad people liked it! Sorry there isn’t a conclusion. Maybe there will be, someday.

xo, Amy

posted @ 8:27 pm in [ jam -SPASMS -tim_x ]

 This is a jam, written about two years ago, by [info]tim_xand myself. Enjoy!

From the journals of Dr. Henry Wilkes Tonnage III


My dear friend Howard,


I am delighted to hear that my latest missive finds you well, too many of our friends have dropped out of contact, the reasons for which run the gamut from mortality to geography. All that are left now, old friend, are you, Wesley Barr & I. Wesley, that old adventurer, is planning a trip back to the dark continent; a journey which you can be certain I warned him against making. Especially considering what happened when last we were there. Do you recall that night, Howard? That dark night of screams in the jungle? Of the things we saw, and of our damnable guest?



Henry, old friend,


It has been many years since that fateful venture, yet I recall it every day. I thank you for warning Wesley against repeating the journey; you may rest assured that I have just penned a missive cautioning him against the same.  I am not ashamed to tell you, Henry, that I have relived that horrifying night many times in my dreams. I remember the screams, old friend, but the memory that haunts me most is the recollection of hiding in the tangled foliage in ebon night, daring not to move, lest our guest perceive my labored breathing…




I got a deuced chill when I read your words pertaining to that night.  I sometimes think, perhaps wish, that I had imagined it all, but holding your letter in my hands dashed me back into reality.  I paid a visit to Wesley’s estate, in one last attempt to persuade him from folly, but I’m afraid he has already boarded the Tramp Steamer “Obeisance” to Africa.  All is lost, I fear, for Lord Barr will go once more into that jungle seeking to claim what he believes is his by right…but it is that which will claim him, for it belongs only to our guest of that dark night of long ago.






My dearest Mary,


When you read this letter, darling, I shall be on board the H.M.S. Victoria, headed east. You may contact me via the ship’s wire if needs must. Henry and I are returning to the jungle to save your brother, Wesley. My love to you and the children. There is a possibility I may not return…


My dear Howard,

It pains me to hear that, once again, my brother places your life in jeopardy.  I am not even certain that you will receive this letter before you leave.  Know that my heart goes with you and, should you fail to return dies with you in that forsaken jungle.

To: Quartermaster Jervis, Fort Britannia- Africa
From Dr. Howard Phillips

Mr. Jervis,

I am forwarding this request to alert you of my arrival, and request that you ready the necessities for my compatriot and me.  When I was last in your care I left a particular locked trunk in your storeroom.  Please have it cleaned and ready for me.  That is all.



Copyright 2008 Amy Frushour Kelly and Tim Mucci. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.


posted @ 7:25 am in [ infection -rob -SPASMS ]

Rob has an infection and is on massive anti-biotics. The upshot? He’ll be okay, but I got no sleep whatsoever last night, and now I gotta get ready for work.

Hopefully tonight, after work, drum lessons and whatnot, I’ll write a SPASM.  Fingers crossed that I don’t fall asleep first!

xo, Amy

posted @ 6:12 am in [ SPASMS ]

Thanks to Sue for the first sentence.


“The son of a gun is a bullet,” he says, cradling the revolver.

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.

He squints up at me, looking for a response.

“Okay,” I say. Lamely.

“In films, how many times have you seen the villain talk to his victim before killing him? Explaining what they’re about, giving some long spiel about the Bible or some such thing?”

“Like in Pulp Fiction?”


I swallow. It isn’t hard to see where he’s going with this. “A lot, I guess.”

He nods. “That never made sense to me. A hit man is hired to perform a task without calling attention to himself or his client. Why prolong the event? Why waste time on chat?”

What am I supposed to say? “Right.”

“I know now, of course. It’s a power trip. He’s not talking to the victim, he’s talking to himself. It’s a way to keep yourself from going crazy. That’s my theory, anyway. For the moment.”

I look down at my shoes.

“Then again, there’s the times when a hit man is a sadist, too. Some of us like to torture our victims. The rationale, I believe, is that the target’s not going to live, anyway. He’s dead the minute we lay eyes on him. He’s a toy now.”

I can’t look at him. And yet, I can’t not look. He’s still watching me, cradling the revolver. “You said the son of a gun is a bullet,” I remember. “What did you mean?”

“The gun is supposed to be phallic. The barrel. But think about it the other way. It’s a birth canal.”


“Or put it another way. A gun is an intention.”

An intention. I shift; my body is itching with anxiety.

He checks the chambers to be sure the gun is loaded. “Don’t look,” he advises.

I blink. How can I not look?

“Please,” he whispers.

In the moment it takes to blink again, blood is spattered all over me. He’s on the floor. The right side of his head is missing. My ears are ringing. The gun is still in his hand.

Great. Now how am I supposed to get out of these ropes?


Copyright 2008 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.


posted @ 6:57 am in [ killer -middle ages -SPASMS ]


He had murdered two women already. It was difficult now to weigh his compulsion to kill against the widening police investigation. The urge to kill was mitigated by his instinct to stay alive and free.

Fortunately, the murderer was an intelligent man, a reader. He enjoyed books on history and science. He was also good with his hands. This all came into play when he hit upon his most brilliant idea: to build a time machine.

Feudal England—or, rather, Angleland— was the perfect place for him. No police force, no forensic science, fingerprinting, technology. Additionally, late Middle English was close enough to what people spoke in modern-day England that he believed he could get by. The possibility of killing an ancestor was remote, as his family hailed from Russia. The schematics for the time machine were downloaded from the internet. He gauged that he might be able to travel to the Middle Ages, but probably not back. That meant no toilets. No baths. No modern medicine, were he to be injured or fall ill. Very well, he would take precautions, get any applicable immunizations. True serial killers had to be perfect planners. His own case required a special kind of care.

It took years to build the time machine. During that time, the murderer schooled himself in the technology, trying desperately to engineer a method of return. He was growing older, and the thought of being stuck in feudal England at an advanced age with no medical care did not appeal much to him. Still, he held up his dream of finally being able to satiate his urges. That would have to suffice until the machine could be built and he could travel back and forth safely.

Finally, he discovered that while it was impossible to return from the past, it was possible to return from the future. This was because the future hadn’t happened yet, he reasoned, and this discovery agreed with current scientific theory. He was disappointed, but realized that he was, after all, in possession of a working time machine. He decided to write a paper and hold a press conference. Soon, he was a very rich, if somewhat old, man.

Years later, in his seventies, he decided there was nothing holding him back now. He was old, and he would die soon. Why not go back and satisfy his compulsion? He wrote a note, vaguely explaining that he was going back in time to fulfill a lifelong dream, and entered the time machine.

Instantaneously, he appeared in the middle of a street, crowded with serfs who immediately recognized him as a witch and stoned him to death.


Copyright 2008 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.



posted @ 4:16 pm in [ SPASMS ]

Of the two sisters, Karen was the nice one. Marilyn was the one most likely to do something stupid. Which was exactly what she did, one too many times. When Marilyn was caught driving drunk, she already had a suspended license for exactly that reason.

Easy enough to solve, she thought. “Sorry, officer, I forgot my license. My name’s Karen Cauldwell, and I live at—” she was slurring, but sober enough to give her sister’s address.

The officer checked, and sure enough, a Karen Cauldwell matching the drunk’s description lived at that address. The face that came up on the computer screen was similar enough to that of the drunk, and the physical description—five foot six, brown hair, green eyes—fit. Marilyn was booked and fingerprinted under Karen’s name, and Karen’s license was suspended.

The first thing Marilyn did when she was released on bail the next day was go online to the Department of Motor vehicles site and change Karen’s address to her own. That way, the suspension notice would be mailed to Marilyn’s own home, Marilyn would pay the fine, switch Karen’s address back, and nobody would be the wiser. Karen wouldn’t get mad, and Marilyn wouldn’t get in trouble.

Except that the very day after her address was changed without her permission, Karen went to the DMV to renew her license, and found it was suspended. Angry, Karen paid the fine—she had to have a license, after all—and determined to confront her sister.

But a couple of bad checks Marilyn had written caught up with her, and she left town, pronto. Karen arrived at Marilyn’s apartment, only to find her sister gone.

Well. Time to play a little identity theft herself, Karen mused. Her husband had ruined her credit before their divorce. Marilyn had just been given a credit card by some credit company who wasn’t paying attention. Karen went through the unopened mail, found the card, and decided the American Express card with the $5,000 limit was payback for the fine.

But Karen was basically a decent person. She could never let a bill go without paying it. In no time at all, Marilyn’s credit rating had skyrocketed.

A year later and several states away, Marilyn developed a drug habit. Inevitably, she hit upon the idea of calling up for a credit card. She was astonished to be awarded a $14,000 card with no questions asked.

Karen was disappointed, but not surprised, to find the credit rating she’d worked so hard to establish dropping before her very eyes. It wasn’t difficult to track her sister down in Nevada. Karen didn’t bother contacting Marilyn to let her know she was in town; she simply waited in the dark alley behind the diner where Marilyn worked, with the engine running. When Marilyn came out from her shift, Karen floored it.

Afterwards, Karen took the new credit card and ID card from Marilyn’s wallet. She put her own driver’s license in its place and drove away.

A crackhead came upon Marilyn’s body a short time later. The woman wasn’t too strung out to take Karen’s driver’s license and the cash.

That license sure would come in handy.


Copyright 2008 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.



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