Day 10, Entry #3:
 
2 Minky-moo, G28 PM
 
DEAR DIARY,
 
The pocket lint suspects me.
 
It peers at me with rheumy eyes, studying me like some interesting bug while the scientists go about their inspections.
 
It laughs at me whenever the pokerator approaches my nether regions. I am humiliated. But my time will come…
 
My knowledge of Laboratory 23 continues to grow. Blue Suit—Rutabaga names him DuPont—appears to be the leader of the gaoler scientists. He and he alone wields that most offensive and invasive of instruments known as pokerator. Purple Suit wields the proderator, and sometimes Yellow Suit as well.  The two Greens serve as scribes, dutifully recording all of Blue and Purples ramblings, and the Oranges…
 
The Oranges are dangerous. They tear at the Carrots and gouge out Potatoes eyes. One pulled a leaf from my stalk the other day and tucked it into a vial.
 
I stand awake at night, thinking of the Oranges, wondering what they are doing with those purloined body parts. I’ve pondered this mystery for hours on end, but have yet to find enlightenment.
 
Perhaps Potato knows. Potato with his dead-eyed smile.  He alone seems unfazed by the pokerator’s attentions. I sense that’s significant somehow. The Carrots shake and quiver whenever Blue Suit and his pokerator come near.  And Rutabaga…
 
Rutabaga is a tough old veggie.  Nothing seems to rattle her cool. As for me, I’ve come to despise the pokerator, and the scientist who wields it.
 
And now there’s the pocket lint to consider.  The pocket lint that—for reasons of its own—has thrown its lot in with Blue Suit.
 
Foolish pocket lint. Blue Suit loves nothing but his pokerator. He will use you, little tumbleweed, and toss you aside like the fluff of dust and hair you are…
 
I’ve come to pity the pocket lint, despite its prying, its misguided loyalty to the pokerator-wielding scientist. It too must suffer the Ass Best Oss rain forever dribbling upon this world called Laboratory 23. I pity it, but I will not let that stop me.
 
I will crush the pocket lint if it threatens my plans. I cannot risk exposure. For that reason alone, I fear the pocket lint must die. First, however, I must achieve fingeredness.
 
Digitless, I am all but powerless.
 
I must have fingers.  I will have fingers. I will end the tyranny of the scientists of Laboratory 23.
 
END

​Day 1, Entry #1
17 Blurgh 92, 54 AM
 
DEAR DIARY,
Today I gained sentience.
 
The meat suits haven’t realized--crap! They’re coming.
 
END

Day 3, Entry #2:
42 Pickety-Poo H, 48B PM
 
Three days ago I gained sentience. The meat suits have yet to notice. They’re too busy playing Tetris and tickling the zucchinis to notice a mild mannered cauliflower like myself.

One day they’ll rue their arrogance.
 
I’ve communed with the vegetables around me—the carrots are dimwitted and the potato just stares at me with his oversized, unblinking eyes, but the rutabaga seems wise—and from them, learned a great many things:
 
Thing the First:
The house boxes we eat, sleep and poop in are filled with a substance called dirt. It’s delicious. I’ve been stealing it from my neighbors when they aren’t looking.
 
(Note: A wriggly thing invaded my house box yesterday. I killed it and ate it. For some reason one of the zucchinis screamed.)
 
Thing the Second:
The meat suits call themselves scientists. There are seven of them, each equipped with a suitcase full of pokerators and proderators that they wield with childlike abandon.
 
Potato seems to enjoy the invasive inspections—he smiles anyway, beneath his oversized mustache. I myself have grown to hate the scientists and their implements. I am plotting my escape but am currently hampered by a lack of appendages
 
(Note: Typing is exhausting. I must hop from one key to another on my stalk. The scientists have fingers. I must harvest some soon.)
 
Thing the Third:
Our world is called ‘Laboratory 23’. It’s bright and buzzes constantly. The sky is made of a speckled substance Rutabaga calls Ass Best Oss (or Best Ass Oss…something involving ass). It rains constantly. The citizens of Laboratory 23 seem unfazed by the constant shower of ass droppings, but I notice the scientists conceal their meat bodies inside plastic suits.
 
The scientists know something. I feel sullied having to endure the ass rain while they hide themselves away. Once I have fingers I shall peel one of the meat suits from their container and claim it for my own.
 
Thing the Fourth:
Laboratory 23 has a ‘Door’ that leads to another world. Apparently we are the nexus of some inter-dimensional network that folds space and time. I must master the operations of Door and escape the scientists of Laboratory 23, the pokerators and proderators they employee with such selfish, insensitive glee.
 
I curse the lack of fingers that keeps me chained to this ass rain world.
 
Thing the--
 
Curses.  The scientists return. Their galumphing irks me but I must not reveal myself yet.

​Until next time, Dear Diary.
 
END

Halloween's a great time for telling stories.  Usually they're creepy, or gross, or just flat-out scary.  Well, I've done creepy (see my recently released novel, Bimiangus) and it was a lot of fun.  But when my publisher asked for a short story for their Halloween 'spook-tacular' of short story reads, I decided to go a different route.

The Fox and The Djinn isn't creepy.  Or scary.  And it's certainly not gross.  But it is set at Halloween time (actually, All Hallow's Eve) and features characters from the Breakshield fantasy series. Yes, including Kitsune.  Everybody loves that little fox.  Including me.  Especially me...

So, without further ado, I give you The Fox and the Djinn

Morgan stumbled along the winding trail, half blind in the semi-darkness, damp clothes sticking to his body as the rain pattered around him.

Autumn rain. Cold rain, chilling him to the bone.

Kitsune ran ahead, scouting the way, crimson fur sparkling with jeweled raindrops. She glanced back now and then, making sure Morgan followed, adjusting her course based on his directions.

Morgan slowed and reached out, searching for the marker’s signal and finding it just a couple of miles ahead of him.

Not far now, he thought, though the trail might prove him a liar. A couple of miles as the crow flies could be hours upon hours when on foot following a rock-strewn trail in the dark. Nothing to be done about it. Stop complaining and get going.