Home // Short Stories

Category: Short Stories

AMA Q1: Where do you get your story ideas from?

(As a reminder, this is an answer to a question I received in my first blog-style Ask Me Anything.)

Steve Beaulieu asks, “Where do you get your story ideas from? How about Wendigo?”

Writers get this one a lot, and I know Steve knows this because he’s a writer, too. But it’s an interesting one because everyone’s answer is different.

And yet everyone’s answer is also kind of the same.

I get my ideas from everywhere—the way I was raised, the jobs I’ve had, the books I read, the movies I’ve seen.

Sometimes ideas come to me in the shower. Sometimes they come in a dream.

The important thing with ideas is to capture them. When they come to you, write them down in a notebook or on a phone.

You won’t use them all, but the more you capture, the more will come.

Ideas are nothing to be afraid of. They’re there, ripe for the taking. I’ve heard from some writers that they’re afraid that the great idea they had, their one BIG idea, will be stolen or will fail. That’s fear talking. In some cases it’s fear taking over.

If you ask me, ideas are cheap. They’re everywhere. I have more ideas than I know what to do with. I want to write a galactic empire series, more Translocator books, more post-apocalyptic stories. I want to write hundreds of short stories about all sorts of things.

Wendigo: A Paranormal Story by M.G. HerronAs for Wendigo…

My short story (or is it a novelette at 12,000 words?), Wendigo, is about an archaeology student and his professor who go in search of hidden petroglyphs and discover latent horrors.

It’s based on the Navajo legend of the skinwalker. I wrote it for a short story class I took. It was also my first attempt at writing an unlikeable character. Blake, the main character, is kind of a prick. The question is, does he deserve what he gets?

Not Alone: A Sci-Fi Short Story

Ahoy, stargazers! I’ve returned to Austin from a week-long vacation at the land of 10,000 lakes. Just in time to deliver you a new sci-fi short story.

Not Alone is about a freighter pilot who’s down on his luck but won’t give up his dream.

Here’s the blurb:

Not Alone: A Sci-Fi Short StoryDid life ever exist on Mars?

Astrobiologist Ackley Griven once set out to answer that question…and came up with squat.

The mining companies, though? They struck gold on the red planet. Gold and oil.

When accidents in the low mines bring Griv back to Mars with a delivery of mining bots to replace the ones that were inexplicably destroyed in electrical fires, his stale search for Martian life is thrust onto a surprising new trail.

Not Alone is a science fiction short story about space ships, superstition, and one man’s lifelong obsession.

Get Not Alone on Amazon

A sample from the beginning of Not Alone

 

1

Deirdre

After paying for the station mechanics to repair a small breach he discovered in the hull of his ship during the journey back from Mars, Griv bounced off his freighter like a man half his age and fifty pounds lighter. A message from Deirdre had synced to his personal inbox when he docked, and though they had bickered bitterly last time they spoke, the prospect of seeing his daughter elated him. Not even the cost of the repairs could get him down just now. It felt like someone in the control room had cranked back the artificial gravity on the space station.

He relished the floating sensation as he strode in worn leather boots through the familiar bustling traffic of pilots, passengers, and supplies on the hangar floor. His equally battered duster—not leather or canvas, but a heavy, breathable synthetic the color of which matched his brown boots—billowed appreciatively behind him.

Near the far end of the hangar, Griv stopped and waited while a young mechanic with a scraggly goatee guided a replacement spacecraft wing through a thick crowd. The wing was supported on a maglev cart. Griv knew the metal floor was lined with magnets so that a single person could move heavy equipment—like that wing— across the hangar. But most civilians had never seen such a thing. A knot of Asian businessmen and their wives—space tourists—whispered and pointed excitedly, and waved the mechanic to a halt.

A geriatric gentleman wearing a green casino visor and fine polished shoes of expensive leather separated himself from the others. With a wide grin plastered on his face, he approached the mechanic. The young man’s expression went blank and he nodded, but Griv noticed his posture stiffen as the tourist ran his hands along the sleek metal surface of the spare wing. A woman handed a small camera to a third man, and sidled up next to old gent. The third man took photos of the couple in two poses, and another when the woman pulled the mechanic into a third shot. The young mechanic’s face softened into a hesitant smile. The old man laughed aloud, then lounged back onto the edge of the maglev cart and jostled the heavy metal wing.

The mechanic’s face went pale. He tore himself away and fumbled with a controller in his hands. The top-heavy wing began to tilt and the mechanic desperately threw his own shoulder under the wing. Griv brushed through the crowd, elbowing the frightened tourists out of the way, and added his own hands to the other end of the wing. The mechanic finally managed to stabilize the maglev cart with one hand on the remote control.

“Thank you,” the mechanic whispered to Griv.

“Damn tourists,” Griv muttered under his breath, winking at the younger man.

The mechanic blanched, then rapidly hurried off in the opposite direction, using the remote to speed the wing to safety, away from the tourists. They hollered apologies as he retreated.

Griv chuckled and shook his head as he walked onward. It was no surprise that the mechanic kept his mouth shut at Griv’s comments, but it rankled him at the same time. The lucrative space tourism trade greased the metaphorical wheels of every space station now, he knew. Near-Earth orbit was the new exotic getaway.

Ridiculous, he thought.

Silence finally came like a thunderclap as he passed from the orderly chaos of the hangar into the narrow corridors of the space station proper. On the High Road—a long, slightly curved foot path that encircled the rotating core of the station—where he had time to think, Griv began to worry what his daughter might say. Could they just have a nice lunch together, or would she bring it up again, all that stuff about his health and how he needed to settle down? She was just like her mother that way. Griv lengthened his stride, knee joints popping from lack of use. He used to be able to do a dozen round trips to Mars with barely a dock-day between them, but the same pace was much harder on his body these days.

He finally stepped off the High Road and turned into the newly constructed greenhouse extension, where Deirdre said she would be. The round entryway door spiraled open with a soft sigh of air, and Griv waded into the thick smell of rich earth, thyme and rosemary and—he wrinkled his nose—cabbage. Vines hanging from a lattice overhead brushed his shoulders as he wandered deeper into the place.

Incredible that they’d set all this up here. The scientist in him, long dormant from lack of use, began to wonder how they’d transported the soil, and what percentage of the water used to grow this lush opulence was recyclable. Was it a drain on the station’s ecosystem? Was growing thyme extravagant, and should they focus more on the staples of the human diet—potatoes and cabbage for instance?

Deirdre would know. The company she worked for, Sustainable Rotation, had been crowing about a sustainable future for humanity in near-Earth orbit for over two decades. They ran nearly a dozen of the so-called Habitation Stations, space stations meant only for civilian use, and reserved for the ultra-rich.

But this was something else entirely.

Griv rarely made it out of his ship, let alone wandered to the experimental side of this station. Remarkable what they’d managed to achieve. Would it reach their goal of full sustainability? And if so, how long would it last? He absent-mindedly cycled through water-use calculations in his head, but was quickly overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of it, and was that much more impressed with his daughter’s abilities. She was light-years ahead of him as a scientist. Good for her.

“Ackley Griven!” A man’s surprised voice cut through the thick air. “Is that you?”

The prideful glow dampened, and Griv turned to see a group of lab-coated scientists surrounding a man wearing designer jeans with more holes than fabric. The difference in the man’s appearance drew his eyes—he was a full foot shorter than Griv and wore a Henley t-shirt with all three buttons opened at the top to reveal an annoyingly well-muscled chest. His head was as hairless as his chest, and he was missing both eyebrows. Once a genetic disorder called alopecia, full hairlessness was now an affectation of the ultra wealthy.

“Well, I’ll be,” Griv said, extending his hand. “The man himself. I wasn’t sure you’d be here, Sinclair.” He owned this station—he owned nearly a dozen of them. Of course Griv knew Sinclair Axelrod would be here. He was just hoping he wouldn’t be.

“Deirdre,” Sinclair said, mock disapproval in his tone. “You didn’t tell me you were expecting a visitor.”

Griv’s daughter stepped out of the pack of scientists that surrounded Axelrod. Auburn curls framed her lightly freckled face. Soft cheeks cut down to a pointed chin the exact opposite of Griv’s own chin, which in recent years had seemed to merge into his neck. Her face was hard, her green eyes flat and angry. But a big, loving smile spread helplessly over Griv’s face at the sight of her, and his daughter’s face softened as well.

“I didn’t know if he would come,” Deirdre admitted.

“Here I am,” Griv said, spreading his arm magnanimously. “Sinclair, the space tourism industry has been good to you. This garden is like a slice of Eden. Incredible, truly…but we all know who really deserves the credit.”

Deirdre blushed. “Dad, stop.”

“He’s right, of course,” Sinclair said. “You have a naturally green thumb, and a brilliant rational mind.”

“She inherited that one from her old man,” Griv said, tapping his temple with one finger. Deirdre gave him a wry look. “Do you mind if I borrow your head botanist for a little while?”

“By all means. We were just wrapping up.” Sinclair made a motion, and the cluster of lab-coated cretins followed the little bald man away.

Griv held out his elbow. Deirdre took his arm, looking askance as she pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek

“You’re not mad?” she asked when the others were out of earshot.

“I can’t stay mad at you.”

“You have to admit, you do spend a lot of time on that ship.”

“That’s how I make my living, sweetheart.”

She looked at the floor. “It’s also become your home, which is not healthy. You can’t live on your ship, Dad. Fill out an application and I’ll fast track you into the Habitat program. You’ll get a place to live, a guaranteed basic income…a cabin all to yourself!”

“I’m not taking charity, Dee. Especially not from goddamn Sinclair.”

“It’s not charity. You’d have to work your hours on the farms or in the water sanitation facility, the same as everyone else. And Sinclair has nothing to do with it.”

“You work for him.”

She frowned at her father. “I work for his company. I live for myself. And I care about you.”

Griv sighed heavily. “What’s the difference if I live in a metal box on my ship or a metal box on a station?”

“Other people live on the station, Dad. I worry about you, spending so much time alone.”

“Pfah!” he said. “I see plenty of people, here and on Mars.”

She gave him a dark look. They didn’t talk about his work much. Griv had been a government researcher once, the head of the first team to conduct scientific research on a foreign planet. No research teams worked on Mars these days. All the money for industry on Mars went toward the hunt for new petroleum deposits, and the lucrative gold and platinum mines. Griv used to be get angry when he thought about the potential signs of ancient life those idiots were probably destroying every single day as they greedily sucked the marrow from the bones of their sister planet.

Deirdre put her hands on her father’s arms and looked straight into his face. His heart broke when saw the tears forming in those big glistening greens.

“Dad, I know why you keep going back. You’re hoping something will change. But there’s no life on Mars. We’ve known that for decades now. I can’t deny that there’s got to be sentient life out there somewhere. You taught me to believe what I can see with my own eyes, and I look out at the stars and think that in all that vastness, there have to be others like us somewhere in the universe. But can’t you look elsewhere?”

Griv said nothing, but his heart ached.

“I love you, Dad, but you can’t go on like this. It’s not good for you. I miss you. Even mom misses you, though she’ll never admit it. Stop searching for something where there’s nothing to be found.”

Finish reading Not Alone on Amazon

How Not to Stay in Vegas

I just contributed a snippet to a collaborative fiction project called How Not to Stay in Vegas, a story that started on Facebook, of all places. Well, that’s probably not uncommon. Writers are introverts. They don’t leave their house, do they? I haven’t left my house in two days. Okay, a week. Actually, all my social interaction happens on Facebook. Get off my lawn. Wait, how’d you get inside? Stop messing with the blinds! Oh, god, is that sunlight? It burns my eyes. It burns! It BURNS I TELL YOU

*shoves you out*

*draws blackout curtains*

*withdraws into fortress of solitude*

Okay, you know what, I’ve gotten off track. I just wanted to thank Burt Walker and Jim Goodman for shepherding the experiment, and wish them luck because getting a writers to do anything on time or in an orderly fashion or with other people can be hazardous to your health.lasvegas.jpg

Wendigo + February Writing Updates

Some updates for you.

First, if you didn’t get my email this morning, “Wendigo” is now available as an ebook and paperback! Here’s the blurb for this 12,000 word paranormal/horror story…

Wendigo

After years of digging, anthropology student Blake Meier is about to strike pay dirt.

If all goes well, an interview with the Navajo chief will complete his doctoral thesis. It may also lead to the discovery of a lifetime.

But his advisor, Dr. Samarjit Chambers, has his own agenda. And unbeknownst to either of them, hidden horrors lurk in the ancient petroglyph they both lust after.

To what lengths will Blake go to satisfy his own desires?

If you like dark paranormal or horror short stories inspired by myths and legends, download “Wendigo” today!

February Writing Update

Now, onwards to more fun stuff in the works.

In my last update, I shared that I sent Tales of the Republic off to the editor for a copyedit. I’ll get that book back in another week or two, so no news to share there yet except that I still expect to begin serializing the rest of the story in March. If you haven’t read part one or part two yet, hold off because those will get an update when part three, Perilous Journey, drops in March.

Since my last update, I wrote a new 10k word short story about a basilisk for a monster anthology I was invited to with some friends. I’m pretty pleased with how it turned out. I’m calling it “The Boy and the Basilisk” for now, although that title might change.

With every story, there are always things that didn’t turn out how I envisioned, but overall I’m happy with this one, even more so because I was able to turn it around so quickly. I also took a lecture on Endings while I was writing it, and applied what I learned to the ending of this story. I’m always learning new stuff and trying to level up as a storyteller.

Another observation about my process: “The Boy and the Basilisk” took 13 days to concept and write. I wrote about 1,000-1,500 words a day. I ran into a few challenges that slowed me down but nothing I wasn’t able to overcome with a little mental effort. Each day I spent between 1 and 4 hours working on the story, with varying levels of focus. The challenge is to be fully engaged with the writing when it’s writing time. The trick is to be very clear about what I’m writing that day, and what my word count goal is. As long as I know those two things, and stay focused, I can almost always make it happen. The agony only begins when I get bogged down in the story, or get distracted and lose focus because of social media or health problems or other monkeys life happens to throw on my back.

So, anyways, that’s another story in the bag. I also received form rejections from two magazines to which I had submitted short stories. I took those two stories and sent them right back out on the same day I finish the basilisk story (yesterday). Man, that felt good to get them back out.

It’s a month into 2017 and so far I’ve accomplished what I wanted to accomplish, more or less on schedule, and added an unexpected anthology story besides.

So what’s next?

  1. Finish “Body of Work”, a science fiction short story. This will take a few days, maybe a week depending how long it gets.
  2. Plan Translocator 2 and 3. These two novels will complete my first trilogy, which began with The Auriga Project in 2015. Since I published that novel, I have been focused on wrapping up other loose ends and unfinished projects (Like Tales). So I am both nervous and very excited to finally return to this series. So the task here is to plan out both novels at once, to the best of my ability, before I start writing. That will take me a couple weeks to do.
  3. Start writing Translocator 2. Once the planning is done, I’ll start writing Translocator 2. If all goes well, the actual writing will begin sometime in February. I expect it will take a minimum of 60 days to write the first draft. I’ll give myself 90 days to be sure, because I am determined to get it right the first time and not do any major rewrites. If I don’t give myself the opportunity to rewrite anything, there is no choice but to get it right on the first draft. That means good planning and execution, and no excuses.
  4. Figure out how to make time for the nonfiction project. I also need to figure out how to make time to write Practical Fiction, the nonfiction nuts and bolts on writing book I wanted to blog on the site here. Between fiction writing and client writing I just haven’t been able to find the time or energy I need to devote to this one yet.

So much I want to do, so little time.

Story Tracker

Novels

Tales of the Republic … Status: Editing  … 84,671 words

Translocator 2 … Status: Planning

Short Stories

“A Body of Work” … Status: Writing … 2,694 words written / 6,000 estimated total words

“The Boy and the Basilisk” … Status: Out for edits … 10,100 words

“Search for the Vault of Fallsbard” … Status: Out for submission … 1,100 words

“Centurion” … Status: Out for submission … 3,800 words

“Earworm” … Status: Out for submission … 3,000 words

Nonfiction

Practical Fiction … Status: Planning … 500 words

New Story: The Door Below the Comic Store

The Door Below the Comic Store is my first new short story of 2017, an adventurous urban fantasy story about a normal boy named Colton and the unusual way he escapes his miserable family life.

The Door Below the Comic Store

How would you react if you found hidden doors in your city that led to other worlds? Worlds of mystery and magic?

While trying to escape the incessant bickering between his mom and his jerk of a stepfather, Colton goes out to meet a friend—and instead, stumbles on a doorway that leads him somewhere unexpected.

Door Below the Comic Store - High Resolution - alternate font

Buy on Kindle  Buy Paperback

A New Post-Apocalyptic Story!

The End of the World Is Better with Friends

Sid is all alone at the end of the world, with only his robot and his garden to keep him company. He tends his plot, and tries to keep his distance from Slimeball, the lake monster the aliens left behind. But a hot spell and the need for water finally forces him to the lake’s perilous shores. His clever plan to distract Slimeball goes sideways, and turns into a discovery that forever alters the way he lives his post-apocalyptic life.

The End of the World ebook cover

Kindle  Paperback

Author’s Note

This story was written for a workshop I took back in August. It’s now available in both Kindle and paperback formats. I hope you enjoy this post-apocalyptic tale of survival and friendship. It’s set in one of my favorite cities.

Tons of fun making these little paperbacks, too. They’re only $5, with free shipping for Amazon Prime members. Never done a paperback on a short story before, but they make great little gifts, and bring me joy to hold in my hands.

Christmas joy! Order a paperback of The End of the World Is Better with Friends and/or Magick Mirror, and help stuff the stockings of some happy readers.


Story Tracker

I’ve got 2 good news updates on the writing front. I made over 2,400 words of progress on the revisions of Tales since my last update. It would have been more, but I also publishing this book, completely revamped the website, and wrote a new author bio (something I’d been putting off forever), so not a bad week.

Next time I do one of these updates, I’ll remove the newly published story from the works-in-progress list below.

Novels

Tales of the Republic, second draft … 28% complete
22,475 words revised / 80,000 estimated total words

Short Stories

“The End of the World Is Better with Friends” … 6k words … Status: Published!

“Centurion” … 3k words … Status: Out for submission (trade pub)

“Earworm” … 3k words … Status: Out for submission (trade pub)

“The Door Below the Comic Store” … 6k words … Status: Out for edits (indie)

“Wendigo” … 10k words … Status: Rough draft complete (tbd)

“A Body of Work” … Status: Prewriting