Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

The Hunch

A thing about a hunch is that you have no reason to fear, but your trembling. Its like the vampire behind the door, the monster in the closet, the ghost in the graveyard. Reading a scary book? No, its not quite the same as a hunch. A hunch is where you know the evil is there, but you can't touch it, you can't smell it, or hear it. But you can feel it, feel it right in front of you probbing the back of your head.
They're right here! The Hunch said to him, They're watching you at this moment.
You failed to see it.
There was a time where he could be all alone in a room and not fear the dark, he could stare into and empty closet and not imagine things. He could have a shower with his eyes closed and visit cemetaries. Back when his fears were just myths. And he could laugh.
But now, at last he had thought of a legitimate fear, something that had to do with him, and something that he could feel.
Ralph Germ had a hunch.
He was not ill, he was not crazy, he was not injured. But the back of his spine tingled like the tinkerbell playing piano.
There was nothing that seemed to be wrong.
Nothing that is, said the voice inside his head, but that small fact that they're going to kill you.
Kill you, Germ, kill you.
There was one thing that bothered him, irrelevant to monsters and ghosts, and this was the bookstore accross the street. It was a pleasant place to look at, with a white and red sign that displayed the bestsellers and their prices, a brick roof slightly bleached by the sun, and a great window that allowed passersby a veiw of the stock.
And of course the sign was old-fashioned in a nice way.
But something in the window bothered him, and it was his own book that was there, its shinney white cover and blue title was visible from where he sat.
$5.99 per paperback, said the bold sign, $11.99 per hard-cover.
15% membership discount.
It seemed to glow.
Two years ago he felt the need to let an idea out in the open, so he wrote it down. It was a good idea that he felt the need to expound, this expanded work was five pages long. It was good for being the first thing he put on paper in a while. What could he do with it? He didn't know, maybe ask a magazine...
But if he would publish it to a magazine he would need to do some research.
The research was hard and tedious, but at last he had 64 pages of a flowery, thoughtful, researched, and generally good idea.
But it was too long for an article.
More relevant thoughts and research later the pages of his new book shone at him. It was a happy time.
Three months later after the touch-ups, the book smiled and he was even happy.
... and now...
The thing that scarred him was the content of his book. It slammed alot of things, so here he sat thinking about the people and policies he slammed.
It was an ever so controversal book.
And that bothered him for some reason.
He wasn't sure, it was just a hunch.

"Hello Dr. Pancreas"
"Hello Ralph, Is something wrong."
Thats the problem, Ralph, there is nothing wrong.
"Nothing, just a feeling, a very bad feeling."
"Everything is fine physically?"
He dosn't like you, Ralph.
"Yeah, Yeah, just wanted to ask you about something,"
"Shoot,"
Hear that Ralph, shoot him.
"How much do you know of the CIA?"
"Why, have you been seeing them?"
"No, but I have a feeling they're seeing me..."
A feeling, you can do better then that, Ralph, you won't be feeling anything soon.

And three days later when the found his body in the sewer with no marks on him but the a quart of blood and the shattered metal of a nine-milimeter bullet, all aspiring writting considered they're controversial books.
A few fled the country.
But Ralph was remembered.

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