[POSTED NOTICE - 9-8-15]
Dearest patrons,
In the future, due to a recent fictional fuel recession, this station will fuel ONLY stories already posted. No new updates will appear here. Please visit our mother station, home of the Station Attendant, for a complete collection of prose-at-pump grades, as well as excerpts from currently unpublished novels. This station will not go defunct and will remain open, but it is our desire to direct more traffic towards the above address. If you have enjoyed our snappy service and eclectic fiction-fuels, please support our Station Attendant, and help the Station's fuel reach a global audience.
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See you on the other side of the highway.
As always, happy travels,
-S.A.
9.08.2015
8.11.2015
Yellowteeth
FUELING SAFETY: Horror themes, graphic violence, and some strong language. Patrons under 17 strongly cautioned.
"The mother crow then alights in the nest, and regurgitates the carrion into the beaks of her hungry chicks."
“What are you watchin’?”
I clicked my phone screen black and started, looking up at the amused face of my coworker, Marty. I scratched an eyebrow and laughed.
“We got a call?”
"The mother crow then alights in the nest, and regurgitates the carrion into the beaks of her hungry chicks."
“What are you watchin’?”
I clicked my phone screen black and started, looking up at the amused face of my coworker, Marty. I scratched an eyebrow and laughed.
“We got a call?”
7.19.2015
To Ankle-Biter, from Necrosis
FUELING SAFETY: Graphic descriptions and mild language
I hear you are called Ebola. First I will pay you the only compliment you will receive from me: you have gained my attention. Since retirement, rarely does a flamboyant young pestilence in his glory days – like you, Mr. Ebola – have the stuff it takes to even turn my head. But you’ve caused a real ruckus. I hear from my old pal, Influenza (the inbred with all those mutated bastard children; you know the man I mean), that people are dropping dead in the east, and running rampantly terrified in the west. I’m tempted to commend you for inspiring enough fear to make a nation question its loyalty to its citizens: do we bring our man home to treat him, or abandon him on foreign soil to avoid introducing this Ebola into our country? What a thrilling division. It makes me remember what a rush it is to be a disease.
I hear you are called Ebola. First I will pay you the only compliment you will receive from me: you have gained my attention. Since retirement, rarely does a flamboyant young pestilence in his glory days – like you, Mr. Ebola – have the stuff it takes to even turn my head. But you’ve caused a real ruckus. I hear from my old pal, Influenza (the inbred with all those mutated bastard children; you know the man I mean), that people are dropping dead in the east, and running rampantly terrified in the west. I’m tempted to commend you for inspiring enough fear to make a nation question its loyalty to its citizens: do we bring our man home to treat him, or abandon him on foreign soil to avoid introducing this Ebola into our country? What a thrilling division. It makes me remember what a rush it is to be a disease.
7.15.2015
Lake Martin Field Observation Journal, Part 1
FUELING SAFETY: Violent themes
Confidential field journal of Dr. B. Zimmerman.
Lake Martin, Louisiana.
Day 1 of observation, 5/20/07
I set a trap for my swamp friend three days ago, and as of 7am this morning, he is at the mercy of my detainment. It was nothing severe, since hurting him would be counterproductive on my part. He swam into my underwater web of a net at top speed and had no idea how to untangle himself before I came along and pulled him into the motorboat.
My first discovery was that yes, he is a he. The oddest thing happened as he lay tangled up on the boat while I steered it back to the cabin: his patches of greenish scales (which remind me of alligator skin) started to fade away until he was covered in normal human skin, as far as I could tell, from head to toe. I started to fear he would rip through the net the more he struggled, so I gave him a shot of sedative, into his neck. I dragged him into the mud room and locked him in - the door is deadlocked and I barred the only window last week, so it should hold him for now.
Confidential field journal of Dr. B. Zimmerman.
Lake Martin, Louisiana.
Day 1 of observation, 5/20/07
I set a trap for my swamp friend three days ago, and as of 7am this morning, he is at the mercy of my detainment. It was nothing severe, since hurting him would be counterproductive on my part. He swam into my underwater web of a net at top speed and had no idea how to untangle himself before I came along and pulled him into the motorboat.
My first discovery was that yes, he is a he. The oddest thing happened as he lay tangled up on the boat while I steered it back to the cabin: his patches of greenish scales (which remind me of alligator skin) started to fade away until he was covered in normal human skin, as far as I could tell, from head to toe. I started to fear he would rip through the net the more he struggled, so I gave him a shot of sedative, into his neck. I dragged him into the mud room and locked him in - the door is deadlocked and I barred the only window last week, so it should hold him for now.
Forth in Silence
FUELING SAFETY: Graphic descriptions, human dissection, and mild language
“He’s a very nice specimen,” complimented Dr. Sevier, although it was barely a compliment in his typical flat murmur. “Very clean-looking. When did you pick him up?”
“He’s a very nice specimen,” complimented Dr. Sevier, although it was barely a compliment in his typical flat murmur. “Very clean-looking. When did you pick him up?”
"Dug him up,” corrected Toderick feebly, thinking of the layers of mud that had ruined his trousers and a pair of his favorite boots. “Two days ago. All he was missing was the left leg below the knee, and that finger there” – he gestured to a finger that had been attached by needle and thread – “so I put those on yesterday afternoon.” He pushed his hair back and pulled on the dark, rubber working gloves, turning away from his mentor to rearrange the tray of metal instruments. His hands were shaking, and scalpels and scissors and thick needles clinked together when he didn’t mean them to. He dropped one as he picked it up.
Dr. Sevier was eyeing him silently, like a stately old owl watching a mouse scurry in circles. “You ought to relax. You’ll butcher him if carry on trembling like that,” the Undertaker added, his tone a little softer. His apprentice, Toderick Mortimer, was already twenty-two, but this would be the first reawakening he’d performed completely unassisted. He had reason to be nervous.
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