So I’m going to be part of this Kickstarter run by my good friend and fellow writer Jason Myers. It’s called Big Trouble in Little Canton: Supernatural Hijinks in Ohio and will be a multi-year serial novel-type-thing involving horror and the supernatural in, well, Ohio. Which doesn’t come up often in Horror, as far as I can recall. Click on the name above if you want to support the project and/or just see what it’s about.
For my part in the project I will be penning four postcards, each postcard containing a flash fiction piece detailing a location in Ohio (said location being the other side of the postcard). For fun, and to warm up to the idea of horrifying Ohio, I’ve been writing little micro-fictions about Ohio and will be doing so until the Kickstarter ends. This is a record of that experiment.
In Akron, Ohio, there lives the oldest man in North America. You would recognize him if you saw him. He’s as gnarly as a walnut. Even his wrinkles have wrinkles who have wrinkles. He’s a friendly guy, but though he’ll talk for hours on politics or current events or the hippest, hottest, happeningnest pop music (because he keeps up with such things), he’ll never tell you how old he is. That’s his secret, and his age is what keeps him alive.
Contradictory sounding, but true. He’s still alive, simply because he’s the oldest. How does he remain the oldest? By killing all the other almost-oldest. He scours local news channels for birthday claims and reads every local rag he can get his hands on, and when he finds someone over a hundred, he begins to plan their demise. Like Bathory, he needs their blood to bathe in, and pays off mortuary men and doctors to snuff those aging lights and bring him what he desires.
But he’s not the only oldest man in the world. Every continent has one, slowly, inexorably winnowing the population down. Those people who lie about their age? They know what they’re doing.