J. Otis Haas
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Stories (121)
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The Sighting
“Adam said Santa Claus isn’t real, but I told him I’ve seen the effidence.” My eight year old son was standing there, on the first day of Christmas vacation, puffed up with the sort of indignation that can accompany encountering deniers at any age.
By J. Otis Haasabout a year ago in Families
Letter to My Writing Mentor Judith Marks-White (1940-2024)
Dear Judith, Even though it’s been months since I watched a rabbi play show tunes at your funeral I still regularly pick up my phone to text you. Every time my writing is acknowledged in some way, it’s you I want to tell first, and so to say that this has been a period of adjustment is something of an understatement. My world and worldview have changed drastically for the better since we met, and I owe a large part of that to the confidence you instilled in me on that day you locked me in your laser gaze, clearly seeing in me something I could not see in myself. Though many people have told me I am “good with words,” I struggle to find ways to express how grateful I am to have known you.
By J. Otis Haasabout a year ago in Humans
The Saga of the Unconscious Immaterium
The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. It was this sequence of events which finally unclogged the writer’s block in Jack’s brain, washing it away in a surge of inspiration that flooded his brain as he retrieved the queen from under the couch, happy to see that she’d landed on the carpet and had not broken her fragile wings. That morning, from the upstairs deck, he’d seen the alarming sight of the river running against its usual course, but having become particularly adept at mental gymnastics over the past year of living with his father, he attributed the water’s strange activity to further shenanigans from the quantum server farm being built upstream and went about his day
By J. Otis Haasabout a year ago in Fiction
In the Closet with Monsters . Runner-up in Spooky Micro Challenge. Top Story - October 2024.
There was only one rule: don’t open the door. It’s a rule I made up, but Biter never wants to listen. He pushes me out of the way and jiggles the doorknob with his filthy devil’s claws just to hear the moans of fear from the other side. Even though it used to be my room on the other side of the door, Biter says little boys like me can’t make rules for things like him.
By J. Otis Haasabout a year ago in Horror
Dismantling the Torment Nexus 4.237
[TRANSCRIPT OF TRANSMISSION 4.237 DISMANTLING THE TORMENT NEXUS WITH NO1 METADATA, CHAT LOG, COMMENTS TO FOLLOW] Hello, and welcome to yet another fireside chat, Chat. This is Dismantling the Torment Nexus, and I’m your host, NO1, and we’re broadcasting on the web, narrowcasting on the deep web, and beaming directly into your brain on the astral plane. Again, I’m going to encourage the audience to print out the transcript if they find anything of value in what I say. It’s looking more and more likely that, whether it’s a Carrington Event, foreign adversaries in the infrastructure, civil war, or just our own stupidity, something could thrust us back into the darkness at any moment. People like me will have to go back to telling stories in front of fires. Imagine that, Chat.
By J. Otis Haasabout a year ago in Fiction
Portrait of a Finder of Lost Things. First Place in Small Kindness Challenge. Top Story - September 2024.
During a youth basketball game in the early 1980’s, according to some physics I do not understand, my Rolex watch slipped from my wrist and fell beneath the bleachers. I didn’t even notice until after the game, when the announcer alerted the departing crowd to the lost watch. Cursing my lack of attention, I rushed to the scorer’s table to retrieve my precious timepiece. A five year old boy, exploring beneath the crowd’s feet, had found it, but I would never know this. Grateful for its return, but far too busy and important to actually offer thanks, I snatched the proffered watch from the scorekeeper without a word, or so much as a glance at the child, and departed. The boy’s mother commented on the rudeness of the exchange and assured him that such impoliteness was an exception to the norm.
By J. Otis Haasabout a year ago in Psyche
The Lord of the Flies as a Young Man
Bartleby Lawrence Zebub, age 10, was gobsmacked by the audacious, infantile ignorance of the science fair organizers. As the small-minded, weak-willed, mouth-breathing, ignoramus judges passed out top prizes to three baking soda-powered volcanos, Bart gripped his participation certificate tightly enough to send creases shooting through the paper. Full of rage, he boggled at the lack of foresight among the so-called adults, whose disregard of his groundbreaking work evidenced an inability to recognize genius even as it towered over the brainless efforts of blathering children. He found comfort by telling himself that their acknowledgment and accolades amounted to little more than the hooting and clapping of chimpanzees.
By J. Otis Haasabout a year ago in Fiction
