Natasha Raulerson

Sunday Snippet – My Short Stories

So, I write short stories sometimes. Little snippets that become stories, but I have no idea what do with them. They’re generally odd, weird, or strange–maybe all of the above. Some have a dash of morbidity, darkness, and macabre tones. I can’t say I’ve ever really written an upbeat short story. Generally, there’s blood death or weird creatures.

Though admittedly, the novel that landed me my agent was originally a short story idea that just exploded into a novel. The characters just wouldn’t leave me alone until I told their story.  Sometimes, short stories just have that effect. You think you can get into 5k words or fewer, but it just winds up spiraling out of control!  Yeah, you know what I’m talking about.

But the question remains: What do I do with these short stories? I’ve submitted some of them only to be rejected. Apparently I write better novels than short stories. They are two very different art forms people! Some have suggested Wattpad, others have suggested just adding a tab and putting them on my blog.

I’m not even sure people would be interested in reading them, but at this point, I’m wondering what could it hurt? Could it hurt? Should I do it? What are your thoughts people? Do you write short stories? Do you post them or submit them? If so where! I want to know these things! I want to learn and expand and hone this awesome craft of the short story! Which I may have help in the Fall in my Creative Writing class, but that’s very far away.



The Trouble With Blueberries

The Trouble With Blueberries

By Natasha Raulerson

Thanks to Wiki Commons For The Image

For the record, I’m allergic to blueberries. Deathly allergic. Allergic enough that there’s an epi-pen in five different places in the apartment. My apartment – not the apartment of the one night stand I picked up at the bar. We used protection. I didn’t know they had flavored condoms. We were so caught up in the heat of the moment, tossing turning, tangling, licking, and well – you get the idea – that I didn’t pay attention when he grabbed the rubber package. He put it on, he tossed the wrapper. That was enough.

Not thirty seconds in, something was wrong. Burning, aching, my tongue swelling.

For the record, going to anaphylactic shock in the presence of a stranger is never fun. Especially when they’re lucky enough to have been healthy, have healthy people in their life, and have never before dealt with someone transforming into an elephant woman while naked in their bed. Screaming ensued. I could have sworn it was a ten year old girl that magically appeared in the room, and then I realized it was him. His high pitched, wailing screams pierced like tiny gnomes stabbing my ear drums with finely forged daggers.

It’s hard to stay calm when your heart is racing so hard against your breastplate it might crack the sternum. Lack of air makes the edges of the world go dark, and what you can see is fuzzy like an old 80’s cartoon – okay maybe a little better than that. The senses dull. The gnomes retreated, returning from whence they came before the darkness came down upon them.

For the record – instead of staring and freaking the fuck out, call 911. If you don’t know what else to do just get the phone, say the woman you brought home is transforming into a grotesque monster. Tell them the skin around her eyes has swollen up like water balloons filled with so much liquid they’re on the edge of bursting. Tell them her fingers are thick and fat and resemble sausages. The Italian kind, not kielbasa. It wasn’t appetizing despite the comparison.

His shock wore off about the time I was doing less breathing and more wheezing. Air becomes thicker than molasses in winter when trying to breathe through an esophagus the size of a pinhole. My lungs burned, angry that they weren’t getting what they needed. He called 911.


For the record – dying isn’t glamorous. Its darkness and nothingness, then confusion. No one is waiting with a set of directions telling you where to go and what to do. No one’s even there to tell you that the odds of dying from a blueberry flavored condom are ridiculously low. In fact, no one’s ever died from a blueberry flavored condom. You’re the first. I’m the first.


For the record – I’m dead. They just took my body out in a black bag. The moron is sitting on the bed in his boxers, playing the sympathy card with the hot paramedic. A police officer bags and tags the blueberry condom wrapper.

This was going to make the papers just because of how odd it was. The headline – “Death by Blueberry Condom.”


For the record – I hate blueberries.