Short Story #68: Banned

Prompt (courtesy of Tipsy Lit): Write about a controversial topic in any way/genre you choose [in honor of Banned Books Week]. The below flash story is a heretofore unwritten scene from my unpublished (unpublishable?) Christian Zombie manuscript, Revival. Enjoy! (Word count: 258)

* * * * * Jay Petty slouched against the counter of Emory’s Mercantile, called to Del Norris. “There goes another of ’em.”

“Shhhhhhhh!” Norris sputtered, spraying semi-liquefied Snickers bar over a pile of jeans. “We don’t need their attention.”

“Whaddya figger they are? Zom—”

“Nuts to the Z-word.”

Petty pried open the cash drawer, pocketed the twenties. “Oh, corpses’re wandering the streets, but nuts to the Z-word.”

A pile of tin cans toppled, followed by a cat’s yowl.

The handful of quarters Petty had fished out of the tray scattered on black-and-white tile floor. Norris coughed up the gob of candy he’d involuntarily swallowed.

“Damn that cat. Why’d you let him in?”

“Din’t. Come in on its own. So why’s the Z-word out?”

“Things don’t eat brains. Al Prescott’s dead grandpa grabbed ahold of Nan Akers. Snapped her neck like a Slim Jim. Dragged her off toward the water plant.”

Petty reconsidered the meatstick halfway to his mouth. “What are they, then?”

“Some sort of hive-mind walking-dead conglomerate.”

“Oh, that’s good. Look out, here come members...associates, maybe...of the hive-mind walking-dead conglomerate. You’d be dead before you got out the word hive. Zombies is efficienter.”

“It’s wrong though. Zom—” A withered hand grabbed Norris’ neck, squeezed, sent chocolate streaming down his chin as his vertebrae snapped.

Another hand snapped Petty’s neck, sending the word—bees off to no one in particular.

The cat picked up the discarded meatstick, followed the corpses—two ambulatory, two not—out the back door of the shop.

–30–

Tipsy Lit

Today's entry is a non-fiction piece, so no prompt. (Word count: 253)

* * * * * I’m joining a writers’ community known as Tipsy Lit. TL has an irreverent attitude when it comes to reading and writing and a liberated spirit when it comes to, well, spirits. Because I teach high school students and I don’t want them making unwise decisions with alcohol before age 21, I herewith present five ways you can enjoy all the wonders of drinking without consuming a drop of booze.

Lowered Inhibitions:
At the party drink chocolate milk. It’s fun and you don’t really care what anybody thinks, do you? See, lowered inhibitions already. Be a slightly more creative and imaginative version of yourself.

Tipsy:
Drink chocolate milk. A lot. Go on, binge. Then spin around for two minutes. Bloated, dizzy, possibly gassy depending on your lactose tolerance. Fun, ain’t it?

Puking Drunk:
Same as Tipsy, but stop spinning a minute in to swallow a spoonful of ipecac. Then keep spinning for as long as it takes. Mind the furniture and knick-knacks. Isn’t drinking great?

Blackout Drunk:
Tipsy, but at the top of a flight of stairs. If you wake up at the bottom of the stairs with no memory of how you got there, you’ve done it right!

Intervention Time:
Puking Drunk at the top of a flight of stairs. Try this at grandma’s house on Thanksgiving for a holiday memory no one will ever forget.

Please bear in mind that the final four options are provided satirically. No one needs to vomit or fall down the stairs to have a fun time.

–30–

Short Story #67: The Adventure of the Dying Detective

Will Sherlock Holmes week continue into the weekend? Stay tuned.

Prompt: Write a short story that could have the title: "The Adventure of the Dying Detective." (Word count: 258)

* * * * * Jack Baines didn’t have to pull his hand away from his gut to know he was bleeding. Didn’t have to see to know his blood flowed almost as freely as the champagne at the Governor’s Ball. He’d be dead soon, had to incriminate his killer while he could.

The Governor’s Ball, an annual event to which Baines was annually not invited. Not that he minded; he wasn’t political. Nevertheless, when Abner Fretwell III asked him to shadow his wife at the shindig, he gladly broke out his tuxedo and infiltrated the waitstaff.

Everything had gone well until some old bird with a shellfish allergy sampled the lobster pâté. As the codger’s face inflated like a swollen hot-water bottle, Dolores Rosemund-Fretwell took advantage of the distraction to step out onto the veranda. A moment later Gordon Bessemer, the governor’s press secretary, followed.

Baines waited ten minutes to let their delicto get well in flagrante, then headed out himself. He found them going at it like weasels near the rose garden, started shooting photographs with his cufflink camera, heard Mrs. Fretwell gasp, “That’s the detective my husband hired. My detective pointed him out to me earlier today,” then found himself stumbling away, gutshot.

The party was too far away. He couldn’t write Bessemer shot me in his blood on the lawn. Writing a note on paper was possible, but risky: Bessemer could easily search him, destroy the message.

In the end, he swallowed his cufflinks. He didn’t know if an autopsy’d be performed, but it was worth a try.

–30–

Short Story #66: A Case of Identity

Not sure if Sherlock Holmes week will go to Sunday (a full seven days), Saturday (end of this week), or Friday (end of work week). At any rate, it's only Thursday, so enjoy!

Prompt: Write a short story that could have the title "A Case of Identity." (Word Count: 257)

* * * * * The man in the black suit offered Rhonda Beach his card: Dr. Willoughby Velid, Miracle Worker. Rhonda laughed. “Well, who can’t use a miracle,” she said, but handed it back.

“I assure you, it’s not a novelty card.” He gestured to the valise at his feet. “I really do work miracles.”

Rhonda’s “Really?” came out more sarcastic than inquisitive.

Velid mentioned the name of a certain actress (you’d know her). “When we met, she was one of thousands of indistinguishable high school freshmen.”

“And look where she is now.”

“True. But would you like to know her fate without that rise to fame?” Anticipating her “Sure,” he unfastened case’s buckles and belts. He opened it.

Rhonda leaned forward, peering into the darkness of the bag. She wondered how much inky blackness the bag contained. Certainly more than its two-feet-by-one-foot-by-nine-inches suggested.

“Look closely.” A dim light appeared, far away. It was hard to judge its size, but it grew. The larger it became, the closer Rhonda leaned. When it filled the valise, Rhonda fell into it.

Velid closed the bag, hummed something by the Rolling Stones, and reopened it. The glow still filled the case, but a black spot began growing in its center. When the darkness extinguished the light, Rhonda Beach re-emerged beside Velid. At least it appeared to be her.

He whispered in her ear. She laughed, put her index finger to her lips, then his. With a shush, she walked away and didn’t look back.

–30–

Short Story #65: The Valley of Fear

It's hump day of Sherlock Holmes week and all that that implies.

Prompt: Write a short story that could have the title "The Valley of Fear." (Word count: 258)

* * * * * “Sergeant, lead the advance,” General Matthews directed.

The sergeant picked up his bugle, lowered it. “Gentlemen.” His voice barely a whisper, yet his words were heard by the entire company. “It’s time.” He rubbed the corners of his mouth. “And it’s been my honor.”

One hundred twenty-seven men walked into the fog-shrouded Valley of Sommerstadt. None expected to walk out the other side. The five bodies that did walk into the village proper three days later were not quite human anymore.

“Can you see anything?” The voice carried through the fog. Detached from any soldier, it spoke the minds of all. No reply was necessary or forthcoming.

Things were moving, certainly, but what, no one could tell. Large, hulking forms not native to central Germany; at least, not native for eons.

“Snake crawled across my boot.” The words echoed through the company in too many voices. None of the speakers or listeners believed it was a snake. To think otherwise, however, was madness.

The first screams were mercifully brief. The prolonged sounds of cruel chewing, on the other hand....

“Courage, men.” There was no mistaking Sergeant Prescott’s voice. No disobeying, either. The march continued.

One man brought out his tin whistle, began playing “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” Another joined him on snare drum. Suddenly every man imagined himself the third marcher in Willard’s Spirit of ’76, lacking a drum but marching proudly.

The things in the fog made short shrift of this impudence.

But, still, the men marched.

–30–

Short Story #64: Silver Blaze

Sherlock Holmes Week continues!

Prompt: Write a short story that could have the title "Silver Blaze." (Word Count: 256)

* * * * * “I’m cold. Let’s go in the tent,” Kris said, pulling on the pocket of Dean’s coat.

“Five more minutes.”

“Can’t we at least light a fire?”

They were at the far end of the tidal lake in Longpike Cove. Two hundred yards of black seawater lay between them and the hummock that separated the lake from all but the highest of tides. A thin marine layer kept stars from reflecting back in the flat clear water.

Trying to maximize her warmth, he wrapped his arms around her. “If my grandfather’s journal was right, in four and a half minutes you’ll have all the fire you want.”

So they sat, side by side, staring out at the horizon.

Two hundred-fifty seconds later, a white speck appeared in the distance. It could have been a mile. It could have been a quarter million. The white speck grew into the top of the moon.

Kris and Dean stared straight ahead, not daring to blink.

The moon rose above the hummock and its reflection filled the lake. As it continued rising, the illumination grew brighter and fiercer until the lake burned silver.

Squinting into the blaze, Dean said, “Once every twenty years the moon aligns perfectly with the mouth of the cove. The rest of the time it’s just a saucer’s worth of light.”

“It’s beautiful,” Kris said, wrapping her arms tightly around him.

Dean turned, rapt by the reflected conflagration in her eyes. “You’re beautiful. That’s just moonlight on a brackish lake.”

–30–

Short Story #63: The Adventure of the Cardboard Box

It's Sherlock Holmes Week (because I say it is), so this week's stories will share titles with ACD Holmes stories.

Prompt: Write a short story that could have the title: The Adventure of the Cardboard Box. (Word Count: 259)

* * * * * It was seven o’clock when Marcy arrived home and the baby was crying.

“Babe, is everything OK with Linda?” she called out. Her husband, Ed, didn’t answer.

Marcy slung her coat over the couch and dropped her purse. Stepping out of her heels, she walked into the kitchen. The table was set for a candlelit dinner, except the candles weren’t lit and the bottle of Cabernet had toppled over and poured out onto the floor.

Linda’s cry ratcheted up a few decibels.

Marcy turned toward the baby’s room—calling out “Ed, honey?”—when she saw the box on the counter. It was the standard pink bakery box, only something had stained a bottom corner of the cardboard an angry red. On the dish drainer beside the box was an 8-inch chef’s knife.

The baby’s cry was urgent, and it tugged at Marcy’s heart, but she was certain she couldn’t face Linda without first knowing what was in the box. She took a step toward it, the tile cool on her bare feet. Another step. Another. She took a deep breath as she reached out for the box, the smell of the wine—spicy, she thought, with an undertone of...what?—filled her nostrils.

She touched the box. The phone rang. The baby wailed. Inside the box something long, pale, oozing red at one end. She grabbed the phone, thinking babysarmbabyslegbabysarmbabysleg before she blinked away tears and saw the raspberry swiss roll cake for what it was.

Ed: “Marse, can you come back here? Linda’s cut another tooth and needs her mama.”

–30–

Short Story #62: Texture

Prompt from The Write-Brain Workbook: Write a short story including the phrase "I hate the texture of". (Word count: 258)

* * * * * “It’s been too many years, Amanda. I’ve missed having you for tea.”

Too many years? It’s barely been one. And tea—where I do I start?

“Thank you, Aunt Catherine. How is Uncle Cliff?”

I’m too busy calculating how long until Parker’s arrival to listen to her, but I nod attentively. Fifteen minutes and I can beg off, hopefully before tea is served.

“And your daughter, Dorcas?”

“Weren’t you listening, dear? I said Dorcas went off fishing with your uncle. They’ll be gone till half seven.”

Drat! Caught out. “Oh, Dorcas. I thought you said Doris.”

“Doris who? I don’t know any Doris. I’m sure Clifford doesn’t either.”

Stall, stall, stall. “And, you, Aunt Catherine. You’ve been well?”

“Oh, look! Janie has tea laid out in the folly. Come along.”

Oh, well. Maybe it will just be biscuits....

No such luck. “Oh, you must try the sandwiches, they’re Janie’s speciality.”

She pronounces it speh-cee-AL-i-tee. Five syllables instead of the necessary three. But that’s not why I hate the concoction of cream cheese, pistachios, pickles, and lime zest. And it’s not the flavor, either, which is surprisingly tolerable. I hate the texture of cream cheese. Gritting it up with nut and pickle doesn’t change its underlying smooth thickness.

“Mmm...so good,” I lie. My cellphone rings. My Parker. My savior.

“Sorry, darling,” he says. “Hung up in town for an hour. Give Aunt Kate my love.”

“But—”

“I owe you one.” Click.

You owe me so many.

–30–

Short Story #61: Shark!

Prompt: Write a short story about a shark. (Word count: 259)

* * * * * Greg wasn’t annoyed that sharks had learned to speak, but that they had a Jamaican accent. And really, it wasn’t that so much as somehow they learned the word thing as ganja and vice-versa.

“Ay, man, hand me that ganja,” was something S’tevo said to him several times daily. Cops weren’t supposed to say that to each other.

“How’d it go?” Greg asked, picking his partner up in front of the courthouse.

S’tevo shrugged his neck; his hydroxinator collar rose and fell. “The usual. Fool lawyer got me say ganja tree time.”

“Perp walked?”

“Nah, trap by di evidence against him. Judge S’lavaston was not fooled by lawyer tricks.”

What the sharks lacked in vocabulary skills, they made up for in jurisprudence. The Great Mutation of 2019 was a boon for the side of law and order.

“Well, congrats on getting another dirty dog off the street. Lunch is on me.”

They stopped at a deli near Preston Park. Greg munched falafel; S’tevo, hovering vertically, flipped mice into the air, snatched them mid-descent.

“Want di last one?” S’tevo asked.

“Sorry, not my thing.”

S’tevo shot him a surprised look, then realized what he’d meant. “Not your ganja. No worries. More for me.”

Greg gestured at the corner of S’tevo’s mouth. “Got a little tail there.” S’tevo slurped it down.

As they got back in the cruiser, the radio squawked: “All units, robbery on Fifth. Witnesses say it’s Pomeranians. Be advised, subjects are armed and possibly rabid.”

They rolled.

–30–

Short Story #60: Limited Engagement

Write a short story that could have the title "The Limited Engagement." (Word count: 259)

“Sir, would you put your cellphone away, please?”

Carl looked at the usher. The symphony actually had ushers. Who knew? “What? No, I’m not recording.” He showed the screen to the usher: symfny dznt suk who nu. “I’m texting a friend how good this is.”

The usher frowned. “It’s not appropriate to text during the performance.”

Carl looked around. A few people were scowling his way, but most were focused on the musicians. Several had their eyes closed, gently nodding their heads in time to the music. One elderly lady was obviously asleep. “I’m not disturbing anyone.”

The usher persisted. “It’s not appropriate.”

“Fine, I’ll go to the lobby.”

“The foyer. And it’s not appropriate to leave during the performance.”

Carl put his phone away. The usher stalked back up the aisle.

On the stage a woman was straddling a big violin. She sounded alright, Carl supposed, if you were into that kind of thing.

He looked at his program. “One night only: Darleigh Karaminsky, Cellist.” He tried to read the awards and citations she’d received, but between the minuscule typeface and low light in the concert hall, he couldn’t make them out. He fished his phone out of his pocket in order to shine its light on the page, but first looked over his shoulder. The usher stood in the semi-darkness beside the exit door. Carl was pretty sure the usher was staring at him.

He put his phone away, slumped in his seat, and waited for the intermission.

–30–

Short Story #59: Ice Cream!

Prompt: Write a short story involving ice cream. (Word Count: 258)

* * * * * “Auuggghhhh!” Earl clutched his forehead.

“Ice cream headache?” Mindy asked. Earl nodded in silent agony.

“Remember on Saturday Night Live where the guy predicted annoyances in people’s lives, like ice cream headaches? Who was that?”

Pain receding, Earl said, “Christopher Walken.”

“Yeah, that was so random.”

Earl wanted to say it wasn’t random, that Walken had starred in The Dead Zone where he could foretell disasters, that the SNL skit had been a parody of the Stephen King novel/movie. He knew Mindy’s reaction, though, would be to repeat, “yeah, so random,” as if he hadn’t said anything.

He didn’t have to be psychic to know that. Whenever someone around Mindy got an ice cream headache—or a Slurpee brain freeze—she brought up the skit. Better to return to his Butter Brickle than succumb to repeated history.

Earl and Mindy walked through Haskell Park in silence. Earl suspected Mindy knew he had a ring box in his pocket, had had it there for a week. Unfortunately, every time he got the nerve to propose, one of her “quirks” would emerge, giving him cold feet. If it wasn’t being incapable of assimilating new information into her worldview, it was saying irregardless or pasketti, or braying like a donkey when she laughed too hard. He knew he had flaws; maybe they kept her from proposing to him.

He licked his ice cream cone, almost knocked the scoop loose, woofed it into his mouth, felt the pressure building in the center of his forehead. “Auuuuuuughhhhhhhh!”

–30–

Short Story #58: STAAR EOC

Texas has just released last year's state exams; the ninth graders had the following as their short story prompt: Write a story about taking care of something or someone (the prompt was accompanied with a black and white picture of a young boy with his arm around a calf's neck). The prompt was followed with: Be sure that your story is focused and complete and that it has an interesting plot and engaging characters. (Using the image as the source of the story is not required, and for my students, discouraged.) We'll see how I do. (Word Count: 257)

* * * * * “Hsssst!” Sidney Tuna nodded Vinnie the Mook over. “Got a job for ya, Vin.”

Despite his nickname, Vin was a good guy. Not bright, but usually reliable. When plausible deniability was key, Vinnie the Mook was your go-to guy.

“You know Two-Bills Tommy?” Sid asked. Vin did. “Need ya to take care of him. You know what I mean by ‘take care of,’ doncha?”

“Sure, sure. Taaaake caaaare offffffff.” Spittle sprayed from Vin’s lips as he over-pronounced the final word.

“He’s up at his place in Oyster Bay. Do the job tonight. I’ll drop by ten-fifteen.”

“Sure, sure, Sid. Thanks.”

Vin stopped at a Wal-Mart on his way out to Long Island. The items in his cart included an extension cord, duct tape, corkscrew, butane lighter, nine-inch knife. On impulse, he picked up a spatula, too. He laughed, setting the bags in the footwell of his Impala. Ol’ Two-Bills wouldn’t see this coming.

When Sid arrived at a quarter-after-ten, he was surprised to hear gunfire coming from the back of Two-Bills’ house. He was more surprised when he saw the Mook and Tommy sitting on the deck eating omelets, drinking champagne, and watching Cagney in White Heat on the TV that had been carted outdoors.

“Hsssst!” He called Vin into the house. “I told you to take care of him.”

“I did. Took care of him real good. He’d never seen the movie before.”

The six gunshots from Sid’s pistol blended perfectly with the film’s soundtrack.

–30–

Short Story #57: McSweeney!

Prompt (Courtesy McSweeney's Internet Tendency; caution: contains dangerous words): Write a story that ends with the following sentence: Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon. (Word count: 259)

* * * * * Crossing the desert on a horse with no name sounds fine in song, but long before she reached the coast, Debra Witt understood differently. Running third in a field of eight after crossing the Strait into Morocco, she’d grabbed the reins of the first animal she saw, paid its owner, headed for Tunis.

“Shoulda grabbed a camel,” she told the horse after being passed twice by competitors. In response, the horse, a proud-looking black stallion, slowed down.

Slowness of pace wasn’t her greatest worry, not after she saw the bugs eating the horseflesh where the saddle rubbed the skin raw. Coming to a dead stop—equal parts stop and dead—before reaching Tunis, lay heaviest on Debra’s mind. She purchased another saddle blanket at a bedouin camp to minimize the wear and tear to the horse.

Passing through Constantine, the horse had begun to stagger and smell. Rules of the Phileas Fogg 5000, the annual race around the Mediterranean Sea, prohibited competitors from changing horses midstream, or mid-desert: you were stuck with your choice of conveyance until the next leg of the race.

Five miles outside of Tunis she fell into seventh place. The horse fell for the first time. Debra got it to its feet; they staggered on.

Just inside the city limits she saw her salvation and lay down to catch her breath. Four hours later she awakened to cheers for the last-place racer’s approach. Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.

–30–

Short Story #56: Aliens!

Prompt: Write a short story about extraterrestrial life/aliens. (Word count: 259)

* * * * * The house shook like a freight train was rumbling through the backyard.

“What the—” Brian grabbed his soda from the TV tray as it toppled, sending Cheetos across the living room. In the kitchen, something shattered.

Denise paused the TiVo; Rod Serling halted mid-intro. “Earthquake?”

“Don’t think so.”

The lights went out.

“So much for hour 18 of the Twilight Zone marathon.” Denise didn’t sound overly disappointed.

Brian shuffled across the room, careful not to crush Cheetos into the carpet. Retrieving his keys from the hook, he said, “But that was ‘Maple Street.’ One of the best.” He shined his keychain light below his chin, campfire/Bela Lugosi-style. “Monsters were due on Maple Street.”

“Quit it. Check the backyard.”

Brian slipped his shoes on before entering the kitchen. “Hey, that serving tray your folks gave us, the one shaped like Oahu. We don’t need to send a thank-you anymore.”

A foot-wide ditch ran across the backyard, fence to fence. The fences themselves were fine, but Brian could see the ditch cut into the next yards.

“What was the episode about?”

Brian walked onto the lawn. Water bubbled into the bottom of the ditch. He hoped it was water. “Aliens experimented on a neighborhood. Turned the power out, blocked radio transmissions. Eventually, the humans got paranoid, turned against each other.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

Denise, who’d been unenthusiastic throughout the marathon did sound fascinated.

Brian turned the flashlight on her face? “Who are you? What’ve you done with my wife?”

–30–

Short Story #55: Wendigo

Prompt: Write a short story that could have the title "The Wendigo." (Word count: 259)

* * * * * “Quick, block the door.” The First Tribes elder directed Mary Prestwick.

“Can’t you...help?” she asked, shoving the couch across the cabin.

The elder shrugged. “I’m not supposed to be here. Got caught in the wake of the demon.”

“The wen-wen-wen—”

“Wendigo. I think there’s refrigerator you can use for the back door.”

Mary moved to the rear. She cursed her husband, Mark, for bringing them to Middle-of-Nowhere, Manitoba, for reciting the incantation they’d found. Started cursing, realized he was cursed plenty, already. She positioned fridge just as the doorknob began rattling.

“Now?”

“We wait.”

“For?”

“Morning.” The elder leaned against the fireplace. “If the spirit hasn’t tasted human blood it will depart. Regardless, I’ll fade.”

They sat in near-darkness; only the gibbous moon illuminated the cabin. Occasionally, a forest creature cried in anguish. The elder explained that the Wendigo was unlikely to enter the cabin. Her husband’s spirit could fight off some of the demon’s cannibalistic tendencies. If it encountered a human outside, though....

“Can I light a fire?”

“The light will drive the demon inside. You’d have to kill your husband.”

Around 4:00 A.M., Mary thought she heard a semi-truck’s airhorn. The elder shrugged, noncommittally.

At 7:00 A.M. the elder began fading. “When he knocks...” was all he said before disappearing.

An hour later, Mark shouted, “Mary, open up.” His voice was raw.

“Are you alright?” she called.

Mark said “Mary” once. Then rattled the door. And rattled it. And rattled it.

–30–

Short Story #54: Sunglasses!

Prompt: Write a short story featuring sunglasses. (Word count: 259)

* * * * * “Yo, dude. Watch it.” The surfer dodged away from the man wearing mirrored shades and a pinstripe suit.

Brian DeHavalind, whipped off his sunglasses. “No. You watch it.” Music swelled, the logo for Action 6@6 appeared in the corner as DeHavalind winked at the camera.

“So, you like, right?” Peter “Pepe” Gardner clapped enthusiastically yet quietly.

DeHavalind tapped a pencil against his upper lip. “I like it, but does it say ‘sports’ to me? Maybe I should carry a football.”

“You wanns a footsball?” Gardner grew up in Boise, but found a straightforward persona got him nowhere in the PR business. Once he combined Agador from The Birdcage with Edna Mode from The Incredibles into “Pepe,” got a tan, and frosted his hair, his client roster tripled.

“Yeah, like I’m running along, carrying a football.”

“But, whys? Whys are yous runnings, carryings the footsball?”

“Because I’m the sportscaster.”

“Do yous carrys the footsball when you are on camera castings the sports?”

“No, but—”

“So no, no footsballs.”

DeHavalind grabbed a pen, brought the uncapped tip to his lip, remembered what happened last time, and switched to a pencil. “Well, maybe a tooth twinkle?”

“Yes, we cans. Costs extras, but we cans do it.” Gardner wrote “tooth twinkle” and a dollar amount on a contract addendum, got DeHavalind to intial. “Very good, we’ll be making the change, fabulous, and airings start on Satursday.”

DeHavalind smiled and imagined all his teeth were twinkling.

–30–

Short Story #53: Dry Cleaner!

Prompt: Write a short story set in a dry cleaning establishment. (Word count: 256)

* * * * * “Semi-Annual Clean-Out,” the flyer read. “All clothing dry-cleaned.”

“When?” Dave asked.

Ellen turned the flyer over. “Saturday. It’s a date?”

“Sure.”

Bryman’s Dry Cleanery was the oldest in Parkton, Texas. Since the flyer arrived, neighbor after neighbor declared their unclaimed-goods sales legendary.

“Seriously,” Francine from two-doors-down said. “Paul Bunyan, Headless Horseman, and Bryman’s. Except, maybe the Paul Bunyan is fake.”

“And the Horseman?” Dave asked.

Francine ignored him. “Seriously, make sure you camp overnight. Otherwise you’ll be left with keychains and odd socks.”

Friday night found them roasting marshmallows over a can of Sterno outside their tent. Four parties of two-to-four people were ahead of them. Francine was among the third group.

“We’re really doing this?” Dave asked.

“Thought you wanted to.”

“I do. It’s just are we becoming....” He gestured up the line.

“Francines?” Ellen whispered.

“Seriously.” He placed his marshmallow and a wedge of chocolate between graham cracker halves.

Ellen shook her head. “We moved here. We should participate in community events.”

“But maintain ironic detachment?”

“Well, we could stand to be less judgey.”

“S’mores?” Francine called down. “You guys are so clever. I was just saying to Ray, ‘That Dave and Ellen, bless their hearts, they’re so clever. And here you are having a real camp-out.’”

Dave and Ellen waved back.

“‘Bless your heart,’ that’s code for....” Dave began.

“Uh-huh,” Ellen said.

“I am so not being ‘less judgey.’”

–30–

Short Story #52: Mmm...Limes

Prompt: Write a short story featuring the line "Mmm...limes." (Word count: 258)

* * * * * “Grandma, no. Squeezing grapes isn’t how you test freshness.”

“No, sweetie?”

Tuesdays, Daphne accompanied her Grandma Rose to Kroger to buy fresh produce. Initially, the trips had been a welcome chance for Daphne and Rose to bond: due to family quarrels she’d only seen her twice before her thirty-third birthday. Lately, though, her enthusiasm was flagging.

Daphne wiped grape juice and pulp gobbets from her sleeve for the third straight week. “Pretty sure. Come try a peach. Gently, though.”

“Did you know I was the Peach Queen at the State Fair?” Rose asked.

“You may have mentioned it.” Daphne skipped saying “every week during peach season.”

“They said I had the best peaches in 56 counties.”

Daphne turned away as her grandmother continued, “Firm, yet tender.” For some reason she couldn’t face her when she said it week after week.

“Won’t turn heads with these, though.”

Daphne glanced back, hoping Rose was talking about fruit. Relieved, she saw her scowling as she dropped two peaches in the bin.

A sparkle hit Rose’s eyes and she nearly scampered across the aisle. “Mmm...limes. I haven’t had a gin rickey, since....” Her voice trailed off, lost in endless yesterdays.

“I didn’t know you drank.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Grandpa Dave and I loved our gin rickeys. Then he passed....”

She’d never met Rose’s late husband. “Would you like one when we’re done? You can tell me all about him.”

Maybe Tuesday shopping trips wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

–30–

Back From Hiatusport

I've been working on an outside short story the past couple weeks, but that's done now. Expect another 250-word short story soon (perhaps even this evening). Meantime, a couple things that I found handy while writing the other story.

If you would like to find moon phase information, calendar-12.com is very handy. (I needed the darkest night of October, which corresponds to the new moon.)

If you're writing a scary story, these are some good words to use:

• abnormal
• anxious
• clandestine
• disgust
• enthralled
• fever
• fiendish
• ghastly
• grotesque
• haunt
• hellish
• indescribable
• loathsome
• monstrosity
• mottled
• pallid
• perverse
• repulsive
• shiver
• slimy
• sinister
• spectral
• tension
• unmentionable
• unutterable
• utterly

Short Story #51: Al Capone's Clock

Brainstormer prompt: Daring Enterprise / Al Capone's / Clock (Word count: 259)

* * * * * Rita stared at Ben Fields, mentally daring him to look her way. He didn’t. Coward.

“The next item on the block is a grandfather clock previously owned by Al Capone. Rumor states there’s a secret compartment in the clock. This affidavit attests that the current owner hasn’t found one. Please bid on the clock, not the rumor. Bidding starts at $12,500.”

Rita raised her paddle.

“I have twelve-five. Do I have thirtee—” Fields nodded.

“Thirteen, do I have fourteen?”

A man beside Rita raised his paddle, but Rita interrupted: “Sixteen.”

“I’ve sixteen, do I—” Fields said “Twenty.”

“I’m out,” Rita’s neighbor said.

Rita was authorized to bid twenty-five. She did.

Allegedly, Capone had hidden a map to some sort of cache. Theories abounded regarding its contents—some said guns, others moonshine, but the most prevalent theory held it was a cash cache. Rita disliked cutesy homophones; she subscribed to the moonshine theory.

“I have twenty-five. Twenty-six, anyone?”

Fields scowled at Rita. She smiled back victoriously. Fields raised his paddle.

Rita calculated her savings and credit limit: six grand. She texted her client; they OK’d up to a 20% share. She debated raising five again or something lower, allowing her to rebid if Fields countered. If she went with five, however, and Fields raised, she’d be out.

“Twenty-six once. Twenty-six twi—”

“Thirty-two,” Rita said to audience gasps.

Fields dropped his paddle.

As the auctioneer wrapped up, Rita hoped the rumor was true. Moreso, that her bias against cutesy-ness wouldn’t jinx things.

–30–

Short Story #50: Diamonds!

Prompt: Write a short story about diamonds. (Word Count: 259)

* * * * * Max was halfway in the panel van and said, “Let’s go.” At the nearest intersection, two police cars zipped by, heading toward the jewelry store Max had left.

“Close one, boss,” Pete said.

“Yeah, but it was worth it.” From inside his jacket, he produced a pear-shaped diamond as wide and thick as his thumb.

Pete whistled.

“Slippery, though,” Max said. “Dropped it in the store. Took a minute to find it in the broken gla—whoops!” Max fished around on the floor with his hands. “Dropped it again.”

Pete glanced to see what Max was doing, realized he was veering into oncoming traffic. He swerved back over the line as a Buick laid on the horn.

Max twisted off the seat, into the passenger footwell, legs sprawling across the van. He saw the diamond by the central console. He grabbed for it, but it skittered away.

“Careful!” Pete shouted as Max tried to hook the diamond with his feet. He had himself half onto his seat, but his right foot bumped Pete’s on the accelerator. Pete hit the brake and they fishtailed, slammed into a curbside tree.

Max flew through the windshield, glass shredding his clothes, scattering diamonds everywhere. Pete pulled himself off the steering wheel, nose bloody. He picked up the wayward diamond as a motorcycle policeman arrived.

“Well,” the policeman said, “what have we here?”

Pete looked from diamond to cop. “Whoops.”

–30–

Short Story #49: Tank Photo

Prompt (based on an in-class assignment): Write a short story inspired by the above photo. (Word count: 251)

* * * * * Although several of the young men beside him hurled insults at the men driving the invading tanks, Pyr stood silent. He couldn’t keep the sneer of contempt from his lips, but he didn’t open them to shout curses. He just watched.

And waited.

Earlier that day, his brother Marku had brought word from the front that the line had fallen. “Tanks, driving over everyone,” he had said. He told Pyr of the general in the black beret, the one called Wulvtak. “His tank, he stops it on top the soldiers. Half-under, Kelm and Varsht, screaming for death, and this Wulvtak stops, lights a cigar, and watches the rest of the tanks proceed to the city. Soon Varsht stops screaming. Wulvtak shoots Kelm and waves the tank forward.”

Pyr had wept then. Wept for his cousins. Wept for his brother having to witness their deaths. Wept for the city. He would not weep for Wulvtak.

And, suddenly, there he was, standing on the back of the tank. Rifle, possibly with Kelm’s blood still on the barrel, held defiantly at his waist.

The tank approached. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. The tank was past.

Pyr leapt on the back of the tank, moved to push the general beneath the tread. “Death to Wolfkat!” he screamed. The general spun around, laughing.

“Cut!” the director yelled. “It’s Wulvtak, kid. And Joe, if you don’t laugh we can loop it in later, huh? Reset the tank column. Let’s do it again.”

–30–

Short Story #48: Creature Feature

Prompt: Write a short story of the "creature feature" variety. (Word Count: 259)

* * * * * How the poodles mutated into radioactive, eight-foot-tall, two-headed monsters has been recorded elsewhere. No need to rehash it. What matters is we discovered how to kill them.

My brother Larry deserves the credit. Rest in Peace.

We were trapped in this Kroger this morning. The power was out, but we pried the doors open and scrambled inside. Two of the beasts were chasing us and one jammed its muzzle in before we shut the doors. By the time we got back to the loading dock, the second dog was waiting. Inside the store, we heard the oddly harmonious whine the dogs make.

We’ve heard the stories on how to kill these monsters; none of them work. Bullets, blades, can’t penetrate their hides. Drug-laced steaks put one head to sleep. Electroshock makes them twitchy, but still lethal.

Someone had left a can of rubbing alcohol on a shelf near the rubber dog toys. Larry filled a squeaky hedgehog, then tossed it to Fifizilla. The left head eagerly chewed it to confetti. When the dog approached, Larry flicked his Bic. The head caught fire (in its mouth; its coat was, of course, fireproof). The dog collapsed a moment later, but not before the right head shook Larry like a rag.

I got a tiki-torch from the summer clearance section and used it like a spear to ignite the dog at the loading dock.

I’ve taken all the chew toys from this store, but the Albertson’s on Fifth probably has some. Bakertown has a Petco. I’m headed there next.

Spread the word.

–30–

Short Story #47: Falling

Prompt: Write a short story about falling. (Word count: 259)

* * * * * “Next in today’s staff development,” announced Babs, the ropes-course coordinator, “is the trust fall.” With a couple exceptions, the group from Concertini Inc. groaned. “Make two lines in front of the low platform.”

Dave Concertini, president of the software company, was among the groaners. Why, he wondered, had he agreed to this? Admittedly, his employees needed to work together better, but this? And, worse, always being the guinea pig.

“Dave,” Babs called, “come start us out.”

He managed a half-smile as he moved through hoots and catcalls to the block of wood two feet square and a foot high. A few employees cheered you can do it’s, but they were the exceptions.

“Alright, please turn around.” Dave did. As Babs instructed how to form a protective net, Dave imagined dropping a cantaloupe from seven feet. How far would the brains...er, pulp...spatter?

Who was toward the front of the line, he wondered. He remembered Jim from accounting and Raye, the office manager. Neither were as physically imposing as the guys from shipping. They weren’t bodybuilders, but they discussing how much they could lift. Did they hold a grudge about his recent equipment denial?

“OK, everyone: quiet.” It sounded like Babs was moving away. Had everyone scattered? Dave wanted to check, but knew that would show lack of trust. Which, of course, he lacked. Still.... “When you’re ready, hold your arms to your sides, and fall straight back.”

Trying not to think of Gallagher or fruit salad, Dave closed his eyes and fell.

–30–

Short Story #46: Fire!

Prompt: Write a story about fire. (Word count: 256)

* * * * * “Look at the flame,” Vanessa whispered. “Watch it sway.”

Three men sat around the table with a central candle. Vynessa whispered behind them. Though each man wore a hooded cloak, their eyes plainly reflected the fire.

“Look at the flame. Everything else disappears: the room, table, my voice, yourselves.” She paused, then—knowing although they weren’t aware of her voice, they internalized every word—continued: “A time of great burning comes upon us. Malchor, Lord of the Inferno, will arise and move across the face of the earth.”

Vynessa let the image play itself out inside the men’s minds. What they saw exactly, she didn't know, only that for each it ended with their birthplaces reduced to ember and ash.

“Malchor must be stopped. You must stop him.”

A low hum filled the room. At first Vanessa thought the men made the noise, an odd harmonic of their psychic trance, but when she stepped to the edge of the room the sound didn’t fade.

The candle flame, which had swayed gently on the wick, began to twitch and spark. It grew from half an inch in length to two, three, four inches long. The reflection in the men’s eyes grew; for a moment they resembled cat’s eyes with a gibbous moon glow, then their eye sockets blazed fire itself.

As one, the men rose. The hum lowered in pitch even as it increased in volume.

“Witch,” the trio said, “it is you who must be stopped. Reign, Malchor.”

And with that, the men were upon her.

–30–

Short Story #45: Beach

Prompt: Write a short story set on a beach. (Word Count: 257)

* * * * * “Tide’s still coming in,” Daryl said. He was stating the obvious, as he would have done if he’d said “Tide’s still orange,” instead.

The three teens huddled in the cave ten yards above the previous high-tide’s mark. A long strand of kelp, half-eaten with pockmarks, and a couple pieces of singed driftwood were the only barriers on the glassy sand separating Daryl, Beth, and Kristi from the deadly surf.

“Do you think Mitch is still out there or....” Kristi trailed off. Neither of the others wanted to think about forming a response.

A wave rushed up the sand, pushed a piece of driftwood a couple inches further up the beach. The wood smoldered as the wave receded.

“Try your cell again,” Kristi encouraged Beth.

Beth removed her phone from her bathing suit top, checked the display. “No signal.”

“It’s the rock,” Daryl said. He stepped toward the mouth of the cave and put his hand out for the phone.

Beth put it back in her top. “Uh-uh. Not after what happened to Mitch.”

Ordinarily, Daryl would’ve been game to hunt after the phone. Instead he put his hands in the pockets of his board shorts and watched the water. “Why’d we come here?” he asked.

Though no one said anything, no one wanted to speak ill of the dead, they all thought the same thing: Mitch didn’t believe the stories. They watched the kelp and driftwood smokingly swim a couple inches nearer.

“Tide’s still coming in,” Daryl said.

–30–

Short Story #44: Noir

Prompt: Write a short story that could be described as noir-y. (Word count: 259)

* * * * * They say fog creeps in on cat’s feet, but neglect the part about it laying heavy on your chest until you half suffocate. Thursday a week ago began like that. The city was fogbound with everything immobilized, incapable of rousing the gray calico that had settled into a sunbeam above, leaving us in interminable shadow.

I sat at my desk, feet propped on a drawer, nursing a single malt and grudge against the editor of the local rag’s crossword. Business was slow and I had nothing better to do than ponder 34-Down: a four-letter word meaning dark. Dark was a four-letter word meaning dark, but I had an idea that wasn’t it.

I was about to pencil it in anyway, for the sake of doing something, when the bulb above the door to the outer office blinked on. I slipped the half-finished drink and the newspaper in the drawer, squeezed a half-inch of Pepsodent on my tongue, and went to see who’d come in.

A pixie-cut brunette paced the worn rug in the anteroom. The carpet had seen a lot of action, and judging from the harried look in the dame’s eyes, she’d seen her share, too. Besides the troubled eyes, she seemed skittish as colt. The long legs slipped into lacquered black pumps didn’t dissuade from the image.

“Hello,” I said, calmly as possible.

She flinched at my greeting but didn’t bolt. I took this as an encouragement.

“Please, step into my office, miss,” I said, leading the way. When I turned back, she was gone.

–30–

Short Story #43: Toy

Prompt: (via Fast Fiction) Write a story about a toy. (Word count: 253)

* * * * * “Put that down!” Nancy Craig told her son. “We’re not buying it.”

David clutched the Batman action-figure box and began sniffling.

Nancy stopped pushing the shopping cart and counted to ten. “Don’t you dare make a scene. Your birthday’s next week, so no toys today.”

David’s breath hitched a couple times, but a tear trickled down his cheek.

One...two...three.... Nancy started counting again, but her mind was filled with the image of her yanking David off the floor by the back of his pants and hauling him that way out of the store. “If I have to drag you out of here, all your presents are going to Goodwill and your only gift will be a certificate from the Arbor Day Foundation for the purchase of a tree in your name.”

Holding out the Batman figure to her, David made his best puppy-dog eyes.

Nancy snatched it away. “So help me, I will then find that tree and burn it to the ground.” She inspected the packaging; Batman had olive-green armor with yellow stripes. “Jungle Batman. You already have this one.”

David stepped beside her and tapped the word above Jungle, his voice, barely a whisper. “Tactical Jungle Batman. See, special knife.”

“Really, another ten dollars and it just has a knife.”

“Tactical knife.”

Nancy tossed the box on a shelf. “I swear, David, if you weren’t seventeen, I’d put you up for adoption. Let’s go.”

David smiled. “Love you, too, Mom.”

–30–

Short Story #42: Zork!

Prompt: Write a short story based on a video/computer game. (Word count: 259)

My short story is based on the old Infocom text adventures, like Zork.

* * * * * Welcome to Tartarus Springs, vacation paradise.

>look

You are at the registration desk of the Grand Hotel. Karen stands behind the counter. To the east is the lounge. Through French windows to the west is the swimming pool. A hallway leading north is labeled “Elevators.” There are mints on the counter.

>Karen, hello

Karen says, “Hello. What name is your reservation under?”

>Dave Brooks

Karen says, “Welcome Dave Brooks. Enjoy your stay.” She places the key to Room 237 on the counter.

>take key and mints

OK, you have the key. Karen says, “Please leave some mints for other guests.”

>take mint

OK, you have a mint.

>north

You are standing outside the elevator. There is an up button here.

>push button

“Ding!” The elevator arrives. A woman in a bikini exits and walks south.

>look at woman

The woman turned right at the end of the hallway and is no longer visible.

>enter elevator

The elevator doors have shut.

>push button

“Ding!” The elevator arrives. It is empty.

>enter elevator

You are in the elevator. It smells of cocoa butter.

>push 2 button

The lights dim, but nothing happens.

>push 2 button

The lights go out.

>find emergency alarm

It is too dark to do that. You are likely to be eaten by a grue.

>bite down on mint causing sparks

These are not wintergreen Lifesavers. They are regular peppermints. You have been eaten by a grue. Your credit card will be charged for one night and elevator cleaning.

Play again? Y/N

–30–

Short Story #41: Coward!

Prompt: (via Fast Fiction) Write a story about a coward. (Word count: 257)

* * * * * “What’re you going to write about?” the muse asked.

He looked up from his laptop, squinted. “I’m thinking something about Noel Coward, but...”

She propped herself up on the back of his club chair. “What’s stopping you?”

“Well,” he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “I don’t really know anything about Noel Coward, and it doesn’t seem to be the intent of the prompt.”

“Research?”

“I don’t really want to know anything about Noel Coward. Nothing against him, but I’m tired and I’ve made it this far without knowing....”

The muse slid into the chair, lolling her head over the armrest nearest his desk. “Whine, whine, whine. So instead of researching, you’re going to write this conversation as your story for the night.” Speaking from this position it looked like she was talking out of her forehead. The writer cringed.

“Over halfway there. I must say, you’ve helped immensely. Couldn’t’ve done it without you.”

“Imagine what you could do if you really tried, instead of writing this nonsense.”

“Please sit up. I can’t have a conversation with you when it looks like you’re talking out of your forehead.”

“Poor you,” she said, sitting up. “You could have started anything: battlefield deserter, nervous almost-fiancee, frightened wheelman, Noel Coward—”

“Writer plagued by self-doubt.”

“Might as well just say ‘writer.’ But those who go beyond transcriptionists face their fears.”

He sighed. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Maybe. But I doubt it.”

–30–

Short Story #40: Invisible Man

Prompt: Take the opening line from any novel and use it as the starter for your story. (Word count: 258)

I picked "I am an invisible man," from Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man. Apologies. To Billy Joel, as well.

* * * * * “I am an invisible man,” Chance sang, doo-wop style. “Oh yes I-I-I am...an invisible man.”

“What’re you singing?” Dale asked, tracking Chance on infrared.

“‘Invisible Man,’ by Billy Joel.”

“Dude, it’s ‘Innocent Man.’ Hang on, scanner passing in 3, 2, 1.”

Chance froze, untrackable by visual scanners. “Well, I ain’t that. How much further?”

Dale double-checked the Dressen Museum’s blueprints. “End of the hall, right, right.”

No one had successfully robbed the Dressen before, but then, no one had had Chance Strike’s stealth suit.

“Hold up, Steve, scanner in the hall ahead.”

“OK. But call me Chance. Steve Strike sounds lame.”

“Uh-huh, that’s what’s lame. Get that diamond, and you can change your name to Peg-leg McGee and no one’ll call you lame again.”

The Dressen prided itself for its patrolling drones, hovering securitybots that randomly scanned the halls after-hours. So proud, they eliminated human vidscreen monitors. That left the cameras open for Dale to hack, switch to infrared, and be the only one watching the unfolding burglary.

“You’re there,” Dale said. “See the diamond?”

Embedded in forehead of the eight-foot-tall statue of Mishpatet, it was unmissable.

“Simple,” Chance said, climbing onto a sarcophagus prop.

“Scanner coming.”

Chance froze, embracing the goddess’s torso as the scanner roamed the room for three, four, five minutes. At last, it left.

“So, you two going steady, now?” Dale joked.

“Nah, I’m just using her for her assets.” And with that, the diamond vanished, too.

–30–

Short Story #39: Camping!

Prompt: Write a short story about camping. (Word Count: 258)

* * * * * “Mom, there’s no signal out here.” Janie held her phone beneath her mother’s nose, as if its lack of signal bars was more interesting than the ducks in the lake.

“Of course not, we’re campi—ooh, duckling!”

Janie stamped her foot. “How can I check Facebook?”

“You can’t, but you can put your face in a book. I brought Muir and Thoreau. And for fun I brought The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook.”

“If I wanted to read a book, I’d’ve asked to be born into this family, which—”

“Which you didn’t,” her mother finished. “Head down that trail and see if there’s signal there. Take your whistle in case a bear attacks or you’re overcome by the scenery.”

Janie tromped away and her mother roughed out the lake and ducks on her sketchpad. Five minutes later whistleblasts in sets of three came from the direction Janie disappeared. Mom dropped her sketchpad, checked the knife on her belt, took off running.

Janie crouched by the trail’s edge, hovering over a struggling blue jay chick. She looked at her mother, pleadingly.

“Not funny when they miss the pigs’ forts.”

“Please, mom. What can we do?”

“Nothing, sweetie. If we leave it alone, it’s mama might be able to help it.”

“Can’t we be its mama?”

Mom shook her head. “We’d only delay the inevitable, and the bird would suffer for it.”

“Camping sucks,” Janie said.

“No, it’s the real world. But, you’re right, sometimes it definitely sucks.”

–30–

Short Story #38: My Father Said No More

Prompt (from Fast Fiction): Write a short story beginning with the sentence "My father said no more." (Word count: 259)

* * * * * My father said no more.

He sat on his chrome-and-vinyl breakfast chair, watching rain spatter the window. The shadows of droplets and streaks doubled the deep-set wrinkles on his face. Wrinkles he constantly told me I was responsible for. (Not grey hairs, like other kids’ fathers. No, he’d gone bald young—my sister’s fault—so I got blamed for wrinkles.)

I looked at his breakfast: grapefruit, scrambled egg-substitute, wheat toast, cup of boysenberry yogurt. I sighed. After mom passed, he’d never prepared that much for me. It was always catch-as-catch-can, cereal with milk (except when it got chunky) or peanut butter on whatever bread was available (Wonder bread, English muffin—tortilla or pita, if he’d cooked something ethnic the night before). Then out the door with a mouthful of juice before the school bus left.

I glanced back at him. Was he crying? No, just rain dripping down the window. He wants to be stubborn? I can be stubborn, too. Like the day he spread Jif on the post-lasagna garlic bread instead of the leftover French loaf and refused to admit his mistake. He’d tried to make it up to Susie and me by taking us to IHoP that Saturday, but only because he’d used the same bread to make the PB&J he took to the office. Always PB&J. Made sure we had lunch money by brown-bagging it at work. Going without so Susie and I could have dessert with lunch like our friends. His thanks? Alopecia and Shar-Pei face.

...

Fine, if he wants piña colada yogurt, I can take boysenberry.

–30–

Short Story #37: The Scar

Prompt (from Fast Fiction, also a Bradbury-esque title): Write a short story about a scar. (Word count: 256)

* * * * * “Hey, Jenny. Lookin’ good.” Brad Ventor smiled from his desk next to Jenny Bigelow.

“Oh?” she sputtered, gathering her things. She rushed to the door before he could respond.

The scar was hardly noticeable, a touch of concealer and it was gone. Still, when Jenny noticed people looking at her, she was certain it was all they saw.

It was all she saw of herself. Everything she was, had been, would be, reduced to a inch-long scratch on the back of her left hand.

“How could you do it?” Mary Riegert asked her in the hall.

“Do what?” Jenny dug her left hand into her hoodie pocket.

“I asked ‘how are you doing?’” Mary repeated.

“Fine, I guess. Brad said I was looking good. What do you think he meant?”

“Clearasil’s working. Make your move, or at least stop dodging his.”

Jenny stopped walking, let the stream of students wash by. “But what if he finds out about....”

“Your brother? Accidents happen. Jimmy forgave you. Forgive yourself.” Mary headed off to gym.

“But...”

“Move on,” Mr. Thomas, the physics teacher said.

Jenny gasped. “It’s not that easy.”

“Sure it is. Whatever class you’ve got next, get there.”

“That’s not....” she began, but Mr. Thomas had moved on to Steve Kerpin and Lila Wertz making out by the lockers.

Jenny walked on to English, head down. She removed her hand from her pocket, rubbed at the scar.

It would never go away.

–30–

Short Story #36: Dream (Deranged Uncle Sam)

Prompt: Write a short story based on a dream. (Word count: 257)

(In my dream, Jim Carrey played Deranged Uncle Sam; Matthew Broderick, Larry (who didn't have a name, but this one works); I don't know who played Marie, so let's go with Rachael Leigh Cook, she's delightful.)

* * * * * “Ha! You lose!” Deranged Uncle Sam threw the broken radio transmitter at Larry Witz.

Larry saw the dirigible tower ahead. How far? A mile, two? With the radio gone, he’d have to race the blimp on foot. If the headwind was strong enough, he’d have a chance.

Larry tossed a tether cable out the hatchway. He whipped off his leather jacket, wrapped it around the cable, slid to the ground.

“No witty farewell catchphrase?” shouted Deranged Uncle Sam. “I’m disappointed.”

A montage-cut later Larry was at the tower, seconds before the blimp. “Quick!” he shouted to the radio operator, coincidentally his soon-to-be fiancee, Marie Ashburn. “Turn off the power. He’s going to crash his zeppelin.”

“Why here?” Marie asked, flipping power switches. “Why not an office building downtown?”

Why indeed? What was special about the tower? Wasn’t he smart enough to pick a better target. Only one answer fit. “He’s deranged.”

The blimp’s nose hit the tower dead on, rocking it and sending Deranged Uncle Sam through the window of the cockpit and onto the super-structure outside the radio room.

Larry gasped. Marie screamed. Deranged Uncle Sam grabbed a metal bar above the window and began swinging and kicking the glass like a chimpanzee. When the glass shattered, he flew into the room and landed on Larry. Larry rolled and threw him off, out the open door, to his death below.

“Should’ve kept your Witz about you,” Larry said.

Marie shook her head discouragingly.

Larry shrugged and laughed.

–30–

Short Story #35: Greed!

Today's prompt comes from a book I nabbed at Half Price this afternoon: Fast Fiction: Creating Fiction in Five Minutes. Haven't really gotten into it much (thank you, Hamlet), but it does have 300+ writing prompts in it. These will come in handy.

Prompt: Write a short story about greed. (Word count: 259)

* * * * *
“All of it. You can have it all.”

Leyric Kurzma sat, wringing his handkerchief into knots. He stared into the naked bulb glaring at him, assuming the kidnappers were behind it. “Please, give her back to me.”

The light went out and Kurzma listened to retreating footsteps. He waited. Five minutes. He started to rise. Chhhk!—the unmistakable sound of a handgun’s slide being racked. He slumped down.

The wait continued.

“Know any jokes?” Kurzma asked the silence. The silence didn’t.

After half an hour, a door opened admitting grey light and four silhouettes. When the lights came back on, Zilbic Glibor stood on one side of him. Myrena Wrelczk stood between two behemoth thugs on the other.

Glibor handed a notepad to Kurzma. “Write your bank account numbers and portfolio codes. You may keep your mortgaged properties; like the bottom of Lake Unbrgno, they’re underwater.

Behind Kurzma, the silence laughed.

Glibor took a smartphone picture of the document. Two minutes later he showed Kurzma the text alerting him of the funds transfers.

“Miss Wrelczk,” Glibor said, “you’re free to go.” Kurzma rose from his chair, glowering at the gunman behind him. “...or stay,” Glibor finished.

Myrena backed away from Leyric.

“But you promised, you vowed ‘for better or worse.’”

“I know, darling. Worse. Not worst. This is no place for a grammar lesson, but you have nothing now. And Zilbic...” she stepped across to Glibor, her legs never having looked so long, “well, Zilbic has everything. Including me.”

–30–

Short Story #34: A Sliver of Green

Prompt: Write a short story that could have the title "A Sliver of Green." (Word Count: 259)

* * * * * It wasn’t until too late that anyone appreciated the color green. Sure, for money and playing fields, but beyond environmental make-a-buck marketing ploys, nobody really cared for it. And then it was gone.

Things still grew, just not green. God’s little green apples-and-acres were now brown. The grass was equally drab on both sides of the fence. Trees, bushes, spring cornfields—like the one Mark Prescott was racing past—were endlessly brown.

“Mom!” he shouted, slamming the door open. “Mom, I saw it!”

“What, now?” (Mark was known for telling what his grandfather called “whomp-doozies.”)

“Green grass! Just one blade, but green! I swear.”

Swearing usually indicated truthfulness, but green grass—really! “That’s nice. Wash for supper.”

“Please, Mom. In the park.” Mark chewed his lip. “I’ll greenwash the fence. Twice a week, honest. Just, come see.”

She keyed “delay dinner forty-five minutes” into her scheduler. “Very well.”

When they reached the park, it was clear where Mark was leading. A crowd had gathered beside the gazebo. Even Mr. Duchamp, the park custodian, had abandoned his blue/yellow spraypaint mixer, and craned his head for a look.

“Don’t crush it,” Mark shouted. “I found it and went to get my mom.” He barged to the front of the huddle.

“See, Mom. No whomp-doozy this time.”

Mark’s mother stared at the wonder confronting her. The gazebo beside her was already darkening to olive drab and would be brown in three days. The blade of grass, though, was unmistakably emerald, undeniably green.

–30–

Short Story #33: Genre Gymnastics

Coming Soon!

Prompt: Write a short story combining two genres. (I picked Western meets Lovecraft; Word count: 259)

* * * * * The railroad doesn’t serve Wenyatchee, Texas, anymore. Nor stagecoach. Nor Pony Express. Cartographically speaking, the town has been wiped from the map. Residents—former residents—wish it had been that simple.

When Warren Dixon struck oil ten miles outside town, things boomed. Speculators came by the dozens, bought property, staked claims. Many good people—the lucky ones—got out with more than they’d spent on their homesteads. Many more, unfortunately, were caught in the frenzy and dug up their backyards rather than accept the going rate.

Most of what happened could have been avoided if what had been discovered had been verified as oil....

Dixon honestly thought the black substance oozing up from his ranchland was oil. He’d seen it in Kilgore and elsewhere; he sincerely thought he was doing his neighbors a favor, encouraging them to dig, fill whatever barrels, wheelbarrows, even canning jars were handy. In many ways it behaved like oil. It burned; well, smoked a lot. It lubricated better than anything the railroad had seen before; Clint McKittridge, local rail baron, couldn’t get enough of the stuff.

Like oil, it didn’t envelop buildings and reduce them to their greasy, smoking foundations in a matter of hours.

It didn’t skeletonize livestock, either, then come back and gnaw the bones to nothing. Why should it, since those aren’t properties of oil.

It didn’t liquify iron-horses and the rails they ran on, since oil doesn’t do that, either.

And, like oil, it didn’t slither out of barrels and invade its victims’ airways, resulting in silent, screamless deaths.

...at least not at first.

–30–

Short Story #32: Russian Roulette

Prompt: Write a short story inspired by another short story. (Word count: 257)

(I've chosen "The Most Dangerous Game" as my inspirational text. Read it here, or enjoy the Simspons version.)

* * * * * “Ever play Russian Roulette?” Conway asked.

Dmitri was secured to the chair: arms, legs restrained; belt looped through the slats at the back. A bandanna gag prevented him from answering.

“Or is it just roulette in Mother Russia?” Peters added.

“Here’s how we play.” Conway showed Dmitri the .44 Magnum. “Revolver.”

Peters put a bullet in one chamber, narrating as he did so.

“Spin the cylinder, pull the trigger.” Conway spun, but didn’t pull. “Click,” he said, instead.

“You know your role in this, Dmitri?”

Conway put his mouth up to their prisoner’s ear. “You’re the Russian.”

Dmitri thrashed his head, rammed it into Conway’s mouth.

Conway mopped at his chin. “May I go first?”

“Please,” Peters said.

Both men placed a stack of twenties on the green felt-covered sidetable. “Five-hundred dollars a round,” Peters said. “If we go six rounds—” Dmitri raised his eyebrows expectantly. “—we place another bullet in the cylinder, the stakes double.” Dmitri slumped in his chair.

“We were inspired by the story “The Most Dangerous Game.” Click.

Conway gave the hand-cannon to Peters; both placed more money on the table. “Of course, this is less dangerous.” Click. “For the Zaroffs, at least.”

Dmitri thrashed his whole body, toppling the chair.

“Remember that one chap, halfway dodged the bullet at the last millisecond.”

“Took him four days to die.”

“Messy.” They righted the chair. Dmitri crumpled in resignation.

Peters eventually won four grand.

–30–

Short Story #31: Desert

Prompt: Write a short story set in the desert. (Word Count: 258)

* * * * * “Top-down Cadillac’s the only way to travel to Vegas!” Mandy Danvers propped her feet on the dashboard, spread her arms wide, and soaked up the California sun.

Gary, her husband, snagged the lighter from the dash, lit a Lucky Strike. “Babe, you’re blocking the side-view.”

Mandy twirled a lock of his shoulder-length hair. “Ain’t nobody out here.”

He shrugged her hand away. “Better safe than sorry.”

“ ’swhy you smoke so much? ‘Better safe than sorry?’” She put her feet down, crossed her arms.

“Hey, don’t pout, Babe. Find us some tunes on the radio.”

She dialed in the Gospel Radio Hour. Gary shot her a look; she kept dialing. “...bulletin. Travelers on Interstate 15, be advised of heavy winds 20 miles east of Barstow. Sandstorm conditions reported. National weather bulletin. Travelers on Interstate 15—” Gary switched it off.

In the distance a beige wall loomed.

Gary pulled over. “Help we with the top, huh?” Grudgingly, she assisted him.

Back in the car, they drove until the storm swallowed them. Visibility decreased from miles to yards, and Gary pulled off the road. He turned on his high beams and flashers, lit another cigarette.

“Really, you’re smoking now?”

“What, smoke obscuring your view?”

Mandy rummaged through the glovebox, found The Best of Jerry Reed, popped it in the cassette deck.

Gary stubbed out his Lucky and ejected the tape. He rolled the window down a crack and tossed both outside.

It was going to be a long wait.

–30–

Short Story #30: You!

Prompt: Write a short story with second-person point of view. (Word count: 258)

* * * * * “Hey, you!”

You turn. The Incredible Hulk’s paler brother exits the mall, points your way. Never one for confrontation, you hurry toward the parking structure. A hand slams on your trunk as you leave your parking space.

You wait for the car to be pulled backward, lifted, thrown upside-down, but miraculously that doesn’t happen.

Who is this guy, you think to yourself. Did you jostle him in the food court? Cut him off at Sunglass Hut? Smirk at his ridiculous muscles in his tiny T-shirt? No, you can’t place him, other than—glancing in the rear-view—he’s chasing your car.

You scan the lot for Security. Nope. There’s a line at the exit, so you head up to the next level. The Little-Freight-Train-That-Could chugs along behind you.

Ahead, a minivan’s back-up lights flash on. You speed up so maybe it’ll back out between you and your pursuer. It does. You head up to the next level.

He doesn’t follow. You keep checking the rear-view, but he’s not there.

And then it hits you. He’s waiting for you to come down.

You run through your options. Call a friend. A cab. A cop. You rummage through your pockets for your cell phone. Through your bags. Between the seats.

You had it last, where? The check-out line. Did Albino Hulk have something clutched in his hand? You think, Maybe so.

You think you know what it might have been.

–30–

Short Story #29: Shortception

Prompt: Write a short story about writing a short story. (Word count: 259)

* * * * * B.F. Thomas drummed his keyboard.

kljdff ljsdio skxc

“Good as anything I’ve written today,” he said to nobody.

“Excuse me,” Deirdre, his muse, said, offended at being called nobody. “At 11:34 you wrote: ‘Jeffries returned from the cupboard with anchovies for the cat and self-loathing for himself.’ Much better than ‘kljdff ljsdio skxc’ ... ow, my throat.”

Thomas ignored her. It had been good, even halfway his, but that was hours ago. “I need a break,” he announced, rising from his chair.

Deirdre pushed him back. “You’re fighting the story. And me. Purge your self-loathing on the page.”

“I don’t loathe myself. I’m disappointed I lack success.”

“That’s not it.” Deirdre filled a glass with absinthe from a flask she kept concealed in her gown.

“You won’t lower my resolve, drinking that.”

She downed it in a shot. “Won’t I?”

“I loathe you.”

“Halfway there.” Deirdre sipped green nectar directly from the flask.

“I loathe I need you. Ste— You-know-who doesn’t need a muse. What’s-her-face, neither.”

“Sure?” She sipped again, floated onto the chaise longue. “I could tell you stories...”

“Really?”

“You-know-who’s on his sixth. We can’t stand him. What’s-her-face plies hers with butterscotch pudding, otherwise she’d never write again.”

Thomas thought a moment, cracked his fingers.

Jeffries nudged the cat, slid an anchovy down his throat. Not bad. He helped himself to the rest, left the self-loathing to the cat who was better equipped to deal with existential disappointment anyway.

–30–

Short Story #28: Misunderstanding

Prompt: Write a short story that centers on a misunderstanding. (Word count: 258)

* * * * * “Truck 7, more hose on the south side, pronto!” Fire chief Grady lowered his radio-extender and looked at the kids. “So you saw the sign?”

“Yeah,” Dink said, “Inflammable. We figured it was safe to light firecrackers.”

Grady picked up the mic again. “Truck 3, help Number 7 before we lose this thing.

“So you thought in-flammable meant un-flammable?”

“Well, yeah,” Belch said, clinking his Zippo open and shut. “Otherwise it’d say flammable, right?”

“Except it really said inflamm-able.” Grady grabbed the lighter. In one motion he clinked it open and spun the strikewheel so it lit. “Able to be inflamed.”

“Oooooooh,” the boys said in unison.

“And you thought the picture on the 50-gallon drums, the picture of fire with a line through it meant...” Grady held out the lighter in the palm.

“Couldn’t burn.” Belch reached for his Zippo.

Grady snatched the lighter back. “Wrong again. It meant keep things like this—he rolled the lighter down his knuckles, palmed it, passed his left hand over his fist twice, and opened his now-empty right hand—away or you’ll burn down the warehouse.”

“Cooooool.” Dink and Belch harmonized this time.

Grady turned to his assistant, who had been taking notes. “You got all this?” When she nodded, he reached behind her head and revealed the lighter as he moved his hand past her ear. “Give this to the cops as evidence, please.” He walked away, shouting at Truck 4 to move south.

–30–

Short Story #27: Haunting

Prompt from The Write-Brain Workbook: Start a story with "He haunted the night like a..." (Word Count: 259)

* * * * * He haunted the night like a Will-o’-the-Wisp, here one moment, there the next. His sneaker’s reflectors caught moonlight, winked out. A liability, but Talon’s shoes were his only treasure; he couldn’t bear to cut them apart.

Talon had been the Eagle Clan’s scrounger ever since the Domestic Authority snared Beak. Beak grew big early—six feet tall by age thirteen—and the High Aerie kept him a scrounger despite their wisdom. At fifteen and five-foot-two, Talon didn’t think height would hurt him (his parents barely reached five-foot-four). But his shoes....

“He’s entering the Sears off Haycroft.” The message came through clearly on the walkie-talkie Talon had filched from a Dome-Auth officer two weeks earlier. “Approach via northeast.”

Talon considered his position. He suspected the Night Patrol knew he used the store as a shortcut home, which made a northeastern approach foolishness. “They know you have a radio,” Talon whispered. Something skittered under a scrap of cardboard when he spoke.

A southeastern approach made more sense, and as Talon considered this, flashlight beams strobed from that direction. He left the way he’d entered, as noisily as possible.

“He’s seen us,” blurted the radio.

The Night Patrol followed Talon eastward to a new construction site. Like a Will-o’-the-Wisp, his sneakers led them up three flights, across a plywood floor to a stairwell. His pursuers didn’t make it. Weighing more than Talon’s ninety-five pounds, they fell through portions of flooring Talon had previously weakened, into the thicket of rebar below.

“Prime scroungings,” Talon said, and wink-stepped down the stairs.

–30–

Short Story #26: Father's Day

Write a short story about Father's Day. (Word Count: 259)

* * * * *

“Whaddya mean sideways?” Barry Truce took it personally when things didn’t go to plan.

“He must have rolled sometime this afternoon. It happens.” The nurse spoke calmly; she’d dealt with expectant fathers before.

Truce took his wife’s hand. “What’s she mean sideways, Pumpkin’?”

Pamela Truce squeezed his hand as another contraction swelled. “The baby’s breach. If we deliver, Barty could be hurt.”

“So how do we stop this until he rolls over again?”

“We can’t stop it, sir,” the nurse said. “I can try to rotate him, but we can’t stop the contractions.”

“C-section?” Pamela asked.

“Probably best to prepare,” the nurse said. “I’ve paged your doctor.” She placed her hands on Pamela’s belly, pushed high on one side, low on the other. She tried tickling and pushing. No response.

Doctor Freberg came in, greeted the Truces, checked Barty’s stats. “Well,” he said, “the good news is that Barty’s not experiencing stress. The bad news is he seems to be a contrary teenager, already.”

Pamela forced a smile, hushed Barry’s “what’s he mean?” question. “C-section, then?”

“Safest course, I think,” Freberg said. “I can get the paperwork here in about five minutes. I’ll call the anesthesiologist—he’ll prep an epidural to numb you from the waist down. Surgery should be underway in twenty, thirty minutes.

Pamela looked at the bedside clock: 11:59 PM, Saturday, June 17, 2000; it rolled over to midnight. She squeezed Barry’s hand. “Happy Father’s Day, Noodle. I love you.”

–30–

Short Story #25: Updated Fairy Tale

Prompt: Rewrite a classic fairy tale in an updated/modern setting. (Word count: 259)

* * * * *

Bluebeard’s wife, Margaret, stood outside the door, wondering if she dare defy her husband.

“Well,” she said, “if God hadn’t wanted locks picked, He wouldn’t have created bobby-pins.” Margaret opened to door, expecting a Man Cave with big-screen TV, minifridge, and girlie magazines.”

While the room revealed her husband’s primitive side, the technology was medieval. Torture racks, axes, a crimson-stained butcher’s table with meat cleaver lodged in it. Turning to go, she encountered the room’s greatest horrors: four heads impaled on spikes. The withered heads bore striking resemblances to women Margaret had seen in her husband’s photo albums, women he had been married to.

As she re-entered the hallway, her husband walked toward her.

“I told you don’t enter that room.” His voice, deep and booming, carried a trace of sadness. “You disobeyed me. Go to the east tower and make peace with God. I’ll join you soon.”

“Me? You need to go make peace with God, mister. I asked you a dozen times if you still saw your exes. ‘No, Margaret, never,’ you said. Now I find this. I don’t want to know what freakiness you get up to with those heads, but it ends today. I’m going to bury their remains in the backyard and call Goodwill to haul away that crap. Tomorrow, I’m calling the decorators to redo that room as a fitness center. Are we clear?”

“Yes, dear,” Bluebeard mumbled.

“I thought so,” Margaret said, going to the utility closet for vinyl gloves and an extra-large trashbag.

–30–

Short Story #24: Science!

Prompt: Write a short story illustrating a scientific principle. (Word count: 259)

* * * * * A revised version of this story will appear in the anthology 100 Worlds. After publication, this version will re-appear. –30–

Short Story #23: Oops!

Prompt: Write a short story that could be entitled "Oops!" (Word count: 252)

* * * * * “Oops!” The balloon-animal elephant squealed and plllllbbbbtttttt’d and flew around the room. It landed in Mr. Bobo’s rainbow-colored hair.

All the guests at Billy Jenkins’ birthday party laughed.

“And that, is what happens when you sneeze so hard your belly button undoes,” Mr. Bobo announced.

Half the party guests checked their navels for unexpected wear. Cecily Warner pointed at Evan Blake’s outie. “Better not sneeze, Evan. Yours is coming loose.”

Evan pulled his shirt down quickly.

Mr. Bobo tried the elephant again. This time, it worked. He handed it to the birthday boy and squeezed the bulb at the end of his lapel flower. A stream of water hit Billy in the face. “Naughty elephant,” he chided.

The next three balloon animals—poodle, giraffe, snake (“Really?” Mr. Bobo asked Evan Blake)—worked fine. Then two more “oopses.” Mr. Bobo covered with “my world-famous disappearing tiger trick” and “ninja pony!” but he was losing his audience.

Only one thing that could distract the children from the fact that only half of them had balloon animals. He grabbed three metal rings from his oversized carpetbag, juggled them (successfully!), then poured liquid from a bottle labelled “Mystery & Wonder” into a pizza pan. A dunk of a metal ring and the children oohed and aahed at the enormous soap bubble that filled the living room.

“Can I try?” Cecily Warner asked.

Usually the answer was “no,” but for balloon-animalless waifs like Cecily, Mr. Bobo made exceptions.

–30–

Short Story #22: Pool Hall

Brainstormer prompt: Self-Preservation / Downtown / Pool Hall (Word count: 259)

* * * * * Swift Teddy’s Billiard Emporium was a holdover from a more elegant age. Theodore Felton III took as much pride in polishing the brass fixtures and Art Deco lighting as his father and grandfather had. Although his father insisted on red for the table felt, Teddy Three was gradually replacing it with less-aggressive green. Fewer fights at the green tables.

Tucked between a watch repair shop and a locksmith, Teddy’s was the only place on the block open past 6:00 P.M. Business downtown had been terrible for years, and Teddy Three had given serious thought to selling the place.

“I would,” Margot, his cashier, said. “You keep going and you’ll saddle Teddy Four with it.”

“And he’ll keep it out of loyalty or tradition,” Teddy said, “wind up with a Teddy Five, and so on.”

“Circle of life.”

Teddy thought some more. “But what would I do? Open some hipster place in the ’burbs?”

“More out there than billiards, Teddy.”

“Can you see me selling yogurt? Or shoes?”

Margot laughed. “Not simultaneously. Invest the money.”

“And leave Teddy Four, what—a balance-sheet, a ledger?”

“Fathers have done worse.”

“I dunno: I stop being me, who am I?”

Margot hated when he waxed philosophical. “You’re rich, living happily ever after.”

A foursome at a red table started arguing about whether the cue ball kissed the one before it dropped the twelve.

Teddy shook his head and went to calm things down. “I dunno. I’m gonna keep thinking.

–30–

Short Story #21: Not "To Be"

Prompt: Write a story without using the verb to be. (Word count: 257)

* * * * * Detective Hamish Letterman knocked on the door of apartment 2B. “Anybody home?”

No reply.

Letterman nodded to the officer beside him. “Break it down.”

Inside, the detective pointed two officers in the direction of the rear hall, another to the bedroom that opened off the main room. He took the kitchen, himself.

“Back here,” an officer called.

The corpse lay sprawled over an easel, skewered to the canvas by a spearfishing spear. Letterman directed everyone out, speed-dialed CSU. “Take five, guys, while forensics does their thing.”

As they walked down the hall, raised voices emanated from the main room. “You can’t come in here, sir—what happened to the door?—sir, please step outside.”

Letterman flashed his badge. “Please exit the crime scene, Mister...”

“Oneus. Paul Oneus. My brother lives here.”

“Perhaps. But right now we have a murder victim in the...painting room.”

“Studio, Ham,” one of the officers said.

“Right. Ah, here come the lab boys, Rosencranz and Guildenstern. Rosey, shoot me a pic of the vic, see if Mr. Oneus can ID him.”

“Yeah,” Oneus said a moment later, looking at the screen of Rosencranz’s iPhone. “My baby brother, Dennis Mark.”

“OK,” Letterman said. “Let’s step into the vestibule. Maybe you can answer a few questions for me. Sooner we start, sooner we can catch your brother’s killer. When did you last talk to Dennis?”

Instinctively, Letterman suspected Oneus. But he had no idea how rotten he would turn out in the end.

–30–

Short Story #20: Restaurant!

Prompt: Write a short story set in a restaurant. (Word count: 258)

* * * * * Fifteen-foot red neon proclaimed from the highway: RESTAURANT, which is why Benny asked Joan, “Wanna stop at the restaurant ahead?” As they pulled into the parking lot, no “Ma’s Kitchen” or “Black Oak Diner” identified the greasy spoon portion of the 42-gas pumps/gift shop/showers truck stop. Over the door was simply another red neon sign: Restaurant.

Inside, no one could claim false advertising. It was in fact a restaurant. Vinyl-upholstered booths; well-worn tables and chairs; dark, stain-forgiving carpet; and food. Platters stacked high with chicken-fried steaks and mashed potatoes, towers of pancakes, steaks dripping red off the edge of the plates.

“Tableorbooth,” the gum-cracking hostess asked as the newlyweds’ eyes adjusted to the dim light.

“Booth, Mrs. Wescott?”

“Booth, Mr. Wescott.”

The hostess rolled her eyes as she grabbed a couple menus and led the way to a window seat. “Somethingtodrink?”

“Two Cokes,” Joan answered before Benny could say “One Coke, two straws.” She sensed there was only so much the hostess, Millie by her nametag, could take.

“Anything look good, or should I order off the menu?” Benny asked, nuzzling at Joan.

“Well, the chicken-fried steak looked good. Of course, you’ll be up half the night if you get it.”

“What’ll I do with the time?” More nuzzling.

“And they have Kielbasa, but that gives me a headache.”

“No to the Kielbasa then. Oooh, Monte Cristo. Dare you dare?”

She dared. After all, they had pledged for better or for worse, hadn’t they?

–30–

Short Story #19: The Obelisk

Prompt: Write a short story that could have the title "The Obelisk." (Word count: 257)

* * * * * “What is that thing?” “Where’s it from?” “I never seen nothing like it.” “Is it safe?”

The neighbors of Laramie Trailer Court gathered around the newest move-in, a twenty-foot-tall tower of white stone. It was planted smack in the middle of Rita Carmody’s five-by-four lawn patch.

“Rita, why’d you get that thing?”

“Ain’t mine, George. Showed up overnight.” Rita eyed the crowd. “One’a you put it here as a joke, I suppose. Well, I ain’t laughing. Took a year to get anything to grow in that hardpack and now it’s good as kilt.”

“Rita, that ain’t fair,” Craig Crosby said. “How’s one of us going to move that thing in. Roger, you got a helipad atop your trailer we don’t know about?”

“Well, din’t sprout there like petunias, did it? Had to ’ve come from somewheres.”

“Aliens.” “Witchcraft.” “That Twenty-oh-one movie.” “Molepeople.”

George Jenkins rapped his knuckles on it. “Solid. Marble, maybe. Must weigh couple-three tons at least.”

“See, Rita. None of us coulda done it. Britt has the biggest truck and it ain’t but a three-quarter.”

“Well, how’d it get here?”

As Rita stopped speaking a voice came from the stone tower. “How I came here is not important. What is important is that when confronted with true wonder, you could do nothing more than point fingers and complain.” A red light began flashing at the top of the tower. “Prepare yourselves. You have been judged.”

–30–

Short Story #18: On a Boat!

Prompt: Write a short story set on a boat. (Word count: 259)

* * * * * Rusty Mayer shipped his oars and sidled his canoe beside Janey Bristol’s. “Pardon me, have you any Grey Poupon?”

Janey emptied the bucket she bailing water with into his lap. “Want some more?”

“What the—” Rusty noticed the amount of water in Janey’s canoe. “What’s wrong?”

She emptied another bucketful, this time on the other side. “Must have cracked a seam. Morty’ll probably take the repair cost out of my paycheck.”

Rusty wanted to assure her that he wouldn’t, but realized he’d at least try. “Look, want to get in my canoe. We can tie a rope to the nose.”

“Stern.”

“...and tow it back to camp.”

Janey emptied another bucket and looked at him. “Why’re you being nice to me?”

“Am I?”

“Well, yeah. You could’ve left. Or laughed. Or both. Instead, you’re acting like a person.”

“I guess.” He looked at her, noticed the green flecks in her blue eyes, the curl of hair behind her left ear, her dimpled chin. “Y’know how in third grade if a boy liked you he’d punch you and then run away? I...something about you makes me want to stop acting like a third grader.”

“You asking me out?”

“I’m asking you over to my canoe.”

Janey left the bucket floating in the bottom of her canoe and grabbed the gunwale of Rusty’s. “Is it safe?”

“I won’t hit you, if that’s what you mean. Can’t really run away from someone in a canoe.”

–30–

Short Story #17: Education!

Prompt write a story about the power of education. (Word count: 251)

* * * * * “That’ll be $241.27,” Rosy, the Student Bookstore clerk, said.

Fred Thomas stood, flabbergasted. “For books?”

“Been out of school awhile?”

Fifty-eight years old and never having gone in the first place, Thomas said, “Something like that.”

Rosy picked through the stack, mostly anthologies. “You can save money buying second-hand. If your profs specified titles in their syllabus, public-domain material is free online.”

“Thanks, but money isn’t an object. Just sticker shock, I suppose.” Thomas hoisted his bag of books and headed into the late-summer sunshine. Sitting on a bench, he lifted each book out and rested it on his lap. As he placed the final book, things suddenly felt real.

“You’re actually doing this,” he said, then glanced up to see if anyone heard him. If they had, they were ignoring him or were so used to people talking on Bluetooth headsets that old men talking to themselves no longer merited recognition.

Sheila, his wife of thirty years, had passed a year before. When he began selling the business he’d spent a lifetime building, his son had intervened, fearing suicide. He wasn’t wrong. A psychiatrist recommended finding something he’d always wanted to do, but had never had time for.

Although he knew he was smart, like the Scarecrow in Wizard of Oz, he lacked certification. A diploma wouldn’t change who he was, but for four years it would give him a reason to live.

Not a bad exchange for a $250 lapful of books.

–30–

Short Story #16: 867-5309/Jenny

Prompt: Open up iTunes, set it to Random ("shuffle"), and write a story that could share the title with the ninth song (the story doesn't need to have anything in common with the song except for the title). My ninth song was: 867-5309/Jenny (word count: 258).

* * * * * The label on the tab cryptically read “867-5309/Jenny.” Agent Pearl Sandberg flipped through the mission details, once, twice, third time lucky, but couldn’t figure out why the section chief would have assigned it to her. First, it was a two-person job and her partner was on leave; second, it was in Helsinki. Everyone knew Finland was the special purview of—

“Agent Branson, you know Agent Sandberg.” Section Chief Merrick and the smuggest agent Sandberg had ever had the displeasure of knowing stood in her doorway.

Sid Branson didn’t make eye contact, just slicked his hair back as a blonde secretary walked by. “Hey, Pearl. How’s biz?”

“Chief? I’m on desk patrol until Henderson’s cleared for duty.”

“Ordinarily, but this Jenny situation has flared up.”

Branson cracked his gum and focused on more foot traffic. Junior Clemens, an analyst with a weak goatee, walked by, and Branson shook his head. “That guy....”

“Chief—”

“Look, you’ll have plenty of time to sharpen pencils and staple things when you return. Sid, you got that Miller page?” Branson handed him a sheet of paper.

Miller? Sandberg thought.

“Latest intel out of SUPO. Miller was seen at the Svenska—”

“That’s one of the major theatres there,” Branson interjected. “Last year I saw....” Another blonde walked by and he trailed after her.

“Fine, if it’s Miller. I’m in.”

“I thought so. We’ll send along a body bag.”

Sandberg glared at Branson chatting up a redhead. “Send two. Just in case.”

–30–