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–

Short Story #15: History!

Prompt: Write a short story about a historical event. (Word count: 253)

* * * * * Connie kicked sand at Dan, her seven-year-old brother. “Take that, pest.”

Dan scowled at her. She stuck out her tongue and he threw a handful sand at her face.

“MaaAAAaaaa—plbttt—plbttt—plbtttt...”

Mom looked up from the trench she was digging. “Would you two please get along? Why is it always a battle with you?”

Vacation was winding down. While they usually wouldn’t have been down at the beach before ten, on their last day the Purvises found themselves sandcastling on Ewa Beach at seven, fitting in one final hour before flying out of Honolulu and returning to Redwood City, California.

The last of the sand off her tongue, Connie swept her chestnut brown bangs under her UH ballcap and charged her brother. Dan ran for the edge of the surf, knowing his mom would call Connie off. Sure enough—

“Constantina Nicolette Purvis! You know your brother cannot swim, so do not chase him into the ocean.”

Connie turned and monster-stomped Dan’s pail-shaped castle.

Dan ignored her, focusing on a line of airplanes just separating from the horizon. As they neared, he turned, spread his arms, and flew towards Connie’s more-elaborate castle. As he neared, Connie leapt and tackled him, bringing him down a yard short of his target.

The squadron of airplanes continued inland.

Infantryman-style, Dan wriggled his way forward, brought his hand whomping down on the gate of her castle.

Mom shook her head. “Always a battle with you.”

Thirty seconds later—three miles northeast—the battle began in earnest.

–30–

Short Story #14: Amusement Park

Prompt: Write a short story set in an amusement park. (Word count: 259)

* * * * * “Keep your arms inside the car at all times. Enjoy your ride.”

Dave loved nothing more than the bumper cars at AmusementLand. Granted, there wasn’t a lot to the park—and nothing had been added in a decade—but most people preferred The Big Coaster or Finnegan’s Flume. For Dave, though, 20 Car Pile-up couldn’t be beat.

His girlfriend, Lesly, though, preferred everything else. Maybe not the Ladybugs and other kiddie rides, and not the Stampede Rumbler because she’d been puked on twice on that, but pretty much anything else in the park suited her more than the bumper cars. Still, she rode them for Dave’s sake.

“Gonna get you, babe!” Dave was halfway across the floor from her. He mashed the gas pedal and swerved around a man with a cowboy hat and Fu-Manchu moustache.

“Come on, then,” Lesly called back. She’d learned after their second trip to AmusementLand to start out as far from him as possible. He’d spend most of the ride chasing her, maybe bump her a couple filling-rattling times, and feel he’d accomplished something.

Dave bumped a ponytailed coed in a Michigan sweatshirt.

Lesly dodged a freckle-faced kid with a buzzcut and mustardy chin.

Dave drifted around an old lady who spun freely in a circle.

Lesly made it to the outside of the automotive amoeba, turned left, and headed counter-clockwise around the other drivers.

Dave saw her, spun around, and made it to the outskirts himself. Driving clockwise, he started humming danger music and thought, “It’s only a matter of time....”

–30–

Short Story 13: Hollywood Cowboy

Prompt from The Write-Brain Workbook: Begin your story with "He hopped off the horse like a Hollywood cowboy...." (Word count: 258)

* * * * * Greg hopped off the horse like a Hollywood cowboy, hit the ground running, disappeared into the cabin. Sprawled on the bed, his unconscious daughter. On the nightstand, an empty prescription bottle.

He patted her cheek. “Kim? Kim?” No response. Her pulse was thready.

Clutched in her hand was a duplicate of the note he’d found earlier: “Gone to Moonrise. Please forgive me.”

“I forgive you, baby. Please come back.”

Greg racked his brain for solutions. Call for help? Cell phones were useless here. The phone had been ripped from the wall, phonejack stripped from the cable. He could rewire it, but the bridge was out halfway up the trail. Impassable by ambulance, which was why he’d ridden Kingman. Maybe he could balance her in front of him and...yeah, might work.

She was limp, but he eventually got her sitting on the bed. As he swung her arm over his shoulder, he realized she wasn’t breathing. He laid her on the floor and tilted her head back. No improvement, but he smelled vomit. He turned her head to the side and pushed her belly up and in. Nothing. Again. Bile with half-digested pills shot from her throat.

Her breathing was steady, shallow.

“Daddy?” Her voice, faint.

“Ya, baby. I’m here.”

Her eyes flickered halfway open. “Sick. Ice cream?”

“Sure, all the ice cream you want.”

“Sorry about your shoes.”

He got out “My shoes are fi—” before she released another spray of vomit. “That’s OK. Shoes can be replaced.”

–30–

Short Story #12: The Border Crossing

Prompt: Write a short story that could be entitled "The Border Crossing." (Word count: 258)

* * * * * In the trunk, Vera held her breath. Fritz’s conversation with the guard was just audible.

“No, I’m sure I haven’t. Believe me, if I had, I’d be someplace warm with her, not driving to my mother-in-law’s to get my wife.”

Vera smiled. She could guess the photo: her 8x10 from Carmen.

“Murder? Her?”

She’d explained to Fritz that she needed to leave Austria; she’d killed a man in self-defense. A politically-connected jealous ex-lover. Not a good man. He said he believed her, but was that before or after she’d kissed him? She couldn’t remember.

“My trunk?” The sound of the car door, footsteps, a key. “Is there a reward?”

The guard quoted a figure well over thirty pieces of silver.

Fritz had insisted he wouldn’t betray her; he’d dealt with the man, definitely not a good person. He’d assured her that the hidden compartment couldn’t be spotted, certainly not covered by blankets and a suitcase.

“The luggage? Sleeping over at my mother-in-law’s. I’d rather not, but my wife wants to return tomorrow when the border opens, not wait an hour after I cross and another coming back. If I had that reward, though, she could afford a cab. Hang on—” Fritz rooted through the trunk. “You’re shivering. Want a blanket?”

Vera suppressed a scream.

“No?” The trunk slammed.

Relieved, Vera gasped.

“What sound? A bird, I think. Yes, there it goes.”

Like the bird, Vera’s spirit soared as they crossed to freedom.

–30–

Short Story #11c: The Chosen 3

One of the writing exercises I've had my students do to prepare them for their state exam is to view an 8 minute short film ("Chosen" by Ang Lee, part of BMW's Clive Owen as The Driver series of marketing films) and then tell part of the story in 26 lines. Even though the film is short, it can't be told as something other than summary (which is different from story) in that brief a space, so they have to focus on one smaller part of it.

What follows is my attempt to capture from 4:20 in the film to about 6:30 (the final minute and a half are credits, which I won't be dramatizing).

Prompt: After viewing "Chosen" by Ang Lee, write a short story covering a portion of the short film. (Word count: 258)

* * * * * My heart races as I text Stan: “pckg recd.” Stan texts an address 20 minutes south of town. The kid/pckg sits serenely, looking at nothing but warehouses changing to strip malls changing to farmland. No iPhone, no Nintendo. How’s that possible?

It’s a two-story place with a broad porch in front. Peaceful. A red-robed monk answers the door. The kid takes my hand, leads me inside.

“I have a gift for you,” our host tells the kid.

The kid doesn’t drop my hand. Instead, his eyes cut toward the monk’s feet. Tony Lama boots. An East-meets-West thing? I don’t think so.

“Again, many thanks.”

Outside, I look through a basement window: four monks on the floor—tied up, not playing Twister. A light comes on upstairs. OK, then.

I sneak inside and step through a beaded curtain as “Tex” presses a syringe to the kid’s throat. I advance. Tex stabs at me with the needle. One blow to the jaw and he collapses, spinning a prayer wheel with his face as he falls. Amen.

Freed, the monks take charge of the situation, and I return to the Beemer. The kid’s “for later” box is on the passenger seat. Inside, a Hulk Band-Aid. As the obvious question enters my mind, a chill wind stings my right ear. I glance at the shredded headrest, bring away blood when I touch the side of my face.

It seems “later” has finally arrived. I put the Band-Aid on, thinking as I drive away: Who was that kid?

–30–