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–