Friday, August 23, 2013

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–

Thursday, August 22, 2013

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–

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

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–

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

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–

Monday, August 19, 2013

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–

Saturday, August 17, 2013

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–

Thursday, August 15, 2013

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–

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

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–

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

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–

Monday, August 5, 2013

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–

Saturday, August 3, 2013

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–

Friday, August 2, 2013

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–

Thursday, August 1, 2013

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–