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.

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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–