Short Story #60: Limited Engagement

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine, I’ll go to the lobby.”

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

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

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

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

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

–30–

Short Story #55: Wendigo

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

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

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

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

“The wen-wen-wen—”

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

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

“Now?”

“We wait.”

“For?”

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

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

“Can I light a fire?”

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

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

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

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

“Are you alright?” she called.

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

–30–

Short Story #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 #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 #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 #9: Silence

Prompt: Write a short story with the title "The Silence." (Word count: 258)

* * * * * Captain Ray Douglas sat in the command chair of Mars-bound Golden Hind with his eyes closed. The viewscreen was covered by temporary shielding, and though the consoles flashed readouts, there wasn’t anything he wanted to see. All he wanted to do was listen.

He’d tried listening in the cryochamber, but the sleep-pods insisted on pinging out pulserates and O₂ feeds and every last little thing they did. In Command and Control, silence reigned.

Not that he begrudged company. If helmsman Danny Reyes joined him for a waking hour, he’d enjoy discussing philosophy or literature. Likewise sports with Dr. Meg Faugh; endocrinology discussions, though, were more lecture than conversation. But he could talk any time, and they’d have time enough for that once they landed. Silence like this only existed in the vastness of space.

He sat and breathed as quietly as he could, cast his hearing beyond his heartbeat. To the nothingness of the void. Nothing and nothing and nothing. If he’d been told that such a non-sound existed growing up in a family of eight in a six-room house he wouldn’t have believed it. Even after the deafening roar of an Ares-class rocket launch, when everyone used datapads to communicate, was nothing to this silence.

And then it was over. “Captain Douglas, please return to sleep cycle,” the ship’s computer announced. “Extended time outside of cryosleep will result in heightened fatigue at journey’s end.

Douglas sighed—quietly—as he left C&C. Unlike everything else in his life, silence was the one thing he couldn’t get enough of.

–30–