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 #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–

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 #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–