Short Story #24: Science!

Prompt: Write a short story illustrating a scientific principle. (Word count: 259)

* * * * * A revised version of this story will appear in the anthology 100 Worlds. After publication, this version will re-appear. –30–

Short Story #23: Oops!

Prompt: Write a short story that could be entitled "Oops!" (Word count: 252)

* * * * * “Oops!” The balloon-animal elephant squealed and plllllbbbbtttttt’d and flew around the room. It landed in Mr. Bobo’s rainbow-colored hair.

All the guests at Billy Jenkins’ birthday party laughed.

“And that, is what happens when you sneeze so hard your belly button undoes,” Mr. Bobo announced.

Half the party guests checked their navels for unexpected wear. Cecily Warner pointed at Evan Blake’s outie. “Better not sneeze, Evan. Yours is coming loose.”

Evan pulled his shirt down quickly.

Mr. Bobo tried the elephant again. This time, it worked. He handed it to the birthday boy and squeezed the bulb at the end of his lapel flower. A stream of water hit Billy in the face. “Naughty elephant,” he chided.

The next three balloon animals—poodle, giraffe, snake (“Really?” Mr. Bobo asked Evan Blake)—worked fine. Then two more “oopses.” Mr. Bobo covered with “my world-famous disappearing tiger trick” and “ninja pony!” but he was losing his audience.

Only one thing that could distract the children from the fact that only half of them had balloon animals. He grabbed three metal rings from his oversized carpetbag, juggled them (successfully!), then poured liquid from a bottle labelled “Mystery & Wonder” into a pizza pan. A dunk of a metal ring and the children oohed and aahed at the enormous soap bubble that filled the living room.

“Can I try?” Cecily Warner asked.

Usually the answer was “no,” but for balloon-animalless waifs like Cecily, Mr. Bobo made exceptions.

–30–

Short Story #22: Pool Hall

Brainstormer prompt: Self-Preservation / Downtown / Pool Hall (Word count: 259)

* * * * * Swift Teddy’s Billiard Emporium was a holdover from a more elegant age. Theodore Felton III took as much pride in polishing the brass fixtures and Art Deco lighting as his father and grandfather had. Although his father insisted on red for the table felt, Teddy Three was gradually replacing it with less-aggressive green. Fewer fights at the green tables.

Tucked between a watch repair shop and a locksmith, Teddy’s was the only place on the block open past 6:00 P.M. Business downtown had been terrible for years, and Teddy Three had given serious thought to selling the place.

“I would,” Margot, his cashier, said. “You keep going and you’ll saddle Teddy Four with it.”

“And he’ll keep it out of loyalty or tradition,” Teddy said, “wind up with a Teddy Five, and so on.”

“Circle of life.”

Teddy thought some more. “But what would I do? Open some hipster place in the ’burbs?”

“More out there than billiards, Teddy.”

“Can you see me selling yogurt? Or shoes?”

Margot laughed. “Not simultaneously. Invest the money.”

“And leave Teddy Four, what—a balance-sheet, a ledger?”

“Fathers have done worse.”

“I dunno: I stop being me, who am I?”

Margot hated when he waxed philosophical. “You’re rich, living happily ever after.”

A foursome at a red table started arguing about whether the cue ball kissed the one before it dropped the twelve.

Teddy shook his head and went to calm things down. “I dunno. I’m gonna keep thinking.

–30–

Short Story #21: Not "To Be"

Prompt: Write a story without using the verb to be. (Word count: 257)

* * * * * Detective Hamish Letterman knocked on the door of apartment 2B. “Anybody home?”

No reply.

Letterman nodded to the officer beside him. “Break it down.”

Inside, the detective pointed two officers in the direction of the rear hall, another to the bedroom that opened off the main room. He took the kitchen, himself.

“Back here,” an officer called.

The corpse lay sprawled over an easel, skewered to the canvas by a spearfishing spear. Letterman directed everyone out, speed-dialed CSU. “Take five, guys, while forensics does their thing.”

As they walked down the hall, raised voices emanated from the main room. “You can’t come in here, sir—what happened to the door?—sir, please step outside.”

Letterman flashed his badge. “Please exit the crime scene, Mister...”

“Oneus. Paul Oneus. My brother lives here.”

“Perhaps. But right now we have a murder victim in the...painting room.”

“Studio, Ham,” one of the officers said.

“Right. Ah, here come the lab boys, Rosencranz and Guildenstern. Rosey, shoot me a pic of the vic, see if Mr. Oneus can ID him.”

“Yeah,” Oneus said a moment later, looking at the screen of Rosencranz’s iPhone. “My baby brother, Dennis Mark.”

“OK,” Letterman said. “Let’s step into the vestibule. Maybe you can answer a few questions for me. Sooner we start, sooner we can catch your brother’s killer. When did you last talk to Dennis?”

Instinctively, Letterman suspected Oneus. But he had no idea how rotten he would turn out in the end.

–30–

Short Story #20: Restaurant!

Prompt: Write a short story set in a restaurant. (Word count: 258)

* * * * * Fifteen-foot red neon proclaimed from the highway: RESTAURANT, which is why Benny asked Joan, “Wanna stop at the restaurant ahead?” As they pulled into the parking lot, no “Ma’s Kitchen” or “Black Oak Diner” identified the greasy spoon portion of the 42-gas pumps/gift shop/showers truck stop. Over the door was simply another red neon sign: Restaurant.

Inside, no one could claim false advertising. It was in fact a restaurant. Vinyl-upholstered booths; well-worn tables and chairs; dark, stain-forgiving carpet; and food. Platters stacked high with chicken-fried steaks and mashed potatoes, towers of pancakes, steaks dripping red off the edge of the plates.

“Tableorbooth,” the gum-cracking hostess asked as the newlyweds’ eyes adjusted to the dim light.

“Booth, Mrs. Wescott?”

“Booth, Mr. Wescott.”

The hostess rolled her eyes as she grabbed a couple menus and led the way to a window seat. “Somethingtodrink?”

“Two Cokes,” Joan answered before Benny could say “One Coke, two straws.” She sensed there was only so much the hostess, Millie by her nametag, could take.

“Anything look good, or should I order off the menu?” Benny asked, nuzzling at Joan.

“Well, the chicken-fried steak looked good. Of course, you’ll be up half the night if you get it.”

“What’ll I do with the time?” More nuzzling.

“And they have Kielbasa, but that gives me a headache.”

“No to the Kielbasa then. Oooh, Monte Cristo. Dare you dare?”

She dared. After all, they had pledged for better or for worse, hadn’t they?

–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 #18: On a Boat!

Prompt: Write a short story set on a boat. (Word count: 259)

* * * * * Rusty Mayer shipped his oars and sidled his canoe beside Janey Bristol’s. “Pardon me, have you any Grey Poupon?”

Janey emptied the bucket she bailing water with into his lap. “Want some more?”

“What the—” Rusty noticed the amount of water in Janey’s canoe. “What’s wrong?”

She emptied another bucketful, this time on the other side. “Must have cracked a seam. Morty’ll probably take the repair cost out of my paycheck.”

Rusty wanted to assure her that he wouldn’t, but realized he’d at least try. “Look, want to get in my canoe. We can tie a rope to the nose.”

“Stern.”

“...and tow it back to camp.”

Janey emptied another bucket and looked at him. “Why’re you being nice to me?”

“Am I?”

“Well, yeah. You could’ve left. Or laughed. Or both. Instead, you’re acting like a person.”

“I guess.” He looked at her, noticed the green flecks in her blue eyes, the curl of hair behind her left ear, her dimpled chin. “Y’know how in third grade if a boy liked you he’d punch you and then run away? I...something about you makes me want to stop acting like a third grader.”

“You asking me out?”

“I’m asking you over to my canoe.”

Janey left the bucket floating in the bottom of her canoe and grabbed the gunwale of Rusty’s. “Is it safe?”

“I won’t hit you, if that’s what you mean. Can’t really run away from someone in a canoe.”

–30–