Connections

I ducked into the empty donut shop.

“Two double chocolates,” I said, slipping off my wet coat. “And two coffees. Black.”

From behind the counter, she smiled.

“Two?” she asked. “Who’s the second one for?”

I slid onto my favorite stool.

“You.”

I saw this challenge to create a 42 word short story about the meaning of life, and this is what I came up with. Oh, and, by the way, I won the challenge.

Greed

There was not enough. Never enough.

An extra box of Pop Tarts became an extra case. A second pair of shoes at the same price became a stockroom in her closet. A second hammer, another set of spare tires, a set of guest towels became, over time, a mountain of stuff, rotting in piles across her lawn. Her home became a prison, so encumbered with THINGS that she could find no more room for herself. Or for Frank, who finally left when his pillow, his one sacrosanct spot of his own, disappeared beneath a down comforter, forever entombed in plastic wrap, a bargain so good she couldn’t pass it up.

She stood in front of the stove, boxes pushing at her from all sides, forgotten dusty bouquets of plastic flowers threatening to topple onto her at any moment.

She wrinkled her nose at the smell of the gas. She thought of last Sunday’s sermon, about greed, about the useless accumulation of things, about the better life that waited for her somewhere else.

She selected a matchbook from the overflowing ceramic bowl on what used to be her kitchen counter. “Antonio’s Pizza” read the matchbook cover. Frank took her there the night after he won a bowling trophy, a trophy that was now irretrievably buried in the detritus of her existence, in the neverending pile of goods she’d surrounded herself with.

Give away all you have. Give it away to the poor. She knew that’s what Jesus would want.

But that would be too hard.

She struck the match.

Written for Leah Petersen's 5 Minute Fiction challenge.

World Robot Domination: Episode 16 - Meet the Parents

What’s the worst that could happen?

I mean, hey, I wasn’t the first guy to fall for a robot. Was I?

She was tall, sleek, and silver, with shiny red eyes and a body that could stop a train. Literally. I saw it happen.

And when she squeezed me, well, let’s just say I saw stars, baby.

So I figured, you know, it’s Easter, time for the family to come together. I’d bring her home. Introduce her to everybody.

She rolled into the living room.

“Mom, I’d like you to meet X1-V27.”

“Greetings, humanoid,” X1-V27 purred.

My mom just stood there.

“I will not have one of those thing in my house,” my mom said.

“Come on, Mom,” I said. “I love her. You will, too.”

“Never. It’s not welcome here.”

“But I’m going to marry her.”

“Over my dead body,” Mom said.

“As you wish,” said X1-V27.

Whoops.

The funeral’s tomorrow. The wedding’s the day after.

Party Scene

He couldn’t stop staring.

The hair- curly, blonde, unkempt yet somehow perfectly in place.
The eyes – sparkling, devastating, green.
The smile – friendly, disarming, and blinding in its intensity

She had a coterie of people around her, mostly male, all of them vying for a just a glance.

He looked at his scuffed shoes, his threadbare suit. He looked again at the invitation impossibly sent to him. Yes, it definitely had his name and address. But he was just a writer, a lowly writer of lowly works, the most crass science fictional trash that a low rent soft-porn publishing outfit could produce.

Yet here he was, drink in hand, staring across the room at the most gorgeous woman in the world.

He drained his drink in silence, looked around at the rest of the beautiful people, none of whom had done as much as smiled at him the entire hour he’d been there. And him, certain it was all a terrible mistake, too shy to even ask for a plate of shrimp.

Enough. He shoved his hands into his pockets and headed for the door.

“Excuse me.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and struggled for air as he stared into her eyes. They were even more amazing up close.

She handed him a book, a worn paperback. It was “Slime Slaves of G’harrn,” his first novel.

“Would you sign it for me?”

All he could do was nod.

She took him by the hand and led him back into the party.

This was written for Leah Petersen's weekly 5 Minute Fiction contest.

Familiarity

Her neck.

Her voice.

Her left heel.

The way she walks.

The way she smells.

The way she looked deep into my eyes. And laughed.

All this stays with me. But only the small unframed photo, buried at the bottom of my jewelry box, remains.

Written for Leah Petersen's 5 Minute Fiction blog.

Unexpected

The other day I (once again) participated in Leah Petersen's weekly Five Minute Fiction exercise. This week's writing prompt was "unexpected."


And before I share the story I came up with, a quick mention for the CONTEST she is now running. She's trying to grow her blog and, if she gets to 100 followers, she'll be giving away books and a hand-knitted item of your choice. I, for one, am always up for a new scarf. So head over and click on that little box on the right hand side to become a follower and enter the contest.

Meanwhile, here's my story.

She’d watched it hundreds of times. In fact, it was the first thing of theirs she ever remembered seeing, way back when she was 8 or 9, staying overnight at Debra’s house, watching TV later than she’d ever been allowed to at home. Strange, sometimes unintelligible to her at that age, but always and forever, somehow, funny.

“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!”

She and Debra played out the sketch on the playground, to their friends’ bemusement.

“Tie her to the comfy chair,” she’d shout, and Debra would comply. Soon their friends joined in the game and they’d rush around the playground, shouting about their “chief weapons” and poking boys with imaginary Soft Cushions.

And then, soon enough, they became more concerned with teasing the boys, and acting aloof, and, much later, competing for the boys.

And she moved to another town, found a new group of friends and a gruesome new group of boys and then college and then a move to the big city, alone.

And then, one night, alone as always, she saw the sketch on TV. And she thought about Debra. For the first time in years, she thought about Debra. And she smiled.

She found Debra on Facebook. They posted on each other’s walls. They rediscovered the many things they had in common. They realized that they only lived a few miles apart.

And they reconnected. And the bond was even stronger than before.

And now they’re not alone. And the Soft Cushions only signal the beginning.

In Memory Yet Green

A short story I wrote titled "In Memory Yet Green" (named after Isaac Asimov's autobiography) appears in the anthology My First Time by SoftCopy Publishing.

It's only available electronically. You can download it from Amazon right now.

All the pieces in the anthology open with the phrase "The first time I" and then go from there. Mine is a piece about memory, about writing, about Isaac Asimov. Of course.

Please go buy a copy - it's only $2.99 - and read my story, plus the stuff from the other 49 contributors.

Reverse

I looked behind me. Just what I thought.

More flowers.

Dammit.

I pumped the handle seven more times and slammed the lever backward again. Backward, dammit, go backward!

The vibration shook the whole tub. I closed my eyes this time until the shaking stopped.

I took a deep breath.

I looked behind me.

More flowers.

Dammit!

I leapt out of the tub, kicked it over, then let myself topple, crushing my outline into the peonies.

I stared up at the sky. Empty. Empty as it will always be.

I was alone. Truly, utterly, inexcusably alone. No sign that humans had ever touched this planet. I’d wiped it out. Everything. Everyone. Even Laila.

Laila.

I did it for her. I swear, I just wanted to make it better for her. Better air. Less crowding. I didn’t want to empty the whole planet.

Really.

I’m sorry.

I’ll write a note. Stick it in this tub. And maybe, just maybe, millions of years from now, some hyperintelligent peony will see that once upon a time there was one single idiot, alone and adrift, regretting the day he left the instruction book on his desk.

This was written for Leah Petersen's 5 minute fiction contest.

Preview

I glanced down into the blue light. I could make out an image, maybe a person, but I was too scared to really focus. I looked back at Tommy.

“Are you sure it’s real?”

“Hell, yeah,” he said, grabbing the rock from my hands. “If you’re too chicken shit to look in it, I’ll give someone else a turn. You can have your five bucks back.”

“But where did you get it?”

“I told you, I found it, that’s all you need to know.” He hopped back onto his bike, the rock under his arm. “You want to find out or not?”

Shit.

“Okay,” I said.

Tommy smiled that devilish little grin of his and hopped back onto the grass.

“All right. Now just look in it until you see the picture. It will be there and it will tell you your destiny. Your best moment. The highlight of your life.”

“How do I know it’ll come true?”

“You’re such a chicken shit. Walt Greaney saw a bank vault and you know he’s a genius with money. And Sara Tomlinson saw herself at a beauty pageant – Miss damned America! It’s totally psychic, man. Just look!”

He stuck the rock out at me. I took it, sat down, cross-legged, and looked at the surface.

The blue light slowly grew and I could see an image. It was a person, definitely a person. It was me. I could tell it was me, but I looked so old, so bald and pudgy. I was holding a bowling trophy.

I threw the rock as hard as I could.

This was written for Leah Petersen's 5 minute fiction contest.

Cuffed

I wrote this yesterday for Leah Petersen's five minute fiction challenge.

I did not win, I was not even a finalist. But I liked what I came up with...

I first spotted her at the blood pressure machine, left arm cuffed. She wore sweatpants and a tank top. Her hair was unkempt at best. I shouldn’t have given her a second glance.

But there was something about her. Though I couldn’t even see her eyes, I couldn’t peel mine away. Maybe it was her skin, so smooth, pale, just the suggestion of freckles on the shoulders. I guess I’ll never know.

I stood, frozen, the cart still empty in front of me. I’d been heading for the pharmacy aisle with the intention of also making a quick trip through produce, but I couldn’t move. I listened, entranced, as the machine click click clicked, the cuff slowly releasing its grasp on her arm.

Finally, it relaxed, the reading done, and she withdrew her arm, satisfied, I think, with the result. She spotted me immediately and gave a sort of hesitant half-smile. Her face was extraordinary. Porcelain, the disheveled red hair serving to highlight her delicate features.

“It’s all yours,” she said.

Puzzled, I simply blinked a couple of times, then, broken from my reverie, realized what she meant.

“Oh, right,” I said. “Thanks.”

I had no desire to take my blood pressure – I’d fought hypertension for years and frankly feared the results – but my guilt at being caught staring got the best of me, and I took my seat in the machine.

She didn’t give me a second glance as she walked toward the front of the store. The cuff was already squeezing my arm, sending tingles into my forearm.

I cursed, disturbed with my utter inability to initiate even the most rudimentary conversation with her.

I pushed the button to interrupt the reading, pulled out my arm and, heart racing, rushed to the front door.

All the Way

Sammy Davis, Jr., stared into the cold, lizardlike eyes of the alien being sitting across from him, sighed, then tossed his cards onto the table.

“Man, I just cannot read this dude.”  Sammy finished off his highball and sighed.

            

Dean Martin threw a $100 chip in the pot.  “I’m in.”

            

Peter Lawford folded quickly and all eyes turned to Frank.

            

Sinatra exhaled a long plume of smoke and called the bet.  “All right, kid.  What’ve you got?”

            

The alien flipped its hole card with a long, spindly claw and attempted to grin as it exposed a fourth king.

           

“Read them and weep,” it said in a growling monotone.

“Dammit,” Sammy stood quickly, kicking away his chair. “We’re in deep trouble, cats.”

Lawford chimed in, “He’s right, Frank. There’s no stopping this guy.”

“Cool it.” Sinatra leaned forward, stared into the alien’s eyes. “I’m changing the deal."

Syndication

I’m a Mark Harris now, a Man From Atlantis.  I was a Fonz until last season.   My parents are Bradfords.  Still.  Most of my friends are Starskys or Fonzies or Columbos.  Except for one guy who’s still a Gilligan.  He’ll never get an Angel that way.  You’ve got to move on.  We can’t all be Gilligans forever.  That’s what my Dad says.  He’s really more of a Ward than a Tom.  They’re all still living in syndication.  I like the new stuff.  Every season, something new comes up.  I like to pick my favorites early and take a chance that it will stay on for more than one season.  Though nowadays, some of the new shows don’t even last that long.  They disappear after a few episodes and we never see them again, not even in syndication.

Somebody, probably a Tom Snyder, figured out that word, syndication, from the Broadcasts.  For a long time we thought that when a show went away, the Broadcasts were angry with us.  Some go away very quickly.  But sometimes, they return, usually in between the games and daytimes but before the new episodes begin.  That’s syndication -- the time in between new shows.

All the Broadcasts tell us how life should be lived.  We try hard to follow the Broadcasts.  Most of them take place in a mythical world called Los Angeles.  It doesn’t really exist anywhere, or so the Sagans say.  But we all know that.  Nothing in the Broadcasts is real.  They’re simply messages, telling us what to do.  Messages from someone far away.

A Potsie kid told me once that the Broadcasts started millions of years ago on some long dead planet.  I told him, “Sit on it.”  That’s about the only thing a Potsie understands.

I found this short story on a floppy disc. A floppy disc. I wrote it in August 1996.

Breathe Easy

Frank grabbed the toaster out of my hand.

“Hey! I’ve got bread in there!”

“I don’t care.” He fingered the dangling cord. “I’ve got more to worry about than burnt bread.”

“I know, And I’m sorry, but, I can’t really help you. I’ve almost gone through my quota.”

Frank opened my trash can, tipped the toaster and shook my bread slices into the bin.

“Nice.”

“Hey,” he said, dropping the toaster in after the bread. “You brought this upon yourself, my friend.”

I gave up.

“Fine.” I said. “I will give you all the air you need.”

He smiled. “I thank you.” 

He grabbed the long hose and attached it to his breathing tank, then kicked on the compressor.

I watched his needle rise and my needle fall.

“Thanks again, buddy.” He wiped some condensation off his faceplate, stuck it over his head and took in a few deep breaths. Then he winked at me, slipped into the airlock and exited into the haze.

Stupid global warming.

Thanks for the writing prompt, @alphabete 

Untitled Five Minute Fiction

Leah Petersen hosts a weekly Five Minute Fiction contest on her blog. This week, I decided to play along. She posts a one-word writing prompt and you then have five minutes to write a story.

Here's what I came up with. Oh, and I won the contest. Woo hoo!

“Hungry?”

He cocked an eyebrow at me. Stupid Vulcan. He hasn’t got more than that one stupid expression. At least not that I’ve seen in these seven months.

“I found another bug under the mattress.”

He didn’t even glance at me, just sat there, meditating or whatever it is Vulcans do for hour upon hour, day in, day out.

“Fine, I’ll eat it.”

When they threw us both into this cell, I figured his super strength and logic would get us out in no time.

No such luck.

Green blooded bastard.

“Hey!”

He glanced over.

“Why don’t you work on a plan to get us out of here instead of just sitting there another day like a big, stupid pointy eared rock.”

He reached over, pinched my neck.

Sometimes, it’s the only way I can get to sleep.

Names

I decided I’d make my fortune with a science fiction novel, maybe an epic saga, not unlike Asimov’s Foundation series.  He often claimed that he merely cribbed The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire.  Change the names, add atomic powered spaceships and bang, instant classic.

I was going to do it with the story of Lyndon Johnson. In space.

Start with a backwater planet, a place fiercely independent and proud of its own heritage, yet saddled with vast regions of dirt poor farmers and ranchers. And a young boy who grows up there, lying to his friends and neighbors, possessing an instinctive genius for political manuevering, ends up in the galactic council or whatever I ended up calling it.  Round about volume three or four I’d have to come up with the Vietnam of space, but that was much later.  And the space Kennedys.  It just all seemed to fall into place in my head.  Sketchy, but doable.

First I had to come up with the planet.  I wanted to name the planet first.  I mean Texas produced LBJ, was instrumental in producing him, so my space Texas had to be just as unique.  Then I had to name spaceboy himself, little Lyndon.  In fact, maybe I needed his name first, then work backwards to the name of the planet.

Drebbin. Nope.

Shamlet Walker.Maybe

Initials! That was it. Maybe give him the initials LBJ, but don't use them. That would help future academicians to help understand my underlying metaphor. "A ha!" one would say. "The hero has the same initials as LBJ! It must be some sort of parable. I shall write my thesis on it!"

Okay, so future doctorates depended on this. Let's see. Had to be subtle, but strong.

Lipid. Lipid Behrans Joculan. Yes. A good space name.

So young Lipid, who'd be given the nickname of "cowboy" as a kid (genius!) would grow up a backwoods space farmer, then go on to bring the glory of galactic civilization back to his homeworld, then rise to patriarchal overlord of the imperial senate, then ascend the throne to become the Great Space Emperor.

It would practically write itself!

Yes, and the great space Vietnam would loom over Emperor Lipid's reign, even as he continued to make strides toward equality for aliens and humans.

Oh yeah, baby.

So, next I needed the name of the planet. Lodestar. Yes! It was like saying Lone Star when you had a stuffy nose, and Lone Star, of course, is the nickname of Texas. So subtle! So perfect! The future doctoral dissertations were piling up!

So Lipid B. Joculan of the planet Lodestar. Right. Now an opening sentence.

An opening sentence.

Well, that could wait until tomorrow. I had the actual hard work done. Names. Naming a thing gives it power. I had the power.

I took the power and stuck it in the back of my brain. It short circuited, spun me around. I wobbled, fell back on my bed.

The ceiling spiralled. My feet floated. I could see the light. Rising. Rising.

Then a hat. And a face. A familiar face. Scowling. And then a voice. A familiar voice.

"Don't screw with me, boy."

I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the giant head of Lyndon Johnson now consuming my depth of field. But he burned through my eyelids, pried them open with the force of his will.

"Listen to me, boy. I will not stand for this. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"I said, do you understand?"

"Y-yes."

"Good. And don't try to recast it with Jack, either. Get your own damned ideas."

"Yes, sir."

And he began to fade, and I relaxed, and then he was back.

"Wait. Use Dick. Skewer the son of a bitch."

And with that, he was gone.

I sat up.

Let's see.

Dixon. Flitchart Dixon of the planet Lorbayinda...

Souvenir

She keeps it in her dresser drawer. The top drawer, with her jewelry and stockings and souvenir matchbooks.

Sometimes, when she feels truly alone, she unseals the plastic bag and takes a long sniff. His scent is still there. Or so she tells herself.

It’s soothing. Comforting. It makes her feel like he’s still here.

She only saw him once. In Atlantic City. She’d been so young. He seemed so old.

She’d gone to the concert with her friend Beverly. Whatever happened to Beverly? Hope she didn’t marry a lout like Mike.

Mike. Ugh.

She risks another whiff. This time she touches it, just for a moment, letting her fingertips brush the silk.

He’d been so electric. Sure, in retrospect, he looked a little unhealthy, sometimes he even forgot the words of the songs, but he was so alive, so vital, so important.

And he’d whisked that scarf from around his neck and walked to the edge of the stage, and she caught his eye, and she began shaking, she couldn’t stand up, it was so hard, and he looked at her, and he touched her hand, and he gave her the scarf.

Beverly never spoke to her again.

She seals the bag, sticks it back in her drawer, safely tucked in the very back, on top of her 45 rpm record of “Can’t Help Falling in Love With You.”

“Thank you,” she says to no one. “Thankyouverymuch.”

Noodle

They called him Noodle.

He never knew why.

Maybe because of the limp. Maybe the stringy blond hair. Who knew anymore? Kids say the darnedest things, and all that.

So Noodle it was.

He joined the Navy. They overlooked the limp, desperate, he guessed, for sailors. They shaved his head, for which he thanked them.

He lived on an aircraft carrier, a giant city on the sea. He filled vending machines for twelve hours a day. Off duty, he learned to smoke and stare at overhead conduits and tune out the noise of the other men.

He made one friend. One.

He told no one about his name. They all called him Rayburn, if they called him anything at all.

During an extended leave, his friend invited him to stay at another guy's apartment. They were three Navy guys, stuck in a second floor craphole in San Diego.

Friday morning, he woke to the sound of thumping. Thuds. Laughter. Strain. He shouldn't be able to hear it. He tunes out every noise on the ship. Why would this wake him?

He stumbles into the living room where the other two guys are wrestling. Wrestling. On the living room floor. Are they drunk? It's five in the morning.

"Stop it," he says.

"Tell me that to my face, Rayburn," one of them replies, slamming the other to the floor. The whole place rattles.

There's a banging on the door. An urgent knocking.

He opens it. It's a girl. A woman. She's, well, gorgeous. Her eyes are blue, bluer than, yes, the Mediterranean. He's speechless.

"Will you guys knock it off?"

She's wrapped in a flannel robe. She's tired. She's angry. She's beautiful.

"Oh, sorry," he says.

The other two guys rush to the door. "Yeah, we're sorry. Real sorry."

She nods, begins to walk away.

"Hey," one of the other guys says, "You wanna come in?"

She stops. Faces them. "No," she says, smiling. "Actually, I want to kill you."

They laugh. They smack each other on the back and head toward the refrigerator.

She looks at him. He watches her pad down the hall.

"Sorry," he says again.

She stops, turns, looks at him.

"I don't really know them," he says. It just comes spilling out. "I tried to stop them. I don't really understand them. I guess they're used to being on a big, noisy ship."

She blinks, shoves her hands into the pockets of her robe.

"Well, they've ruined my morning."

"I know," he says. He walks into the hall. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee to make up for their idiocy?"

She stares at him. "What's your name?"

"Noodle," he blurts out, unthinking.

"Noodle?"

He nods.

'Really?"

He nods again.

She shakes her head. Says nothing, It feels like ten thousand years go by.

"Yeah," she says. "You can buy me a cup of coffee. And then we're gonna come back upstairs and kill those guys."

He closes the door behind him.

Contact

Looking up at the blank disc, she thought, “Orange?”

Hovering, just like those books said, somewhere just above the treetops.

She always thought they’d be silver. Not orange.

She fumbled through her purse, then cursed her luck for leaving her camera at home. Now she’d be seen as just another rube, some glory-hungry moron making up stories about flying saucers.

The media would crucify her. The skeptics would scoff. She’d be sent for an evaluation and then a quiet demotion and then unanticipated “budget cuts” would send her packing.

Dammit.

The disc descended, touched the ground, now only a dozen yards away.

She watched, silent, as a door, for lack of a better word, appeared and opened on the surface of the disc.

Will you look at that. A live, gray alien just like all the books described. So angelic, delicate, curious. Friendly. Her heart pounded.

She was witness to a visitor from another planet. She raised her arm, pointed at the alien.

BOOM.

The alien fell backwards, shuddered, then grew still as a pool of orange blood formed around it.

Good thing she’d remembered to pack her pistol.

Strung

She strung me up like as much meat, like a dirty gambler in one of those cowboy movies, like a kite in a tree, strung up, deserted, left for dead. Thanks a lot, baby.








This was concocted in 60 seconds after seeing a one word writing prompt at http://oneword.com. 

Leap

“Mister Darien?”

He opened his eyes, but otherwise didn’t move.

“Mister Darien, do you know where you are?”

He glanced around. He couldn’t move. A woman in a lab coat stared at him. Though not unfriendly, the whole room seemed sterile, clinical. A hospital?

“Mister Darien, can you hear me?”

He nodded.

“Mister Darien, you’ve been through a shock. But I have to ask you this. What year is it? Do you remember what year it is?”

He furrowed his brow and finally croaked out an answer. “1942.”

The woman frowned. He watched her shuffle to some strange high-tech gadgets. She sounded American. But this room, this technology, it seemed so, well, foreign.

“How…” he began, but no more words would come. He felt so drained, so tired. So old.

She nodded. “You were in an accident. Do you remember any of it?”

He strained at the thought. He could feel the rumble of the plane, hear the flak exploding all around. He could see Bains and Ennis heading for the door, ready to jump.

“I’m right behind you!” he remembered shouting, struggling to retighten his parachute rig, then he, too, went to the door and he saw first Bains and then Ennis, torn apart by enemy fire almost before they had a chance to pull open their chutes, then the Lieutenant grabbing him before he could make the leap, shouting at him, telling him the plans had changed, and he could see them shut the door.

But wait. He’d made it. The plane landed safely. Then he could see Becky, her face, their wedding, the kids, he could see their three kids, and the beach house and then his daughter’s wedding and all those years at Upton’s Department Store and his retirement party and he could see the road, the rain-slicked road, and Becky beside him, and his struggle to keep the car on the road, and he felt so old, and he could hear her scream and he looked up at the doctor and now he remembered.

“Becky?” he asked.

The doctor shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

He closed his eyes to 2010 and leaped out of the plane.