Stories - Short Fiction Break

Flattened

Lisa, a personal assistant, developed a knack of turning sideways and vanishing like an angelfish. It was an illusion, of course: if you looked closely, she was still there, but less than an inch thick. Most people did not look closely and this was her victory.

She discovered this talent outside the stationery cupboard on floor 7 — the Directors’ floor. She had been restocking their gilt-edged letterhead, a regular task because the Directors enjoyed sending out notes on fancy paper. She emerged from the cupboard and saw Pietr, twenty yards away in the squelchy-carpeted corridor.

Divine January Pt. 2

Twenty-One does not enjoy scouting missions. Even less so when they end with a splitting headache and a crashed ship on a primitive planet. He makes a mental note to file a complaint about this particular flightpath, then adds a note to find a new job as soon as that complaint goes through. Shaking the stars from his eyes and rubbing the spot where his skull met the dashboard, Twenty-One puts in a signal for pickup. As the irritatingly pleasant operator puts him on hold, he pulls up intel on the blue planet that might be his temporary home for the near future.

Luckily for him, the planet is inhabited. Unluckily, the master race has not mastered space travel, nor have they established intergalactic diplomacy. Also unluckily, their language and physiology are too far removed for Twenty-One to make contact without rousing massive public panic. Luckily, they have discovered alcohol.

The Hungry Wolf

Granny sat heavy in my stomach. She tasted of garlic and pickles, not unpleasant, but I knew she’d give me indigestion later. I was still hungry, and after the savouriness of Granny, I was looking forward to the sweetness of Red. There’s nothing like finishing off a big meal with a sweet treat.

I was still picking my teeth when I heard her skipping up to the front door, so I had to think of something quick to keep Red in the house long enough to corner her.

The Diary

The pedestrian walkway under Rideau Street smelled of weed, beer and urine. Shannon hesitated, then walked on with brisk steps.

This route would get her to the bus stop a good fifteen minutes faster than the crosswalk. Nerves spurred her on. Let’s go, let’s get this done. Her heart sang her hope. Hurry, hurry, hurry and see the grandbabies!

She knew this place. She’d been here often, sleeping off a bender in a dank corner, invisible. She’d hated the people who walked by, unaware.

The Year Without a Summer

My closest friend disappeared in the strange, cold summer of 1818. Anna was as close to me as a sister, born on my family’s tobacco plantation to Mimmy, a woman owned by my father and charged with looking over the children in our household. Anna and I were born two months apart; my secrets were hers and hers were mine. Mother fretted over our close bond, but Daddy always said it was harmless. Daddy was wrong.

1818, the year without a summer is what they called it. Late frosts damaged our crops, and tension ran thick throughout the whole plantation. Mimmy said the weather was something mystical and ungodly. Daddy said it was caused by ash from a volcano half around the world. Both were right, I think.

Scallops for a Crowd

A small life, he knows. Loren Birby’s got a restaurant, used for feeding the people in town and catering events. He’s also got a daughter, spunky Sadie, a freshman in college. He raised her with his beautiful wife, Karen. Loren likes running his business, and he even likes having an empty nest.

Until Karen flies off, too.

Blonde and youthful, she picks a podiatrist named Sandy Mullen. An accomplished doctor, Karen’s friends say by way of an excuse. An overpaid toenail trimmer, say Loren’s friends over beers.

The Scarlet Letter: Re-Imagined

The body had been cleaned and was covered with a simple white sheet. Detective Hester Prynne, fresh off an internal review, was called to the scene at Franklin Park. Her partner Richard Bellingham was already there.

“So, how’d it go?” Bellingham asked.

“Just as I thought,” Hester said. “Dimmesdale lied through his teeth, said that he tried breaking off the affair, but I threatened to expose him. And with Dimmesdale’s connections, there was no way they would believe me over him.”

“Hmmm …” was all Bellingham said.

“Oh, don’t give me that I-told-you-so voice. I know it was dumb to get involved with him, but —”

“But I was so in love,” Bellingham teased with a cheeky smile and a forced falsetto.

A Tricky Thing

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.”

Do I?

The Last Game

They played the very last game of the very last World Series in Los Angeles. It was August and below freezing at Dodger Stadium.

As he watched the game on the old television, Melvin Thompson cried a little when one of the players went down on a patch of ice. “Hudson tries to steal second, he slides . . .” — then a pause, it became clear it was not a slide — “he’s not gonna make it, he’s out.” The pitcher went down for good, after going into convulsions in the seventh inning.

One last grasp of happier times, Thompson thought, before sunlight, baseball and hot dogs slipped away for good; before pandemics, a looming ice age and little men in big cars, kidnapping ordinary Americans under the cover of darkness and official badges, took everything away.

The Puppet Beast

I . . . don’t want to do this. I’ve visited Illias village to claim hundreds of sacrifices on hundreds of new moon nights, but this is the first time that thought breaches the swamp of dread in my stomach. I don’t want to do this.

I stop at the top of the valley. The village is dark. Its people are hiding, the way they always do.

At least the stars stay out for me.

The Island Of Ossos

“Tell us about the island, Cap’n!”

Redbeard rolled his eyes.

“Avast, me hearties! No time for that. There be battles to fight!”

His Final Execution

I hefted my axe and ran my thumb along its edge, split and doubled over in places, caked in blood and hair.

Not today. The axe would not touch today’s condemned in its condition. It would be clean and sharp, and it would get a good polish and oiling as well.

The Importance of Tact

Remember this: it takes one person to wind the time handle back, but two to push it forward again.

If you’re going back, take a friend, in case of accidents. The past actively rejects intruders — my own indifferent health being proof of this — just as your body rejects disease. Casualties are frequent. But in this case, your task is simple. There will be two of us to wind the handle forward. All you need to do is locate it, and follow the enclosed instructions.

Divine January Pt. 1

“. . . something unspeakable . . .”

Stanford hits repeat and listens to the whole message again.

“The girl you’re looking for is here. 2310 Santa Barbara. You have ten minutes before I do something unspeakable.”

The message fizzles here. A few more words are spoken but he has difficulty making them out. A few voices overlap and try as he might, Stanford cannot parse them. Instead, he’s working with what he has — those three sentences. And that word.

Unspeakable.

Tessa’s Translations of Thunder

The night my father died, a rare summer storm swept across Coleshill. My sister Tess said the low rumbling bass of the thunder was Dad telling us goodbye. When a starling fluttered by the seed box the next morning she said, “That’s him Paul, that’s him. He wants us to know he is okay.”

I had sat with him the previous evening in the hospital, holding his mottled hand as the last light leaked from his eyes and his papery lips flushed a cold neutral blue.

“Sure,” I said. “Maybe.”

Charm and Insecurity

I haven’t had champagne since that night. Seems like yesterday. I was at Eli’s New Year’s Eve bash, and just before midnight he pulled out an $11,000 dollar bottle of Veuve Clicquot. I nearly orgasmed when I took that first sip. I shouldn’t say this, but the rest of the night was an orgiastic blur.

What? Oh, that was at least fifteen years ago. It was also the night he gave me a ring — it was beautiful. “Keep it,” he said. “One day I’m going to ask you to marry me.”

To think I was dumb enough to believe him.

In My Bones

I am minutes away from spending time with my parents for the first time. My first name is Oliver and that’s all I know. I’m a seventeen-year-old orphan and the white sales associates inside the Memory Room are viewing me with suspicion. A Hispanic man should not have access to 300 credits.

I sit in the pristine, sterile booth waiting for the associates to attach the helmet and goggles. They scan the barcode on my arm, expecting my code to flash red and set off alarms. Nothing happens but the number 0000003 appears. They huff, shuffle, and then retreat, believing their brainwashed stereotype of other races being inferior. Fear rules our society.

Shadow

I’m six years younger than my brother; he’s the smart one.

For as long as I can remember, it’s always been Billy in the spotlight, totally eclipsing me. And this has always struck me as strange; it’s normally the new kid that gets all the attention, and the ones that are already here get jealous of all the “coochy-coochy-coo-ing” the little squib gets from parents and relatives. Maybe I received that attention in the early months of my life — I can’t remember, naturally. But then later, it was all him. All the time. Everywhere.

Twenty-Five Cent Notebooks

Once upon a time, there was a teacher who was enjoying her summer break. The teacher’s husband resented that his wife got summers off. Never mind that she spent all her evenings and weekends during the school year grading papers and preparing lesson plans while her husband watched ESPN and took long naps. He always prepared a chore list for her in the beginning of June. The teacher accepted the list with a smile and said, “Yes, Dear.” She didn’t mind because she had a Merry Maid on speed dial. What her husband didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

The teacher spent her summer days reading and going for leisurely walks. Sometimes she would go shopping and watch harried parents try to manage their kids. She would watch them closing their eyes and counting to ten and think, “Now they know what I have to deal with all school year!”

The Professional

The man who plods into the bar is short, bald, and tired-looking. He drops a dirty pink duffle bag at his feet and hops onto the bar stool next to me. Hops, I say, because he is scarcely higher than the stool itself. I worry for a moment that he will slip and tumble off, but he does not. Perched atop it, he leans his stubby arms onto the greasy bar and sighs. His posture reminds me of an old parrot. Or maybe it’s the bright red bomber jacket he’s wearing.

“Gin,” he says to the bartender. Then, wearily, he tosses a glance at me. “Hey.”

Life Lines

My life has been reduced to a few lines on a piece of paper. My memories are fading fast, and I know that if I don’t write them down they will be gone forever.

My name is Martha Geller. But I think at one time my surname was Jensen, so maybe I was married — maybe I’m currently married. I just don’t know anymore. To hold on to some sense of myself, every few minutes I say my name over and over so I don’t forget it.

My name is Martha Geller, my name is Martha Geller, and I’m scared.

The Spy With the Yellow Hat Goes to the Library

Standing in the tight space between the front seats of the van, Ted used the rearview mirror to examine his appearance. “I hate this. I look like a moron,” he said as he fussed with the knot of his yellow and black polka dotted tie.

“Can’t help how you were born,” Ruben said with a smile.

“Please, I look good. It’s this damn outfit,” Ted retorted.

Ruben typed on his keyboard and the three monitors in front of him came to life. “The boss says wear the suit. You wear the suit. That’s how it goes,” he said.

The Woods

“Your turn.”

This and Sarah’s nudge in the back hit Thomas like a slap with a wet towel. He jerked his head off the pillow; by the bedside clock it was three a.m., meaning he’d been asleep for just two hours, and he had an important meeting in the morning.

“You go, love,” he groaned.

Sarah nudged him again, more forcefully this time.

“C’mon Tom! I went last night. And you said you wanted to share.”

Missing, part 2

I sat in my car in the parking lot, seething, as I kept an eye on the apartment door. I had gotten the girl’s address off the label on a Mother Jones magazine Jeremy had left at my house. After being stopped by a train on my way here, I had arrived later than planned. Hopefully she hadn’t left yet.

My son would thank me for this one day. He was about to make a huge mistake and derail his whole life. All because of this little tramp.

The Coin

I have scoured my memory for her. At first I scrubbed at the surface of my mind, but this is the wrong approach. Too much dirt falls away as you discard unwanted clumps — dirt which might hold clues. The way to do it is brush, brush, brush, sweep away the rubble — schools, foster homes, detentions — until a speck of reality shines through.

When you see it, you want to clutch it, hug it to you, admire it again and again. But a memory from when you’re five years old wears thin, like a gold coin hammered into leaf.

I have just a few coins. The fabric of her skirt. Her dark hair, tied back in the heat. Her first name; her surname, like mine, is too common to be any use. Her real name: Mama.

The Ambassador

“Excuse me.”

I nearly drop my phone into the water. A woman has approached. I shoot a quick glance at the parking lot to see if her ride has dropped her off but, seeing it still stands empty, decide that she must have come from one of the houses down the street, quite a task in a wheelchair.

“Careful there,” she says with amusement. “I assume you are my ride?”

The Terminal Phase of the Stoplight Parrotfish

They had come to Little Cayman to end their lives. Arthur had even said as much to the young couple in the chalet next door.

“We’re here to die,” he told them, with a mischievous sidelong look at his wife. They had assumed that he meant they were here, like everyone else at the resort, to dive. This was also true. They would take the morning boat out to the Bloody Bay Wall and fin-kick over the edge, where the shallow coral shelf slopes into a vertical underwater cliff face. Then they would keep going.

Conference Room Number 3

The shot rang out in the small conference room, and the bullet that exited the gun’s chamber unfortunately found its way to me … well, to my head, to be exact.

The effing moron with the gun was, first off, a poor shot, and second, some asshole who couldn’t handle the fact that his wife was insisting on becoming his ex-wife.

My body lay slumped over the seat in front of me, some of the contents of my skull splayed all over the pretty spring dress of the woman who sat there, the actual target of the gunman’s rage.

Bot or Boy

Bailey picked up his pace when he saw that Eli was already seated on the steps. Although he’d never admit it, this was his favorite part of the day. Handing out towels at the welcome desk at the gym was monotonous, and going home to his one-room apartment was isolating, but lunch with Eli was engaging and fun. He felt like he was back in school, hanging out with friends and goofing around, before they’d all been sorted into their assigned professions and sent their different ways.

Eli was already partway into his vitamax sandwich by the time Bailey sat down. “You started without me?” Bailey complained.

“Yeah, sorry,” Eli said, his words blunted by his full mouth. He took a swig from his water bottle and said, “I had my quarterly check-up last night and they cut my calorie count again. They said something about my blood pressure getting to high, so I was starving by noon.”

Zip

Hayley Ball stood by the set, lost in a memory of the last ninety seconds of her beam routine. The Olympic crowd held their breaths for the teenage star taking on the giants of gymnastics from China and Russia. She completed her routine — daring and perfect, landing with a satisfying thump on the suedette beam. Then time for the spectacular dismount — she would attempt two tucked backflips with a single full twist, to thunderous applause. She tensed, sprang into their air and —

“Cartwheel!” said the director.

Hayley said “Oh,” and missed her cue. By the time she cartwheeled across the set, the supporting team of three bouncy cheerleaders had completed their ra-ra-ras and the entire production team was glaring at her.

Old Cyclists Never Die

“So, dad.”

Christopher fidgeted in his chair. His father eyed him from the sofa, then switched his focus to Dorothy, his son’s wife, then back to Christopher. Albert was old and not as bright as he once had been, but he knew an intervention when he saw one — although he wouldn’t have known the word for it.

“What is it, son?”

Missing

The neighborhood cats love my yard. I don’t know why. Every time I look out the window there are at least two cats out there, perched on a fencepost or skulking through the tall weeds behind the shed. When I open the back door, they look at me like I’m the intruder. They love the unused flower beds best of all. I think cats come from miles around to shit in my flower beds. I can imagine their conversations. “It’s the best outdoor litter box you’ve ever seen. Just the right ratio of sand to mulch. Let me give you directions.”

After the sun sets, my backyard turns into a kitty night club. I couldn’t guess how many kittens have been conceived back there. Judging from the amount of yowling, hundreds. At least.

Coffee

In February, I survived a devastating car accident. It was quite the affair, the whole shebang. Light at the end of the tunnel, life flashing before my eyes, clinically dead for thirty seconds, seeing Death himself, everything. They tell me I’m lucky to be alive, even luckier that I only sustained simple fractures in my legs, though the bruises on my face will take time to fade and there may be some short-term memory loss. My heart stopped, but they started it back up again. The guy behind me was fishing for his phone and not paying attention. He plowed into me. My back seat was in the front seat and me? I was just lucky. I lived.

To Keep the Beast Away

Rune’s fingers ceased their slow, rhythmic tapping. His thoughts had carried him away from the poem he was reading. Rubbing his eyes, he was surprised to find them aching. As he tried to resume reading, the lines blurred and twisted and overlapped. What was the time?

“Sir?”

The librarian’s voice came from her desk, hidden behind shelves. Its sound was weighed down by tiredness, hollow as if disembodied. The Swedish man played with the thought for a second — a ghostly librarian gliding through the shelves, watching readers.

“We’re closing in half an hour.”

He snapped out of his reverie, his head jolting up, his eyes following reluctantly, but he had to know, he had to look. Outside the window was a solid black wall.

Blue

Pema tiptoed through the amber morning light as fast as she dared, her feet silent on the titanium ground panels. She clutched her shoes to her chest to contain her clanging heart and kept her head down, as if this would make the passageway stay empty. Her mother’s voice filled her head.

We’re starting on Field 4-1 today.

Something about a generator down. Routine Maintenance. Pema didn’t hear the rest. Didn’t ask questions. She couldn’t. Panic had gripped her throat too tight.

A Thousand Fires

It was after midnight when the soldiers marched to the village in Myanmar. Flames flickered as if the sun had exploded.

“Wake up,” whispered Mya, ripping her son from his dreams.

There wasn’t time to pack. No food, no warm clothes. Kafia rubbed his eyes, arms around his mother’s swelled belly.

“Momma, what’s happening?” Fear and a million questions stared back at her.

“We have to go.”

White Blanket

It starts with a light kiss, a gentle pressing of the lips together. I feel tiny, I feel completely unworthy of having this man standing above me, looking down on me. He is burly sinew, he is mature, he seems like a god, he may actually be one. What am I doing?

Yet there is an electricity between us I haven’t felt in a long time, like a shock, and it spreads a sparkly warmth down to my toes.

A Visit From Death

Save for a faint beeping noise, the room was quiet. It looked and smelled like most hospital rooms I’d seen, cold and antiseptic. A man occupied the couch in the corner, fast asleep. The body of a young boy, about twelve years old, lay on the bed, emaciated and unmoving. The body was connected to several machines surrounding the bed by various tubes and cables. The boy’s soul sat on the side of the bed, legs swinging absentmindedly. A thin, diaphanous cable stretched from him and disappeared into the body’s chest. He glanced at me then turned away, assuming I was just another mortal.

“Hello, Wes.”

Forgive Me

That morning, my mother had not felt well enough to get out of bed. Her breath was laboured and it was, no doubt, from the dust and plaster in the air which we had no choice but to inhale. She called out from her room as I was trying to calm the boys. They were inconsolable and at one and two-and-a-half years old I couldn’t help them to understand that maybe there would be more food tomorrow. I held Faisal close to my chest and rubbed Tahir’s back hoping that it offered some comfort.

Rasha jumped up before I had a chance and said, “I’ll check Grandma.” Her tender, helpful heart made me smile just a little and I secretly hoped that she never lost those traits despite the circumstances in which she would have to grow up. She galloped down the hall and at the same second I saw her disappear into the adjacent room, I felt the sound before I heard it and my stomach sank.

The Collection Agency

I was five minutes late, only five minutes, but the Mentor can be quite unforgiving, as well as merciless. I tried to explain that there were some unforeseen circumstances, but he didn’t want to hear excuses — he never did. I knew the Mentor was demanding when the job was given to me … well, thrust upon me really, I never would have chosen it for myself. I was told the life I had before was gone, but it was hard to let go, and the Mentor thought that made me weak. I didn’t care, though. I wanted to remember the happiness, and the smiling faces of people I loved, but had to leave. That’s why I was late; I went back to observe them, and he knew it.

Sometimes I could see flashes of that old life; bits and pieces of faces, remnants of times that seemed more like dreams than real experiences. The Mentor told me that “my feelings cannot interfere in the job we are tasked to do.”

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