Stories - Short Fiction Break

THE RECONCILIATION

Mr. and Mrs. Venas were teleporters who looked like human beings. At the same time, they were the royals who ruled the mice populace in Porterland—an underground kingdom. Though they craved children, they wouldn’t have dreamt they would one day possess one of their own kind, either by chance or procreation. But it happened that Samantha, a beautiful 10-year-old girl, negligently went hunting, then went missing into a large mouse hole with her dog, and that seemed all.

The queen rose that evening and sped into the hall to the King.

“We must meet the mice,” she said.

ARTIFICIALLY INTELLIGENT

Pamela stormed into the living room, where George was lying on the sofa reading a science magazine.

“You’re an idiot!” Pamela stood over her husband, hands on hips, red in the face.

George dropped the magazine.

“What?!”

“A blithering idiot.”

“What are you talking about?”

The Anniversary Train

Lou and Jetta sat silently inside the tent, holding hands in the darkness. Outside, thunder rumbled, and rain pounded on the plastic roof as if trying to get inside.

Lou cleared his throat. “We have to make a decision.”

“I know,” said Jetta quietly. “What do you want?”

A sudden flash lit up the tiny space like day, and Jetta saw the grief on Lou’s face. Her stomach twisted, knowing she caused him so much pain.

“You know what I want,” Lou said.

Finding Rachel

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a runner.

The door slammed shut, rattling the walls. I’d drawn it extra hard to make my point. Outside, I spun on my heels and zipped up my hoodie. The day had gone so well until we began arguing over something trite. And through some circuitous route, we’d ended back at a discussion we’d been having for the last few months. I could have stopped the argument, but I had already set myself up to bolt.

A gust of wind blew when the front door opened.

She’s Back

It had been one of those Rarotonga summers when the heat consumed the day at dawn and baked the island late into the evening. The air was sticky, and many of the young honeymooners preferred the comfort of air-conditioned spas or their cleaned hotel sheets to the beach—even if it was whale season.

Marie Fuller preferred the ocean.

“Not much further, Marie.”

She nodded, eyes on the waves that broke against the front of the boat. She gripped the railing and tilted her chin over her shoulder to acknowledge her husband, but stopped. Leaned forward instead.

Still, I Think of Him Every Day

I’m back again.

In that stupid plastic chair. Under those heinous fluorescent lights. Drinking copper-flavored fountain water. Eating a doughnut ten other people touched. Listening to those ten other people drone on about their lives. Watching them blow snot into their tissues and then use that same tissue to dry their eyes.

When I first started coming to these meetings, I liked to think I was so much better than all of them, the sniveling messes. They were pathetic.

But that voice on my shoulder whispered the truth behind my dry eyes. I was a monster wearing the skin of an objectively attractive twenty-four-year-old. I was pathetic.

Some Sentences About My Sentence

I etched the slanted line onto the wall. Once done, I looked across the expansive wall. Three hundred sixty-five of these lines I had carved into the rough surface of the stone. I had only been in this cell for ten days, but I am an impatient guy by nature and three hundred sixty-five just looked more dramatic than ten. Also, no one really tells you this, but when you’re sitting in a prison cell there aren’t that many activities you’re able to do. Wall carving just seemed to be the most accessible hobby around.

Reminiscing is also quite popular here, so let’s do that now!

Eating the Sun

Colors have a taste. They also have a feel. Purple is feathery. Dark blue is rich like velvet. I’ll admit, if someone told me that a year ago, I would’ve figured they were high. But almost everything’s changed since dying.

I perched on the roof experiencing the sunset. To say I was merely watching it would be an understatement. Brilliant white smells slightly of confectioner’s sugar and tastes sweet. Orange is like swimming in a warm lake on a summer day with a hint of citrus. As you can imagine, the undulating colors at sunset or sunrise are a whole-body experience. Since I no longer enjoyed the culinary delights of life, these were my favorite times of day.

I heard Elliot’s car long before I saw it. It needed a new fan belt. I was always the one who took care of such things. Elliot pulled up to the curb, coming to a choppy halt, and stumbled out of the car holding his briefcase and a bundle of flowers. My dematerialized lips grinned and a school-girl thrill raced down my spine.

The Anniversary

Cyndi awoke before her alarm. She clicked it off, grateful not to have been woken by its beeping—a necessity on most days. But not today. Today was different. It was her day. Her anniversary. It would be a good day full of special moments.

Red-tipped feet in pink slippers, she slipped on her robe and tiptoed out the room—without glancing at the large, snoring lump under the bedcovers—down the corridor, and into the bathroom. Shutting the door, she leaned against it and smiled. It had begun.

Time Capsule

Thanksgiving Day, 2011, was haunted. My husband’s family had sealed a time capsule forty years earlier, and our apartment buzzed with electricity from the moment Matt, my husband’s brother, texted Sport a reminder of its opening that day. Sport listed the items he remembered having included: a 7-inch Astron Scout rocket, an issue of Mad Magazine, and a chipped bowie knife.

I wrinkled my nose. Don’t you bury a time capsule? He shrugged, saying they’d stored theirs in the garage.

THE MALLARD

“You vill be lying on a beach. Zere vill be … a breeze zat vill—how you say—tinkle? And a … bird, I sink … I can see a bird. Viz a green head and a … beak? Is zat ze vord?”

“A mallard?”

“I do not know vot zat is. A bird, or somesink like a bird, is vot I see.”

O’Rourke left the tent a little unsteadily. He’d had a few pints of Guinness beforehand and it was going to his legs. But he was also shaken by the fortune he’d been told. He was a superstitious person at the best of times—he kept a shamrock on him always—and the cryptic image that the old lady had described was already getting under his skin.

Snakes Alive!

Brian crouches down, nervously lifts the edge of the bedspread and peers under the bed. Turning on the flashlight of his phone, he sees that the space is clear. He straightens and breathes a sigh of relief.

~~~~~

Vera slams the door of the shop and stomps to the loaded van. Who does old man Beasley think he is? He may be her boss, but that doesn’t excuse the way he talks to her. “Do this! Do that!” And never a please or thank you. Ooh, if only she had a bit more nerve . . .

The Parent-Child Relationship Index

Sam stands at the one-way mirror in Observation Room Twelve. To anyone who doesn’t know him, he would seem indifferent. His hands are in his pockets and his posture is relaxed. His breathing is calm. He’s betrayed only by the fact that he hasn’t moved in seventeen minutes.

He hadn’t planned to stay here so long. He’d assumed he’d go straight into the Meeting Room. But Kara got there first, and something about the tenderness in her face and the way her body already seemed to curl protectively around the baby in her arms arrested his hurry. And so, here he stands, soaking in the sight.

“Have you ever witnessed a First Meeting?”

The Final Anniversary

Joseph walked slowly to the bus stop on his way to work.

It was a short walk; however, it got tedious each day. Lost in thought, he pondered about life. Counting the cobblestones on his way, he could see the moss in the stone cracks drying off due to the heat. In winters it glistened like green crystals trapped in ice, but in summers it waned and dried only to be reborn in spring. He wondered whether his life would ever find that spring again; or are humans just built to fade from the spring of their youth to the withered winter of their lives. He peered downwards as his back had arched and there was little he looked ahead to except for the final days of his life.

Ne’er The Twain

Once upon a time there lived a young couple who were very much in love.

Maggie was magnificent: flowing golden locks, the face of an angel, a perfect bosom. Her top half checked out as an 11 in Harry’s book.

“What a rack!” he exclaimed to himself the first time he saw her, when she bobbed out of the sea near his homemade paddleboard.

Plane Sailing

Tendrils of smoke twisted into the air before disappearing into the night sky.

“This might not be how we thought things would go, but you can’t deny it’s beautiful here,” Dominic said, flashing Ally a dimpled smile.

She forced a smile in return, then swept her eyes across the beach until she found the wreckage of their small plane. Waves lapped against its crumpled nose, now blackened from their emergency landing. Even though they’d emptied it of its fuel, Dominic had warned her to stay away from it, just in case it still exploded.

Let it, Ally thought, turning back to the crackling fire.

Ten Inches

I had an hour to wait for my connection. I came out of the station, wandered around a little and found a small pub. It was sunny outside so it took me a few moments to get used to the gloom.

The pub was empty except for me, the barman, and another man.

I settled at the bar and ordered a bourbon. While the barman was getting my drink, I had a look round the room. The other man, who could have been forty or sixty, was sitting two or three stools away, hunched over what looked like a large whisky.

I paid him no mind initially and took a sip of my bourbon. The variety of bottles on the shelves behind the bar provided some interest until the man mumbled something. Because I hadn’t been expecting him to speak, I didn’t quite catch what he said. Then he repeated it.

“Yep, ten inches. At least.”

Even Hell Has Angels

After years of inactivity, I decided to follow my doctor’s orders and start exercising to prevent my heart from “exploding out of my chest,” as he so gently put it. I figured the blood test results were going to be considerably less-than-awesome but those cholesterol numbers and the doc’s grim predictions of my inevitable heart attack definitely got my attention.

Well, that and the mirror-related trauma I experienced when I accidentally caught a glimpse of myself while exiting the shower.

I couldn’t deny my physique was a product of my unwanted divorce. Three years of depression apparently has the same effect on your physical health as it does on your emotional well-being. Still, my doctor and my mirror had given my waning willpower and determination a much-needed boost. Armed with a growing resolve to stay alive, I entered Hell (henceforth referred to as “The Gym”) to begin my new, death-defying lifestyle.

The Price of Silence

Secrets. They spilled out of people faster than their guts when sliced down the middle. His ears hissed with their noise, a ceaseless buzzing as the Whisperer spoke in sour breaths. There were always Whisperers, those who came to tell him their secrets. In fact, the cobblestone path and the twisting wooden staircase they had to climb to come visit had been worn down so violently from repeated use that if one was not careful, they’d lose their head.

The Whisperers were foolish and hateful, gluttonous, eager. To have him bear their lead-weighted sins like the prisoner he was. As the people washed their hands clean of their secrets, he grew more wretched and more scarred. There wasn’t a spot on his body that wasn’t covered in swirling, glowing words, each letter throbbing like millions of tiny heartbeats as they curled along the curve of his ribs, down the length of his spine, beneath his jaw. But he was used to the pain, the ebb and the flow as a new phrase sewed itself into the fabric of his skin.

England, 1624. The witch hunts had been going on for a while, with women as the main targets. The list was long. Not many men were accused, but some were. He was.

Fortunatus Fall

“It’s hopeless,” said Jones. “Zeke’s probably dead already, just like everyone else.”

“It’s not hopeless,” said Nozomi. “We’ve been in tough scrapes before and we’re still here. We just need to kill those things before they kill us.”

Rapid footsteps echoed off metal walls from the extended hallway leading to the incinerator bay. Jones, Nozomi, and Conner watched through the triple-pane glass of the second-story control room as Zeke sprinted into the expanse below.

“He’s here,” Nozomi said. “And they’re chasing him!”

Erlkönig

It was the first night of the new year. Frost hung in the air, heavy with icy crystals and glittering whenever a stray twinkle of moonlight drifted through the trees. Misty-eyed, I inhaled, filling my nostrils with the scent of pine and moss. It was a chilly night, but I didn’t freeze. I never froze, not anymore.

Gravel grumbled under my boots as I wandered along the path near the river. I could hear the water call through the dark, clear and beckoning; see the tendrils of mist creep over the side of the bank and reach for me.

“Not yet,” I whispered as if it could understand me and headed for the main road.

Thick fog covered the ground like a blanket, and I felt as if I were wading into another world. An owl hooted in the distance, the echo rustling through the barren branches. I stopped and listened, my head lifted to the treetops, counting the hoots.

Stricken

This story is by J. D. Edwin and was a runner-up in our 2021 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. JD Edwin is your average worshipper of strange things. She splits her time between working full time, writing fiction both long and short, and creating digital and traditional artwork….

From this Day Forward

Good morning, pale stranger in the mirror. I look like I aged twenty years overnight. This relationship is making me physically ill and it shows. Still, I need to pick myself up. I’m going to try to keep yesterday’s mood going into today.

“I’ll get coffee going, hun! Take your time!” my husband says as he leaves the room, using his sweetest voice. I don’t muster the willpower to answer as if his love is requited, so I pretend I didn’t hear him.

The little energy I have is spent in deciphering how the woman in the mirror grew those eye bags. They’re completely alienating. I try taking a picture but my phone’s dead. It’s almost as if my body is trying to tell me what I’ve known for the past three months. I can’t force myself to love Michael.

At a Loss For Words

The Word Police came in the dead of night.

No, wait. That isn’t quite right. This is no fairy tale, where villains lurk in the shadows, where they give themselves away by their proclivity for darkness and ugliness. In the real world, right and wrong are not always so easily discerned.

The Word Police aren’t fairy tale villains. Perhaps they aren’t even villains at all. In any case, they come in daylight, under the guise of friendship.

Speaking of which, they don’t call themselves “Word Police,” either, though that’s how everyone knows them. They prefer something warmer. Say, “Friends of Language.”

So, then. Shall we start again?

Cinderella Escapes

“We need to hurry,” Esme said. “They won’t care about the loss of two madwomen, but they’ll care about the loss of this horse.”

I took one last look at the Priory. We were leaving behind friends, women who would live out the rest of their lives under lock and key, but it couldn’t be helped. Most of them wouldn’t know how to live without their parents or a man to protect them. Esme and I were different.

The horse gave a soft nicker. Esme reached down and I grasped her arm, mounting the horse behind her. We kept to soft ground until we were out of earshot. Then we rode fast and hard under the light of a full moon, laughing for the sheer joy of freedom.

CT L SB

It was boring, but at least Colin was out of the house. He picked up yet another silver spoon, turning it over in his hand without giving it much attention.

“A fiver,” said the stall-holder.

“You’d have to pay me a fiver,” thought Colin before replacing the spoon on the table, smiling at the stall-holder and moving off.

He could manage another half hour here before he would have to head home. He calculated that if he returned to the car by way of the line of stalls at the far end of the field, that would be just about perfect timing—a half-hour’s drive home, in time to help Barbara prepare lunch.

The Foolishness of Kekoa

All alone with nothing left is Kekoa, the brave one who nearly escaped and also escaped being eaten by the piranhas. He is forced to go on a terrible journey as a punishment for his stubbornness, but before we get to that let’s step back in time to see how all of this happened.

To a small village located somewhere on an island known for its peace and unity with the people. But not everyone thought of the village this way because they were jealous of a prince called Kekoa. He is not only the heir to the throne, but he is also a spoiled child, who is believed to bring destruction rather than peace to the village. Well, at least that’s what they think.

Of Stories and Foxes

The moment he laid eyes on Ling Fawk, Dr. Damien Brown was smitten. He didn’t think there was anyone aboard the Callidus that he hadn’t yet met, but she must have slipped his notice somehow—there were, after all, over ten thousand people aboard the vast ship. But now, looking into her brown almond eyes and watching her gently cross and uncross her long, delicate legs, he knew he would never overlook her again.

She smiled and he realized he was staring. Reluctantly, he pulled his gaze from her onyx-black hair and turned back to his screen. Did she notice the heat in his cheeks? He cleared his throat—an attempt to maintain his professionalism.

“So,” he said. “Abnormal allostatic load?”

Believing

At the front door, a uniformed officer is throwing up violently into a rose bush. Detective Inspector Bennet turns to his sergeant, Cole, and raises an eyebrow.

“Bloody beginners,” he mutters as they enter, past another officer guarding the door.

“We’ve all been there though, haven’t we sir?” Cole observes.

Bennet shakes his head.

“Nah.”

THE CAT, THE TRUCK, AND THE LOVERS-TO-BE

This story is about a couple who haven’t met yet, a cat, and a truck. Oh, and two books. That’s very important.

The first Book first, perhaps. This is not just any old book, though, hence the capital ‘B’. It’s the Book that contains all things. All details of the world and the vast universe beyond. All knowledge that man has amassed throughout history. And a record of every second that every person that ever existed lived, has lived, is living … and will live. That’s some Book, I can tell you. Though I can’t tell you where it’s kept. That information – and the identity of whoever writes in the Book – is strictly on a need-to-know basis. For the purposes of this story, we don’t really need to know.

Reflection

Being born without a reflection did not make Henrietta sad, even though everyone she came across seemed to think she ought to be. It was one of those things that should probably make her feel lesser than, but since she never had it, Henrietta never missed it, much in the way the average human did not miss having wings, and women who never had orgasms found perfectly productive ways to fill their time.

Chance Encounters

The café is bustling and as Jeffrey enters his heart sinks: his Saturday morning habit is to come here and spend an hour or so at a table, taking a coffee, reading his newspaper, and observing people. But today there isn’t a seat to be had.

He’s about to leave to find another place when he spots a couple getting up from a table next to the window and a woman approaching it from the other side of the room. He doesn’t exactly run but he doesn’t stroll either and gets to the table just before she does, plonking himself down heavily and pretending not to notice her. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her hesitate before sloping away.

Suppose It Were True

Jeremy sat very meekly with his knees together. He clutched his notes and tried to look as though he was behaving himself.

The professor was still cross about Jeremy’s over-enthusiastic ingress, which had upset his umbrella stand in a spectacular manner. “When you graduate, Mr Davies, your patients will expect you to walk into their room, not galumph. And preferably without breaking things. Psychiatric patients do not appreciate being startled so unceremoniously, especially the bestial ones. You do know that they are more sensitive.”

“Yes, prof. Sorry, prof.”

Thunder rumbled and the professor sighed. “Today of all days you have to break my umbrella.”

Walter the Wonder Dog, part 2

We were sitting in a hotel room in Garden City, Kansas, when my mom noticed the weird bump on my dog’s leg. Walter was sprawled on the bed next to me, snoring, and barely stirred while we examined the bump. It was an angry pink, about half the size of a penny, and on the inside of his foreleg a few inches above his paw. I had no idea how long it had been there.

I tried not to panic, but my mind immediately leapt to cancer. And it had to be a fast-growing kind, or I would have noticed the spot before then.

Bread and Dripping

“We had a hard life in them days, we did.”

My brother and I rolled our eyes as Uncle Alf cranked open the floodgates of his memory. Again.

It was the same every Christmas. My mother felt it her responsibility to invite the old boy to ours; we were the only family he had left, at least living locally. He was the husband of her long-gone sister, Philomena. He lived on his own now, retired and constantly sick, trundling towards the closing credits.

I kicked Billy under the table and giggled when he yelped. Mother shot us an I’ll-be-talking-to-you-later kind of look and smiled at Uncle Alf, encouraging him to carry on.

After Goldilocks

In the middle of the woods stood a cottage that had, once upon a time, been home to three contented bears. But late one summer, poor Mama Bear got sick and died. Papa Bear and Baby Bear continued living in the cottage, but it seemed to grow a little shabbier each day.

One dreary suppertime, Baby Bear looked sadly at the ruins of his chair lying in a corner of the room. There was a hole where the seat used to be, and one of its legs was cracked. It had been broken by that lump of a Goldilocks who’d sat in it to gobble up his nice dinner. Papa Bear had promised to fix it up, but he hadn’t done it yet.

Not the Gift of the Magi

It didn’t have to be this way.

I put a couple of tiny dots of glue on the safety band before I screwed the cap back on. That way Ray would think he was breaking the seal when he opened the bourbon. I inspected the bottle for sediment, then gave it a vigorous shake.

I carefully washed and dried the mortar and pestle before returning them to the back of the cabinet. My hands only shook a little bit.

Of Bananas and Coconuts

“Have a banana!” said the owl, handing one to the monkey.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said the monkey, peeling it expertly and stuffing it into his mouth in one go.

“Lucky the wind’s dropped, eh?” said the owl.

“Mmhhrrwwffmm,” said the monkey, chewing then swallowing hard.

They were sitting in the shade of the tallest coconut tree in the district, in fact the only one for several miles around.

“Brought my tree down, it did,” said the owl, a tear coming to his eye.

Heartbreak

“Remember our first time here?” Louise asks, lifting the glass of wine to her dark red lips.

Timothy looks around the dim, practically deserted pub.

“How could I forget? Same old furniture, I see.”

“Good memory.” Louise licks her lips and places the glass back on the table. She looks around the pub too, and when she returns her eyes to meet Timothy’s, she sees that he’s been staring at her. She drops her gaze to the table and begins to play with a little patch of wine that spilled from her glass when Timothy brought it from the bar.

The Drawer

Before bed every night, Lorena cleared her mind.

She took the memories from her head and sorted them. The white ones were the newest ones—short-term. From these she removed the unimportant baubles—the taste of the egg omelet she had for breakfast, the Top 5 List from the local pop radio station, a blue blouse the office receptionist wore. She put the ones worth keeping aside—the annual report from the CEO, the lunch date with Daniel, and the names of the two new sales reps on the fourth floor. These she would put back later, where they would stay and slowly darken in color, becoming long-term memories to be kept safe.

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