By John McDonnell
Murphy awoke to the shock of cold water splashed on his face, and a very angry wife hovering over him.
“Cornelius Fergal Murphy,” she said, hands on hips. “I want to know what Kim Kardashian is doing, naked on my living room sofa.”
It took Murphy a few seconds to process this information, and he lay there blinking and moving his lips, but no sound came out. Finally, he remembered bringing the alien home last night.
“That’s just Larry,” he said. “No need to get upset, Dolores.”
“THAT is not a Larry,” Dolores said. “I don’t know what her name is, but it’s not Larry.”
“I can explain,” Murphy said.
“I can’t possibly imagine how,” Dolores said, “but I’ll listen.”
“Well, you see, he’s an alien. That’s not really his true form.”
“An alien. Now I’ve heard everything.”
“I swear, Dolores, it’s the truth. He came into the bar last night and had a little too much to drink--”
Dolores threw up her hands. “I should have known! Didn’t I tell you to stop bringing these lost souls here? I’m sick of taking care of these misfits from that hole-in-the-wall bar I told you not to buy.”
“This is different, Dolores. He’s feeling abandoned, and--”
“Let him see a psychiatrist then. I can’t afford to feed another mouth.”
“I don’t know if he has a mouth, actually. Although he likes pink fruity drinks.”
Dolores rolled her eyes. “I’m just glad my mother sleeps like a rock. If she had seen that naked woman on the couch--”
“Dolores, dear,” came a voice from downstairs. “We have a visitor. Come and see.”
Dolores cursed under her breath and ran out of the room, followed by Murphy, who ran downstairs in only his undershirt and boxer shorts.
Larry was sitting on the sofa, this time as a full grown silverback gorilla, watching a game show on TV with Dolores’ mother Edna, who was dressed in a turquoise off the shoulder gown, gloves, and a pillbox hat with a veil that would have looked chic in 1947.
“He’s got a perfect score in Jeopardy,” Edna said, grinning as Larry picked insects out of his chest hair.
“As long as they stay away from questions about particle physics I’m good,” Larry said.
“Dolores, this is Larry,” Murphy said.
Larry grunted, and Dolores stood there with her arms folded across her chest, sizing him up.
“You didn’t tell me we were having visitors, dear,” Edna said to Dolores. “I wasn’t properly dressed, so I went back and put on my dressy clothes.”
“I didn’t KNOW we were having visitors,” Dolores said.
“Larry, can I talk to you privately?” Murphy said. He pulled on Larry’s hairy arm and led him to the kitchen, where he closed the swinging door so Dolores wouldn’t hear.
“Listen, Larry,” Murphy whispered. “Dolores doesn’t handle change very well, and if you’re going to stay with us you have to find a form that works for her.”
“Oh, sorry,” Larry said, and in a flash he was Kim Kardashian again. “Interesting body dynamics,” he said, moving unsteadily on his feet. “Balance has to be recalibrated, because of added weight in lower extremities.”
“No!” Murphy said. “Not that form! Dolores won’t like that one.”
“Oh, yes,” Larry said. “Territorial human females. Primitive response. What do you suggest?”
“Well, first I would suggest that you move your lips when you talk, instead of doing that thought transference thing,” Murphy said. “Second, what about something cute and cuddly, like a--”
Larry transformed into a six foot tall Emperor penguin. He waddled back and forth, smelling of salt water and fish, and said, “Penguins are cute, according to a recent survey of human affectional impulses.”
“Jesus, Mary and St. Joseph,” Murphy said. “No to the penguin! Something else.”
Larry turned himself into Jesus, complete with a long white robe and a halo. “Is this better? You mentioned Jesus.”
“Murphy, I don’t know what you’re doing in there, but I’m coming in,” Dolores said, from the hallway.
Murphy put his head in his hands. “Say your prayers, Murphy,” he muttered. “You’re going to die soon.”
He wasn’t sure what happened next, but when Dolores came through the door she was met by a dead ringer for Pierce Brosnan, in a tuxedo, and smelling of a minty cologne, showing his teeth in a blindingly white smile.
“Ah,” Dolores said, stopping in her tracks.
“Mmm?” Pierce Brosnan said.
“Oh, Lord,” Murphy said.
THE END
Friday, May 21, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
No Place Like Home, a #fridayflash story
By John McDonnell
Although Murphy was reluctant to try flagging the alien again and risk getting zapped back to the Cretaceous era, he knew the creature was getting more intoxicated because it was morphing into an array of different body sizes, genders, and species.
"So," he said. "What's your name?"
"Larry," the alien said.
"Larry? That's a funny name. I thought your name would be Zork, or Xargon Four, or something like that.”
The alien had changed from a giant yellow squidlike thing to a dead ringer for Mrs. Walsh, Murphy's first grade teacher, complete with a pencil tucked behind her ear, glasses, and a bun.
"It's not really Larry," Larry said. "There are too many glottal stops in my name for your larynx to handle. Larry is easier for you to say."
"Oh." Murphy mixed up another pink fruity drink and the alien sucked it down.
"By the way,” Murphy asked. “What are you doing here? You here to wipe out humanity from the planet, or maybe turn us all into your mindless slaves?"
Larry was now the size of a Clydesdale horse, chestnut brown, and he laughed ironically at that, showing his teeth and shaking his head. "That's hilarious," he said. "Me taking over your planet. Now I've heard everything. You have a great sense of humor." He stamped his feet, rattling the bottles on the wall behind the bar. "Another drink, please."
"What's so funny about that?" Murphy said. "I thought that's what you aliens did. Take over planets and all." He mixed the drink quickly and set it down on the bar.
Larry slurped it up and then turned into an adult male orangutan, upwards of 300 pounds, with a protruding lower lip and a melancholy expression on his droopy face. "It's not funny. It's sad. I'm a failure. Nobody is interested in conquering this penny ante planet. It's a back channel two bit dump that has no strategic importance, populated by a race of idiot primates who are rapidly turning it into a toxic wasteland. I was sent here to monitor you." He began scratching himself pensively. "There is no career advancement in this posting. I have been marooned here, because they don't think I can handle anything more important."
"I know the feeling," Murphy said. "I once had a job where--"
"It's enough to make you crazy," Larry said. "Can you put a banana in the next drink? But anyway, as I was saying, I'm so ashamed, and then I get angry, really angry.” In the blink of an eye he had turned into a scaly green dragon, with smoke coming out of his nostrils and a tail that was wagging back and forth and knocking tables and chairs over behind him.
"Calm down, Larry," Murphy said, not wanting the creature to start breathing fire in his bar. "Maybe you should think about going home and sleeping it off. What do you say? Sound like a good idea?"
Larry started crying, and big tears were dropping on the bar. He made a sniffling noise and his huge body shook with spasms of grief.
"I don't have a home," Larry said. "Oh, I have a place to stay on this miserable planet, sure. But that's not a home. I'm 12,000 light years from my planet, and I'm stuck here until somebody reassigns me. That will never happen, though, because I've dropped off the map. They've forgotten me." He put his head on the bar and started sobbing.
"Now, now," Murphy said, patting his head gingerly. "Why don't you come home and stay with me and the missus? I have a spare bedroom, and I'm sure it will be all right with Dolores."
"Really?" Larry said. "That's so nice of you."
"Don't mention it," Murphy said. "It's the least I can do, seeing as how you got rid of that hood Boom Boom for me.”
Now Larry had morphed into a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman who looked like a Playboy centerfold. In fact, she was dressed like a centerfold.
"Uh, Larry," Murphy said, imagining the look on Dolores' face when he introduced Larry to her, "could you focus a bit better? I liked the UPS driver look you had before. I think that suits you better."
"Sure," Larry said, and in an instant he was the balding, pot-bellied guy who'd come in the bar several hours ago. Every once in awhile he'd hiccup, though, and for a second or two he'd transform into the orangutan, the centerfold, or some other creature, then immediately morph back into the middle aged man.
This is going to be interesting, Murphy thought, wondering how he was going to explain this to Dolores.
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell, 2010.
Although Murphy was reluctant to try flagging the alien again and risk getting zapped back to the Cretaceous era, he knew the creature was getting more intoxicated because it was morphing into an array of different body sizes, genders, and species.
"So," he said. "What's your name?"
"Larry," the alien said.
"Larry? That's a funny name. I thought your name would be Zork, or Xargon Four, or something like that.”
The alien had changed from a giant yellow squidlike thing to a dead ringer for Mrs. Walsh, Murphy's first grade teacher, complete with a pencil tucked behind her ear, glasses, and a bun.
"It's not really Larry," Larry said. "There are too many glottal stops in my name for your larynx to handle. Larry is easier for you to say."
"Oh." Murphy mixed up another pink fruity drink and the alien sucked it down.
"By the way,” Murphy asked. “What are you doing here? You here to wipe out humanity from the planet, or maybe turn us all into your mindless slaves?"
Larry was now the size of a Clydesdale horse, chestnut brown, and he laughed ironically at that, showing his teeth and shaking his head. "That's hilarious," he said. "Me taking over your planet. Now I've heard everything. You have a great sense of humor." He stamped his feet, rattling the bottles on the wall behind the bar. "Another drink, please."
"What's so funny about that?" Murphy said. "I thought that's what you aliens did. Take over planets and all." He mixed the drink quickly and set it down on the bar.
Larry slurped it up and then turned into an adult male orangutan, upwards of 300 pounds, with a protruding lower lip and a melancholy expression on his droopy face. "It's not funny. It's sad. I'm a failure. Nobody is interested in conquering this penny ante planet. It's a back channel two bit dump that has no strategic importance, populated by a race of idiot primates who are rapidly turning it into a toxic wasteland. I was sent here to monitor you." He began scratching himself pensively. "There is no career advancement in this posting. I have been marooned here, because they don't think I can handle anything more important."
"I know the feeling," Murphy said. "I once had a job where--"
"It's enough to make you crazy," Larry said. "Can you put a banana in the next drink? But anyway, as I was saying, I'm so ashamed, and then I get angry, really angry.” In the blink of an eye he had turned into a scaly green dragon, with smoke coming out of his nostrils and a tail that was wagging back and forth and knocking tables and chairs over behind him.
"Calm down, Larry," Murphy said, not wanting the creature to start breathing fire in his bar. "Maybe you should think about going home and sleeping it off. What do you say? Sound like a good idea?"
Larry started crying, and big tears were dropping on the bar. He made a sniffling noise and his huge body shook with spasms of grief.
"I don't have a home," Larry said. "Oh, I have a place to stay on this miserable planet, sure. But that's not a home. I'm 12,000 light years from my planet, and I'm stuck here until somebody reassigns me. That will never happen, though, because I've dropped off the map. They've forgotten me." He put his head on the bar and started sobbing.
"Now, now," Murphy said, patting his head gingerly. "Why don't you come home and stay with me and the missus? I have a spare bedroom, and I'm sure it will be all right with Dolores."
"Really?" Larry said. "That's so nice of you."
"Don't mention it," Murphy said. "It's the least I can do, seeing as how you got rid of that hood Boom Boom for me.”
Now Larry had morphed into a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman who looked like a Playboy centerfold. In fact, she was dressed like a centerfold.
"Uh, Larry," Murphy said, imagining the look on Dolores' face when he introduced Larry to her, "could you focus a bit better? I liked the UPS driver look you had before. I think that suits you better."
"Sure," Larry said, and in an instant he was the balding, pot-bellied guy who'd come in the bar several hours ago. Every once in awhile he'd hiccup, though, and for a second or two he'd transform into the orangutan, the centerfold, or some other creature, then immediately morph back into the middle aged man.
This is going to be interesting, Murphy thought, wondering how he was going to explain this to Dolores.
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell, 2010.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Your Mother Is An Alien, a #fridayflash story
Murphy didn’t realize the guy at the end of the bar was an alien until he tried to flag him. The guy had been drinking for hours and was pretty scuppered at this point, but when Murphy said, “You’ve had enough, pal,” he suddenly found himself standing knee deep in a Cretaceous swamp, with the largest crocodile he’d ever seen staring at him from 50 feet away. He took a step back, then heard a thunderous roar behind him and turned to see a Tyrannosaurus Rex’s head above the treetops, heading this way fast. He probably would have been the T. Rex’s breakfast if the alien hadn’t zapped him back to the bar just in time.
“Bloody hell!” Murphy said, holding on to the bar for dear life.
“Is that what I have to do to get another drink?” the alien said.
“N-no,” Murphy said. “Not at all. Coming right up.” He mixed another one of those fruity drinks the alien was drinking, put a little pink umbrella in it, and gave it to him.
It was almost closing time, and the only people left in the bar were the alien and Sal “Boom Boom” Putzinato, who’d come to break Murphy’s kneecaps for not paying the weekly protection fee the Marsala Family imposed on all the businesses in the neighborhood. Boom Boom was not as big as a T. Rex, but he was just as scary. Right now he was sitting at a table cracking his very large knuckles and staring at Murphy.
The alien wasn’t slurring its words or anything -- actually, it wasn’t speaking at all, it was doing some kind of thought transference -- but the way Murphy knew it had had too much to drink was that it was losing its ability to cloak its true form. When it came in the bar it had looked like a middle-aged UPS driver with a potbelly. Now it looked more like a giant yellow squid with a pink mouth and green eyes. The mouth functioned like a straw, so the alien was able to drain its drink in seconds and demand another one. It had run up a huge bar tab, but at this point Murphy didn’t care about collecting the money.
“My mother was a saint,” the alien said. “I haven’t seen her in ten thousand of your years. I was a terrible reproductive unit for her.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Murphy said. “Everybody disappoints their mother.”
“You’re a good Earth person,” the alien said. “You made me feel better.”
“Don’t mention it,” Murphy said. “Here’s another drink, on the house. Why don’t you call home? I’m sure your Mom would love to hear from you.”
“Do you think so? I haven’t done a mind meld in centuries. I don’t think my maternal unit would remember me.”
“Of course she would,” Murphy said. “Mothers never forget their children.”
“She had four thousand of us.”
“Oh.” Murphy reflected on that for a second. “Well, do it anyway. I’m sure she’ll be able to form at least a vague picture of who you are.”
“Okay.” The alien went into a sort of suspended animation for several minutes, during which it was so still it seemed to be in a coma.
When it came to, it said: “She was glad to hear from me. And she did remember me! Thank you, Earth person, for making me do that. I feel better. What can I do to repay you?”
“Nothing,” Murphy said.
“No, really.”
“Nothing.”
“I insist! It is part of our culture that we must pay back every good deed. If we are not allowed to do that, we must kill the creature who befriended us.”
“Well, under those circumstances,” Murphy said. He didn’t want to go back to the Cretaceous. “You know that thing you did to me before? Where I went back in time?”
“Yes?”
“Could you do that to someone else?” he nodded in the direction of Boom Boom.
“Of course. It is no problem at all.”
And that was how Boom Boom Putzinato, and later the entire Marsala crime family, disappeared, never to be seen again.
Murphy wondered how fast they could run from a T. Rex in those expensive leather shoes they favored.
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell 2010. All rights reserved.
“Bloody hell!” Murphy said, holding on to the bar for dear life.
“Is that what I have to do to get another drink?” the alien said.
“N-no,” Murphy said. “Not at all. Coming right up.” He mixed another one of those fruity drinks the alien was drinking, put a little pink umbrella in it, and gave it to him.
It was almost closing time, and the only people left in the bar were the alien and Sal “Boom Boom” Putzinato, who’d come to break Murphy’s kneecaps for not paying the weekly protection fee the Marsala Family imposed on all the businesses in the neighborhood. Boom Boom was not as big as a T. Rex, but he was just as scary. Right now he was sitting at a table cracking his very large knuckles and staring at Murphy.
The alien wasn’t slurring its words or anything -- actually, it wasn’t speaking at all, it was doing some kind of thought transference -- but the way Murphy knew it had had too much to drink was that it was losing its ability to cloak its true form. When it came in the bar it had looked like a middle-aged UPS driver with a potbelly. Now it looked more like a giant yellow squid with a pink mouth and green eyes. The mouth functioned like a straw, so the alien was able to drain its drink in seconds and demand another one. It had run up a huge bar tab, but at this point Murphy didn’t care about collecting the money.
“My mother was a saint,” the alien said. “I haven’t seen her in ten thousand of your years. I was a terrible reproductive unit for her.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Murphy said. “Everybody disappoints their mother.”
“You’re a good Earth person,” the alien said. “You made me feel better.”
“Don’t mention it,” Murphy said. “Here’s another drink, on the house. Why don’t you call home? I’m sure your Mom would love to hear from you.”
“Do you think so? I haven’t done a mind meld in centuries. I don’t think my maternal unit would remember me.”
“Of course she would,” Murphy said. “Mothers never forget their children.”
“She had four thousand of us.”
“Oh.” Murphy reflected on that for a second. “Well, do it anyway. I’m sure she’ll be able to form at least a vague picture of who you are.”
“Okay.” The alien went into a sort of suspended animation for several minutes, during which it was so still it seemed to be in a coma.
When it came to, it said: “She was glad to hear from me. And she did remember me! Thank you, Earth person, for making me do that. I feel better. What can I do to repay you?”
“Nothing,” Murphy said.
“No, really.”
“Nothing.”
“I insist! It is part of our culture that we must pay back every good deed. If we are not allowed to do that, we must kill the creature who befriended us.”
“Well, under those circumstances,” Murphy said. He didn’t want to go back to the Cretaceous. “You know that thing you did to me before? Where I went back in time?”
“Yes?”
“Could you do that to someone else?” he nodded in the direction of Boom Boom.
“Of course. It is no problem at all.”
And that was how Boom Boom Putzinato, and later the entire Marsala crime family, disappeared, never to be seen again.
Murphy wondered how fast they could run from a T. Rex in those expensive leather shoes they favored.
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell 2010. All rights reserved.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
MUGGS AND THE CAKE, a #fridayflash story
By John McDonnell
Muggs brought the last box of whiskey bottles in and set them down on the long counter in the center of the gleaming kitchen in the Stokes mansion, next to the other ten wooden boxes he’d unloaded from the Packard. Petey was sitting at a table, discussing something with the chef, a large man dressed in white, with a red face and a walrus mustache.
“Nothing doing,” the chef said. “Put it on our account.”
“That won’t do,” Petey said. “Mr. Donovan said your boss was to pay us upfront.”
“I don’t have time for this,” the chef said. “I am preparing for the biggest social event of the season. I have 300 guests coming tonight.”
Petey whistled. “300? I’d hate to see that many people with dry throats.”
The chef laughed, and his whole body shook. He took a white towel from around his neck and mopped his face with it. “You’re trying to scare me? You palookas don’t mean a thing to us. Mr. Stokes knows everyone. The Governor is going to be at the party tonight. Charles Lindbergh is coming. This is the first party he’s been to since he got back from Paris. There’s a Cardinal coming, and several mayors.”
“Be a shame if they got thirsty,” Petey said.
Muggs was having a hard time concentrating on the conversation. The kitchen was alive with smells: turkey, ham, cake -- in fact, there was a very large chocolate cake on the counter not far from the whiskey.
“Could I have a piece of that cake?” he asked.
“What?” the chef said. “Sure, help yourself.” He turned back to Petey. “You don’t understand, do you? Get it into your thick skull that you’re to charge the whiskey to Mr. Stokes’ account.”
“This is swell cake,” Muggs said, eating a large slice of the cake with his hands.
“I better talk to Mr. Stokes,” Petey said, getting up from the table. “He’s a banker, right? I’m sure he knows a lot about paying bills.”
The chef got up and went over to a section of the kitchen where there were big knives stuck in a wooden block. He pulled out a very large gleaming butcher knife and came back, then stood in the doorway that led from the kitchen to the rest of the house, blocking it with his considerable bulk. “Get out of here now, you scum,” he said. “Or I’ll carve you up like a couple of beefsteaks.”
“Gee, that was swell cake,” Muggs said, as Petey drove down the mile-long driveway from the big house. “You should have had a piece.”
“I wasn’t hungry,” Petey said.
“I wish I knew how to cook,” Muggs said. “I’d make a cake for myself every day.”
“I hope they have an assistant chef,” Petey said. “Otherwise, dinner ain’t going to be served on time.”
“He should have stuck to making cakes,” Muggs said, licking a speck of chocolate icing off his thumb. “He was good at that.”
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell 2010
Chocolate Fudge Birthday Cake 7"
Muggs brought the last box of whiskey bottles in and set them down on the long counter in the center of the gleaming kitchen in the Stokes mansion, next to the other ten wooden boxes he’d unloaded from the Packard. Petey was sitting at a table, discussing something with the chef, a large man dressed in white, with a red face and a walrus mustache.
“Nothing doing,” the chef said. “Put it on our account.”
“That won’t do,” Petey said. “Mr. Donovan said your boss was to pay us upfront.”
“I don’t have time for this,” the chef said. “I am preparing for the biggest social event of the season. I have 300 guests coming tonight.”
Petey whistled. “300? I’d hate to see that many people with dry throats.”
The chef laughed, and his whole body shook. He took a white towel from around his neck and mopped his face with it. “You’re trying to scare me? You palookas don’t mean a thing to us. Mr. Stokes knows everyone. The Governor is going to be at the party tonight. Charles Lindbergh is coming. This is the first party he’s been to since he got back from Paris. There’s a Cardinal coming, and several mayors.”
“Be a shame if they got thirsty,” Petey said.
Muggs was having a hard time concentrating on the conversation. The kitchen was alive with smells: turkey, ham, cake -- in fact, there was a very large chocolate cake on the counter not far from the whiskey.
“Could I have a piece of that cake?” he asked.
“What?” the chef said. “Sure, help yourself.” He turned back to Petey. “You don’t understand, do you? Get it into your thick skull that you’re to charge the whiskey to Mr. Stokes’ account.”
“This is swell cake,” Muggs said, eating a large slice of the cake with his hands.
“I better talk to Mr. Stokes,” Petey said, getting up from the table. “He’s a banker, right? I’m sure he knows a lot about paying bills.”
The chef got up and went over to a section of the kitchen where there were big knives stuck in a wooden block. He pulled out a very large gleaming butcher knife and came back, then stood in the doorway that led from the kitchen to the rest of the house, blocking it with his considerable bulk. “Get out of here now, you scum,” he said. “Or I’ll carve you up like a couple of beefsteaks.”
* * *
“Gee, that was swell cake,” Muggs said, as Petey drove down the mile-long driveway from the big house. “You should have had a piece.”
“I wasn’t hungry,” Petey said.
“I wish I knew how to cook,” Muggs said. “I’d make a cake for myself every day.”
“I hope they have an assistant chef,” Petey said. “Otherwise, dinner ain’t going to be served on time.”
“He should have stuck to making cakes,” Muggs said, licking a speck of chocolate icing off his thumb. “He was good at that.”
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell 2010
Chocolate Fudge Birthday Cake 7"
Friday, April 23, 2010
PARADISE, a #fridayflash story
By John McDonnell
“Trees,” she said. “Look at that magnificent grove of trees.”
“There are no trees on this planet,” he said. “The computer says it’s 200 degrees out there, and the atmosphere is poisonous.”
“I haven’t seen a tree in ages,” she said.
“It’s an illusion,” he said. “We have to leave here, there’s something wrong. As soon as the computer repairs the acceleration system we’ll be gone.”
“How many years have we searched for a planet like this?” she said.
“Too many, but that’s not the point.”
“It looks like Earth. The way Earth used to look, with trees. Before it died.”
“We have a mission,” he said. “We could be the last humans in the universe. We have to start a new civilization soon. We can’t take a chance on this planet.”
“Look, one of them has fruit on it. When’s the last time we ate anything except Nutro Shakes? I want to go out there.”
“No! It’s a trick. You’ll die.”
“Those trees. How can anything be wrong with them?”
“You are not going anywhere, and that’s an order.”
He could see on the monitor she was still inside the compartment, so he pulled on a pressure suit quickly, hoping to stop her before she went through the final door. He put on his helmet and switched on the computer link, ignoring the computer’s warnings about the temperature and atmosphere outside, because he was too worried she would get away before he could stop her.
He pushed the button in the wall and a panel slid aside, and he stepped inside. “Yvette, please,” he said, but the heavy outer doors were open and she was already down the steps and outside.
He watched as she took a few more steps, then opened her arms wide, turned, and said on the helmet link: “See, nothing’s wrong. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
The landscape looked the same as it did from the ship. There was the grove of trees on a little hill 80 yards away, swaying gently in the breeze, under a deep blue cloudless sky.
And yet.
The computer readout at the bottom of his face mask showed a surface temperature of more than 200 degrees Fahrenheit, and the presence of methane and hydrogen, with no oxygen at all.
Now she was dancing, skipping along the path toward the trees, looking like a silver caterpillar in her pressure suit.
“Wait,” he said, and started after her. With every step, the screen in front of his eyes was setting off warning lights and alarms.
Now she stopped by one of the trees and clapped her hands. Look at it, she said. Isn’t it magnificent?
She started to take her helmet off.
“No,” he shouted. “Don’t do that!”
But it was too late. She had it off in seconds. She took a big gulp of air and let it out, grinning with joy.
“It’s fine,” she said. “No problem.” She reached up and grabbed a piece of fruit off a low branch. It was red, and he remembered that it was called an apple. She took a bite, and her face was contorted in ecstasy at the taste. “It’s delicious,” she said. “Delicious! Here, have one.” She grabbed another apple off the tree and held it out to him.
He couldn’t figure out what was going on. “The computer. . .” he said.
“Damn the computer!” she shouted. “It’s a paradise out here. What are you waiting for?”
“Okay,” he said. He unlatched his helmet.
He took it off.
Already he could feel his face starting to burn from the heat. His throat tightened, and he gasped for air, his eyes wide.
And then he saw her twisted body on the ground, her face purple and bloated, the eyes bulging in horror with the shock of seeing what paradise truly looked like.
THE END
John McDonnell Copyright 2010
“Trees,” she said. “Look at that magnificent grove of trees.”
“There are no trees on this planet,” he said. “The computer says it’s 200 degrees out there, and the atmosphere is poisonous.”
“I haven’t seen a tree in ages,” she said.
“It’s an illusion,” he said. “We have to leave here, there’s something wrong. As soon as the computer repairs the acceleration system we’ll be gone.”
“How many years have we searched for a planet like this?” she said.
“Too many, but that’s not the point.”
“It looks like Earth. The way Earth used to look, with trees. Before it died.”
“We have a mission,” he said. “We could be the last humans in the universe. We have to start a new civilization soon. We can’t take a chance on this planet.”
“Look, one of them has fruit on it. When’s the last time we ate anything except Nutro Shakes? I want to go out there.”
“No! It’s a trick. You’ll die.”
“Those trees. How can anything be wrong with them?”
“You are not going anywhere, and that’s an order.”
* * *
He woke up on the floor with a splitting headache, and slowly realized she’d hit him with a wrench. He could see on the monitor she was already in the airlock, ready to go outside. She must have overridden the computer somehow. “No,” he yelled hoarsely, pulling himself up on unsteady legs. “Stop. Don’t go out there.” He ran down the narrow passageway that snaked around the ship, till he got to the airlock.He could see on the monitor she was still inside the compartment, so he pulled on a pressure suit quickly, hoping to stop her before she went through the final door. He put on his helmet and switched on the computer link, ignoring the computer’s warnings about the temperature and atmosphere outside, because he was too worried she would get away before he could stop her.
He pushed the button in the wall and a panel slid aside, and he stepped inside. “Yvette, please,” he said, but the heavy outer doors were open and she was already down the steps and outside.
He watched as she took a few more steps, then opened her arms wide, turned, and said on the helmet link: “See, nothing’s wrong. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
The landscape looked the same as it did from the ship. There was the grove of trees on a little hill 80 yards away, swaying gently in the breeze, under a deep blue cloudless sky.
And yet.
The computer readout at the bottom of his face mask showed a surface temperature of more than 200 degrees Fahrenheit, and the presence of methane and hydrogen, with no oxygen at all.
Now she was dancing, skipping along the path toward the trees, looking like a silver caterpillar in her pressure suit.
“Wait,” he said, and started after her. With every step, the screen in front of his eyes was setting off warning lights and alarms.
Now she stopped by one of the trees and clapped her hands. Look at it, she said. Isn’t it magnificent?
She started to take her helmet off.
“No,” he shouted. “Don’t do that!”
But it was too late. She had it off in seconds. She took a big gulp of air and let it out, grinning with joy.
“It’s fine,” she said. “No problem.” She reached up and grabbed a piece of fruit off a low branch. It was red, and he remembered that it was called an apple. She took a bite, and her face was contorted in ecstasy at the taste. “It’s delicious,” she said. “Delicious! Here, have one.” She grabbed another apple off the tree and held it out to him.
He couldn’t figure out what was going on. “The computer. . .” he said.
“Damn the computer!” she shouted. “It’s a paradise out here. What are you waiting for?”
“Okay,” he said. He unlatched his helmet.
He took it off.
Already he could feel his face starting to burn from the heat. His throat tightened, and he gasped for air, his eyes wide.
And then he saw her twisted body on the ground, her face purple and bloated, the eyes bulging in horror with the shock of seeing what paradise truly looked like.
THE END
John McDonnell Copyright 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Petey and Muggs and Bix
When I write the Petey and Muggs stories I listen to 1920s jazz to get me in the mood. Bix Beiderbecke is my favorite musician from that time. Here's a song featuring Bix, called "Royal Garden Blues". It's got the high-spirited feel that I love about the 1920s.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Petey And Muggs Discuss Evolution -- a #fridayflash story
By John McDonnell
“The sign says don’t throw peanuts to the lions,” Muggs said.
“This one ain’t interested anyway,” Petey said, pointing to the huge male who was pacing back and forth in his cage inside the lion house, his shoulder muscles rippling with every step. “This boy wants his steak dinner.”
They had come into the lion house following a short man in a blue suit and a white straw hat, who was holding the arm of a young woman in a red pleated dress that stopped an inch above the knee. The man and woman were leaning against a railing near one of the cages at the far end of the corridor. There were six male lions, each with his own cage, and they were all pacing back and forth, waiting for their dinner. Every once in awhile, one of them would let out a deep, moaning roar, which echoed like thunder in the tiled building. The air was thick with their animal smell.
“So is that Mrs. Fishburn?” Muggs said, pointing to the woman in the red dress.
“That, my friend, is not Mrs. Fishburn,” Petey said. “But that is the reason Mr. Fishburn has been fiddling Mr. Donovan’s books. He’s got a chippie.”
“That ain’t right,” Muggs said.
“Aw, marriage ain’t natural anyway,” Petey said. “Look at them lions. They don’t get married, do they?”
“Animals and people is different.”
“No they ain’t. Ain’t you heard of evolution? They’re havin’ a big trial about it right now in Tennessee. All them Bible people want to convict a teacher named Scopes for teachin’ that we came from monkeys.”
“I didn’t come from no monkey.”
“You sure about that? I think I seen some of your relatives in the gorilla house.”
“Hey, what’s he doing down there?” Muggs said.
The man in the straw boater was throwing peanuts at a lion. He was throwing one peanut after another. He hit the big cat in the eye, and the lion roared. The man in the hat roared back, laughing and making a fist at the lion. The girl next to him giggled at the game he was playing.
“That ain’t right,” Muggs said.
* * *
The Packard was in the shop, so they had to walk back uptown.
“Funny how them lions got so excited,” Petey said.
“It was loud in there,” Muggs said. “My ears still hurt.”
“You probably shouldn’t have pressed Mr. Fishburn’s head against the cage. I thought he was havin’ a heart attack when you did that.”
“The sign said don’t throw peanuts to the lions,” Muggs said. Muggs wrinkled his brow in thought for a moment, then said, “You think people and animals are the same?”
“Nah,” Petey said, grabbing an apple from a fruit stand while the proprietor wasn’t looking. “We’re the ones that belong in the zoo.”
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell, 2010
“The sign says don’t throw peanuts to the lions,” Muggs said.
“This one ain’t interested anyway,” Petey said, pointing to the huge male who was pacing back and forth in his cage inside the lion house, his shoulder muscles rippling with every step. “This boy wants his steak dinner.”
They had come into the lion house following a short man in a blue suit and a white straw hat, who was holding the arm of a young woman in a red pleated dress that stopped an inch above the knee. The man and woman were leaning against a railing near one of the cages at the far end of the corridor. There were six male lions, each with his own cage, and they were all pacing back and forth, waiting for their dinner. Every once in awhile, one of them would let out a deep, moaning roar, which echoed like thunder in the tiled building. The air was thick with their animal smell.
“So is that Mrs. Fishburn?” Muggs said, pointing to the woman in the red dress.
“That, my friend, is not Mrs. Fishburn,” Petey said. “But that is the reason Mr. Fishburn has been fiddling Mr. Donovan’s books. He’s got a chippie.”
“That ain’t right,” Muggs said.
“Aw, marriage ain’t natural anyway,” Petey said. “Look at them lions. They don’t get married, do they?”
“Animals and people is different.”
“No they ain’t. Ain’t you heard of evolution? They’re havin’ a big trial about it right now in Tennessee. All them Bible people want to convict a teacher named Scopes for teachin’ that we came from monkeys.”
“I didn’t come from no monkey.”
“You sure about that? I think I seen some of your relatives in the gorilla house.”
“Hey, what’s he doing down there?” Muggs said.
The man in the straw boater was throwing peanuts at a lion. He was throwing one peanut after another. He hit the big cat in the eye, and the lion roared. The man in the hat roared back, laughing and making a fist at the lion. The girl next to him giggled at the game he was playing.
“That ain’t right,” Muggs said.
* * *
The Packard was in the shop, so they had to walk back uptown.
“Funny how them lions got so excited,” Petey said.
“It was loud in there,” Muggs said. “My ears still hurt.”
“You probably shouldn’t have pressed Mr. Fishburn’s head against the cage. I thought he was havin’ a heart attack when you did that.”
“The sign said don’t throw peanuts to the lions,” Muggs said. Muggs wrinkled his brow in thought for a moment, then said, “You think people and animals are the same?”
“Nah,” Petey said, grabbing an apple from a fruit stand while the proprietor wasn’t looking. “We’re the ones that belong in the zoo.”
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell, 2010
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