My favorite short story writers

I just created my first Listmania list on Amazon.com. I love short stories, so I thought I'd list my favorite short story writers. The list, which is here, has my thoughts on the authors I like the most. I highly recommend these writers if you want to delve into some entertaining stories that can be read in one sitting.

A Late Arrival

By John McDonnell

She’d never driven a car before, but somehow Alice figured she’d be all right.
Except that she was driving in a blizzard.
The snow was coming down so hard she could hardly see the road anymore. It was like she was going through a long tunnel, white on all sides, with nothing ahead of her but a circle of black and the driving snow. She’d already slid three times when she put her foot on the brake, once almost skidding into a tree. Luckily, there were no cars on the road in this weather.
 
What was I thinking, going out in a blizzard?
She couldn’t stand it anymore -- she had to get away from that nursing home. When the weatherman on TV predicted a big storm, it was her chance. Everyone except a skeleton crew of staffers had left early. She’d gone to the nursing station when nobody was around and rifled through a few purses till she found car keys. She meandered down the hallway with her walker, trying to act normal, then slipped out a side door and went down to the parking lot. She pressed the unlock button on the key remote till the lights went on in a black Ford Explorer. She ditched the walker and got in.
David, her deceased husband, had always been the driver in their family. Alice sat next to him for so long that she thought she could figure out this driving business.
Getting out of the parking lot had been easy. Now that she was on the road, however, she was feeling weaker.

What have I done? Where am I going to go? I’m just an old lady who has no place in this world.

She’d been alone for ten years after David died, and her only daughter had put her in that home. She felt like she’d been around too long, lived past her time. She didn’t understand modern life. All these gadgets and gizmos, everybody rushing so fast they didn’t have time to sit and have a cup of coffee with you. She liked to talk, but nobody listened anymore.
Alice shivered as the wind buffeted the car. She was wearing pajamas, a bathrobe and slippers. I sure hope this car has enough gas, she thought, then looked at the gas gauge for the first time and saw it was on Empty.

Well, that’s it for me. I’m done for.

Just then she saw a light. At first it was only a small glow on her windshield, but she turned  the car toward it and it got bigger. It was a diner, one of those old-fashioned ones that looked like a railroad car. Its windows threw out a warm, bright light, and Alice could see people inside.

She pulled the car into the parking lot, although -- funny thing -- it was empty. Where did all the people inside come from? No matter, she felt safer now. The diner reminded her of the Coffee Break Diner in her hometown -- Alice smiled at the memory of that friendly, happy place.
She got out of the car and almost fell on the ice, realizing she shouldn’t have left the walker behind. She made her way carefully, holding on to the car till she could grab the railing leading up the steps to the diner.
Her feet and hands were cold, and she had snow in her eyes. She pulled herself up the steps, then swung open the door and she was in the warm glow, smelling the coffee and hearing the play of many voices.
It was exactly like the Coffee Break Diner. There was the broken clock on the wall, its hands stopped at midnight. There was the long counter trimmed in chrome, with the red stools next to it. There was the jukebox, all silver and red, and the song it was playing, what was that? “It’s My Party”, the Leslie Gore hit. Alice hadn’t heard that song in years. 
She shuffled over to the counter and sat down at a stool, rubbing her hands to warm them up. A beehive-haired waitress came up with a steaming mug of coffee, and put it in front of her.
“I figured you’d want this,” she said.
“You read my mind,” Alice said, taking the mug in both hands, and letting it warm her.  She took a big drink of the hot coffee, and it tasted better than anything she’d had in the nursing home.
“A slice of apple pie would go well with that,” the waitress said.
“That sounds wonderful.”
The waitress went off to the kitchen and came back with a large piece of apple pie. Something about her looked familiar, but the smell of hot apple pie distracted Alice. She ate a forkful and closed her eyes in ecstasy. It was the best apple pie she’d had since she was a girl.
“Good pie, isn’t it?”
Alice turned to see who had spoken to her, and got the shock of her life. It was Fred McLoon, the bank manager in Alice’s hometown. It couldn’t be him, but yet -- he had the same three-piece brown suit, the watch fob, the jowly face, the white hair. It was uncanny.
“What’s the matter, Honey?” the man said. “You look a bit pale.”
“I just. . . uh. . . could you tell me your name?” Alice asked.
“Why, you know my name. I’m Fred McLoon.”
“You remember me?” Alice said.
Mr. McLoon let out a guffaw, and slapped his hand on the counter. “Why, if that isn’t the funniest thing I ever heard! Why wouldn’t I know the girl who’s sweet on my son?”
Alice gulped. She looked at the other patrons, and got another shock. There was Joel Weatherby, the mailman, talking to Jim Hall, who owned the gas station in town. Over at another table were the Barrett twins, all talking excitedly about something. There were four women in one of the booths, and Alice recognized them as Muriel Wilson, the librarian, her sister Beatrice, and two other women who looked like Edna Sims and Mimsy Hathaway, who lived on Alice’s street.
It must be a dream, Alice thought.  A crazy dream, that’s what it is.
“Something wrong with you, dear?” Mr. McLoon asked.
“Do you know what time it is?” Alice said. Somewhere she had read that if you ask a character in a dream what time it is, their answer will tell you if you’re really dreaming.
“Time?” Mr. McLoon said. He opened his pocket watch and frowned at it. “Darn thing is broken again,” he said. “Why do you need to know the time, anyway?”
“No reason I guess,” Alice said. She didn’t know what was going on, but she felt so warm and secure here that she didn’t want to question it. She didn’t want to wake up.
Then she heard it. There was a group of teenage boys at the far end of the diner, in a booth. Alice could hear them chattering away, but she couldn’t get a good look at them. Was it possible that he heard David’s voice?
“Is David here?” she asked Mr. McLoon.
“Why, of course, Alice. You know he comes here every day after school with his friends.”
David. What she would have given to see him one more time! She felt her heart racing, and she broke out in a sweat. She’d met him 50 years ago in high school, and it was love at first sight. To see him again the way he looked back then! It would almost be too much to bear, but yet. . .
Alice swallowed hard and got up from the stool. This was crazy, but she was going to see David again. She shuffled along, her legs shaking, her breath coming in gasps. She got closer to the group of boys, and then, as if on cue, one of them turned. He had beautiful red curly hair, a sprinkle of freckles across his button nose, and that madcap light in his green eyes. . .

The police found the Ford Explorer ten miles from the interstate, parked next to an abandoned railroad car. The engine was off, and the old woman inside the car was wearing a robe and slippers.
“What a shame,” the tall cop said to his partner. “Crazy old lady, stealing a car and driving around in a blizzard. What was she thinking?”
“I don’t know, Joe,” the other cop said. “But at least she died happy. Look at that smile on her face.”
 
THE END

Larry Runs Away

 By John McDonnell

In the aftermath of the Limburger Cheese Incident Larry went into hiding. He took a job as a doormat at a high traffic office building in town, because he was so ashamed he decided that it would be appropriate to have hundreds of people step on him every day.

He still had a slight aroma of cheese about him, which made it easy for Myra to find him, with the help of one of her best tracking rats.

She stood near the tasteful maroon doormat with “Welcome” written on it in gold letters, and began. “Larry, I know it’s you. Please come back. I’m sorry for doubting your affection.” She was holding the rat in her pocket to prevent it from scaring the people walking on top of Larry.

“I’m a failure,” Larry said. “I screw up everything I touch.”

“No you don’t,” Myra said, her glasses misting up. “You’re the kindest, sweetest, most sensitive alien I know.”

“You know other aliens?” Larry said. “You mean I’m not alone here?”

“Well, no,” Myra said. “It was a figure of speech.”

“Oh.” Larry sighed. “I should have known. I’ll be stuck in this backwater forever. I’m not important enough for a posting to anyplace with a real civilization.”

“Why are you talking to that doormat?” It was a five year old boy who had just gotten out of a taxi with his mother.

“I’m talking to my friend the alien,” Myra said.

“Well, if it works for you,” the boy said, shrugging. “Personally, I don’t do the Imaginary Friend thing anymore.”

“Now, Jeremy, let’s move along,” his mother said. “We don’t have time to talk to aliens today.”

“I’ll believe it if he turns himself into a dinosaur,” the boy said to Myra.

“Of course,” Larry said. “Turn myself into a creature that died out millions of years ago. It’s right down my alley. An evolutionary dead-end, that’s me.”

“You see?” his mother said. “The alien doesn’t want to cooperate. Now let’s get going. We’re late for your dentist appointment.”

The little boy froze. “Dentist? You told me we were going to a toy store.”

“So I lied a little. It’s almost a toy store. He has stuffed animals to play with in his office.”

“No!” the boy shouted. “I’m not going to the dentist!”

He turned and bolted in the opposite direction, which happened to be directly into the street. There was a large city bus coming straight at him. His mother screamed, Myra said, “Oh, no!” and Larry -- well, Larry somehow sprang into action. He slowed down Time to the point where everyone appeared to be moving in a vat of maple syrup. He then turned himself into a large grey kangaroo and hopped out into the street, picked up the little boy, stuffed him in his pouch, and bounded back to the sidewalk. There was a shimmering, and then everything was moving at the normal speed again, and the little boy was standing next to Larry blinking up at him.

“Thank you!” the boy’s mother cried.

“What happened?” the boy said, shaking his head and looking at Larry.

“This nice kangaroo saved you from being run over by a bus,” the mother said.

“It was nothing, mate,” Larry said, in an Australian accent. “I just readjusted Time and Space on the atomic level so that I could get over there and grab yer little ankle biter before the bus came. It involves quarks, leptons, and muons -- happens in the bush all the time.”

“Yes,” the mother said. “Well, I just want to say that my cousin is the mayor, and I’m going to tell him that you deserve a medal for this, and maybe a parade.”

“Please,” Larry said, his jaws working as he chewed a cud. “Bit of a shy bloke, don’t much like being the center of attention. Not my bowl of rice, if yer get my drift.”

“I insist,” the mother said. “We have parades for everything in this city. It’s about time we had one for an alien.”

Myra, who knew her boyfriend better than anyone, said, “Thank you, ma’am, but we’ll be going now. Larry has an appointment to get a hero’s welcome at my apartment. Come on, Larry,” she said, pulling his paw. “We’re going. And don’t even think about slowing down Time again till we get home.”

THE END
COPYRIGHT JOHN MCDONNELL, 2010. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

The Rights Of Octopi, a #fridayflash story

 By John McDonnell


“Mom, your alien made Horst disappear!” Willow shrieked. “Get him to bring Horst back now!”

Dolores thought that Horst was probably fitting in very well with all the other hominids from 8 million years ago, and she was not thrilled with the idea of bringing him back, but Willow looked a bit flushed under her corpse-like Goth makeup, so Dolores said, “Larry, can you please bring Horst back from whatever epoch you sent him to?”

“Certainly,” Larry said, and in a flash Horst was back in the kitchen, breathing heavily, with scratches on his face and an assortment of twigs, leaves, and small animals in his hair.

“Whoo,” Horst said. “I didn’t know hippos could climb trees.” He had the look of someone who had seen entirely too much for one day.

“Come on, Baby,” Willow said, pushing him out the back door. “We know when we’re not wanted.” She came back long enough to grab two beer bottles out of the refrigerator and then slam the door behind her.

After they left, Dolores sat down across the kitchen table from Larry. “That’s my daughter,” she said. “She has terrible taste in men, her hair is purple, and she hasn’t said ‘Thank you’ to anyone in ten years.”

Larry looked pensive. “On my planet it is not uncommon for mothers to eat their young.”

“That alone tells me you’re an advanced civilization,” Dolores said.

“I miss my home,” Larry said, his eyes moistening.

Dolores didn’t want him to start crying again, because it took forever to get him calmed down.

“Say, why don’t we go out to dinner?” she said. “I haven’t had seafood in ages. What do you think?”

Larry thought it was a good idea, as did Murphy and Edna. Although Dolores had to tell Edna that her full length pink ballgown, white gloves, and feather boa was not appropriate attire for the seafood restaurant, and Murphy got Larry to promise he wouldn’t turn himself into anything more edgy than a Republican congressman for the duration of the evening.

Things did not go well at the seafood restaurant, however. While they were waiting for a table Larry noticed a large fish tank and went over to look at it. He pressed his face to the glass and seemed to be communing with a pinkish gray octopus for a few minutes. Suddenly he turned to Murphy and said, “My little friend here tells me this place has octopus on the menu. How barbaric!”

Murphy shrugged and said, “It’s a seafood restaurant. That’s what they serve.”

“This is an outrage,” Larry said. “I protest! This must stop!”

“What’s the matter?” Dolores said.

“Larry doesn’t like that there’s octopus on the menu,” Murphy said.

“Abomination!” Larry shouted. “What kind of people are you?” He had morphed into a cross between a Sumo wrestler and an 11th century Viking, and was going around the restaurant overturning tables, breaking glass, and causing the patrons to flee for their lives.

“Isn’t this darling?” Edna said. “I love it when someone takes a principled stand. What are we fighting for, dear?”

“The rights of octopi,” Dolores said, with a murderous look at Murphy.

“You’d better leave now,” Murphy said. “I’ll get him calmed down, I promise.”

“I really wanted seafood,” Dolores muttered, as she led Edna out of the restaurant just before a water glass whizzed by her ear and crashed into the cash register, shattering in a thousand pieces.

Later, after a spirited police chase through the mountains, Murphy stopped at a quaint little town and treated everyone to ice cream cones, and they sat on a bench by a pier and watched the sun set over the ocean.

“I’m sorry,” Larry said. He looked vaguely like a librarian now, and had a beard and wore a threadbare blue cardigan. “I get carried away sometimes.”

“It’s okay, dear,” Edna said. She looked out at the darkening sky. “Do you ever look at the stars at night and wonder if there’s anyone else out there?”

Murphy blinked twice rapidly, and said, “Larry is from out there, Edna.”

“Nonsense,” Edna said. “Larry is one of us. Aren’t you dear?” she said, patting Larry on the knee. “Why, all Larry needs is a girlfriend, and he’ll be all right.”

“A girlfriend,” Larry said. “There would be a certain strange logic in that.”

“Wonderful,” Murphy said. “Would this girlfriend be a vertebrate or an invertebrate?”

“Mother is right,” Dolores said. “Larry needs a relationship.”

“A bit of advice, Larry,” Murphy said. “Settle on one species, at least. Women like a little stability in that area.”


THE END

COPYRIGHT JOHN MCDONNELL, 2010. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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"

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 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

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

My story "New Year" is published

My flash fiction story "New Year" was published today at Bewildering Stories. It's a mix of horror and speculative fiction. I had a great time writing it. I'd love to hear what readers think about it. Here is the link:

http://www.bewilderingstories.com/issue379/new_year.html

The Doctor Visit -- a #fridayflash story

By John McDonnell

Petey and Muggs didn’t have an appointment, but after Petey bent down and whispered in the ear of Mabel Houston, the receptionist, she bolted out of her chair and said that she would see if the doctor could fit them in. 
The doctor, a lean, thin-lipped man named Walter Bergstrom, ushered them into his examining room with the look of someone who had just smelled something unpleasant.
“My receptionist said it was an emergency,” he said. “It had better be, for the way you spoke to her.”
“Sorry, doc,” Petey said. “It’s just that I got a little problem, and I need some help.”
“Yes? What is it?” the doctor said, grabbing the gold pocket watch from his vest and looking at it impatiently.
“I, ah, well, I was with this woman, see, and. . .” Petey’s voice trailed off.
“Come on, man, I don’t have all day,” the doctor said.
“It’s kind of personal.”
“Maybe your friend should leave.”
“Nothing doing,” Petey said. “Muggs goes everywhere with me.”
“Well, then, I’d better examine you. Drop your trousers.”
“Nuts to that.”
“Then I can’t help you.”
“He just wants some medicine,” Muggs said.
“Sure, that’s what you all want,” the doctor said. “All of you goons. You disgust me. You come in here and want me to patch you up after your gunfights, treat you for the clap, arrange abortions for your girlfriends. I can’t stand what you represent. I grew up in a time when people went to church, lived good lives. That’s all out the window now. All the younger generation wants to do now is drink bathtub gin, listen to that godawful racket they call jazz, and have sex. There are no morals anymore. Well, I’ve had enough,” he said, standing up. “I have no time for this. Get out of my office now. Let somebody else help you.”
“Sit down, doc,” Petey said. His voice had a very low tone, like it came from a different person, and something about it made the doctor sit down quickly.
“That’s better,” Petey said, in his normal voice. “I was sittin’ here thinkin’ you look familiar. Don’t he look familiar, Muggs?”
“I dunno,” Muggs said. “Do we know him?”
“Sure,” Petey said. “Why, I think we seen him at Mr. Donovan’s place a time or two. Ain’t that right, Doc?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Muggs looked puzzled. “Did Mr. Donovan need some doctorin’, Petey?”
“No, you lummox. Our friend the doc here was a payin’ customer. Weren’t you, doc?”
The doctor flushed. “If you’re talking about that speakeasy in town, you’re sadly mistaken. I’ve never been near--”
“Oh, wait a minute,” Muggs said. “Now I recognize him. His face is all red, and that makes him look more familiar. He had a red face when I seen him before. He was comin’ downstairs from where the girls--”
“That’s preposterous!” the doctor said, but his face got even redder.
“Say, Doc,” Petey said. “Is that a picture of your wife on the wall? Gee, she’s a peach. Ain’t she a peach, Muggs?”
“She’s a peach,” Muggs said.
The doctor pulled out his prescription pad and scribbled something on it, then ripped the sheet off. There was a slight tremor in his hand when he gave the paper to Petey.
“Take that to Foster’s Drugstore, on North Main,” he said. “Take the whole dose. If you have any problems after you’re finished, come and see me again.”
“Thanks, doc,” Petey said, getting up. “What’s the charge?”
“Nothing,” the doctor said. “Just leave, please.”
“Sure, doc, sure,” Petey said. “Say hello to your wife for us, willya?”

Outside in the Packard, Muggs said, “Gee, that was a coincidence, huh? That you recognized the doc.”
“Yeah,” Petey said. “What a coincidence.”
“I like that better than goin’ to a stranger.”
“You said it, kid,” Petey replied. “It’s much better to deal with folks you know.”

THE END
Copyright John McDonnell, 2010

The Diversion -- a #fridayflash story

By John McDonnell

Petey and Muggs sat in the back of the Orpheum Theatre and watched The Great Mesmeroni and his assistant, the lovely Fifi, perform magic for the matinee crowd.
“I hope he don’t saw her in half,” Muggs said. “I don’t like to see a girl get sawed in half.”
“It’s a trick,” Petey said. “She ain’t really going to get sawed in half.”
“How do you know? Maybe she will.”
Petey sighed. “Don’t you know it’s all done with mirrors? It’s a trick, that’s all.”
“Well, she’s a pretty girl, and I wouldn’t want to see her get sawed in half.”
The girl wore a red sequined gown that shimmered in the stage lights, and long red gloves, and she had a mane of cinnamon colored hair. She had a ballerina’s posture and graceful arm movements. 
The Great Mesmeroni pulled pigeons out of his top hat, yards of silk handkerchiefs out of a shot glass, and playing cards out of the air. He got giggling audience members to come up on stage and he pulled coins from behind their ears. For the finale, he wheeled out a large polished black box and put the lovely Fifi in it, then sawed her in half. Muggs did not look at this, holding his bowler hat over his eyes.
Afterward, Petey led the way back to the dressing room, and Muggs followed, anxious to make sure the girl was all right.
She wasn’t in the magician’s dressing room, however, and Muggs was disappointed. The Great Mesmeroni was taking his makeup off, and was sitting naked from the waist up at a dressing table in front of a greasy mirror. He looked smaller without his tuxedo on, and he had a potbelly.
He was not happy to see them.
“Gentlemen, please,” he said. “This is my dressing room.”
“We just came to talk,” Petey said. “Mr. Donovan sent us.”
“I know very well who sent you. I told him my answer. I don’t work for gangsters and bootleggers. I am a man of integrity.”
“Now, that ain’t very white of you,” Petey said. “Mr. Donovan loves your act, and he thinks you’d be a big hit at his club.”
“You can inform Mr. Donovan I’m not working at his speakeasy. Why is that fellow staring at me?”
“That’s my friend Muggs. He don’t like the way you treat women.”
“Why’d you saw that girl in half?” Muggs said.
“My dear boy, I didn’t saw her in half. You saw her standing upright at the end of the show, didn’t you?”
“Muggs closed his eyes,” Petey said. “He couldn’t watch.”
“Well, I’m sorry you believed it. It’s all a trick, my boy. It’s about smoke and mirrors, about misdirection, about putting up a diversion so the audience doesn’t see what you’re really doing.”
“You’re lying,” Muggs said.
“God help me, I think you mean it,” the magician said. “Well, I’ve no answer for stupidity. Now get out of here, the both of you.”

In the Packard on the way home, Muggs said, “He shouldn’t saw girls in half.”
Petey whistled, long and hard. “I didn’t know you could bend somebody’s arm at that angle,” he said. “He ain’t going to be sawing nobody in half for quite a while now. Mr. Donovan won’t be happy.”
“She was a pretty girl.”
“Aw, you big ox, you just don’t get it, do ya? Everything about show business is fake. I know a guy who works at the Orpheum, and he says she’s 60 years old if she’s a day. With all the face paint she wears, and the wig, and the stage lights, they make her look 30 years younger. She’s long past being a girl.”
“I don’t believe it.”
Petey shook his head. “It must be nice to be so thick-headed. I bet you believe in Santy Claus, too.”
“I ain’t sayin’.”
Petey shook his head. “Gimme that flask, willya? I need a drink to take the edge off.”   

THE END  Copyright John McDonnell 2010

Princess Quest, A Flash Fiction

By John McDonnell

It had been blazing hot all morning, and Princess Meredith was perspiring when she came around a bend on the mountain path and saw the wooden bridge stretching across the gorge. There was a white-bearded old man in a long robe standing near the bridge, and she was not happy about this. He was probably one of those old men who make you answer three questions before they let you cross their bridge, and she wasn’t in a mood to answer questions.
"Hello, blind man," she called, as she approached him. She could tell he was blind because his eyes didn’t focus on anything. Also, because he was looking at a tree instead of her.
"Hello," he said, bowing to the tree. "Charmed to meet you."
"I’m over here, to your left."
"Sorry. I’m blind, you know."
She sighed. "I thought old blind bridgekeepers had a really keen sense of hearing, but you obviously don’t."
"Well, I’ve never had good ears. Nor a good nose, for that matter. But, I can tell everything about a person by touching them. For example," he said, running his hands all over her, "I can tell you’re female, you’ve been perspiring, you’re 19, and you have very big—"
She slapped him across the face. "Keep your hands to yourself, you cheeky devil!"
"Sorry," he said. "I don’t see many young girls around here. Last one must have been two years ago. Princess, she was. On a quest. The dragon ate her, I’m sure."
"Oh, fudge," Princess Meredith said, stamping her foot. "You mean there’s a dragon over there?" She pointed at the other end of the bridge.
"Why yes, Miss," he said, chuckling. "There’s always a dragon, isn’t there?"
"Is he big?"
"Oh, he’s a roaring big sort of a fellow, with nasty breath. Even I, with my dodgy sense of smell, I can tell his breath is terrible bad."
"Well, that’s no good. I have to get over there, because I’m on a quest. An evil witch has put a curse on my father, and turned him into a lampshade, and she won’t turn him back until I return with a ring from the treasure cave across that bridge."
"Ah, yes. All the witches like to send people to the dragon’s cave. It’s a common enough quest. Of course, there are alternatives. You could be sent to a wizard’s castle to pluck his beard. Or, you could sneak up to a dwarf’s forge and steal his hammer. Or, perhaps take an ogre’s supper from him? Ah, that would be an interesting one. . ."
"Yadda yadda," she said. "I don’t have time for this," and she started across the bridge.
"Wait, miss, if you please. I’m the guardian of this bridge. You can’t get past unless I let you."
"And how will you stop me? You’re blind."
He smiled. "Yes. But I have special powers. What kind of a bridgekeeper would I be without special powers?"
She sighed. "And you probably have three questions for me to answer."
"Three questions?" He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Hmm. Never thought of that. No, that wouldn’t do. I’d have to remember three answers."
"Well, what do I have to do?"
"Yes. Well. You have to. . .  that is to say. . . if you wouldn’t mind. . . I mean, ah."
"Would you please get to the point," the princess said, tapping her foot. "I don’t have all day."
"You have to let me give you a massage."
"What? In your dreams."
His face fell. "Oh, that’s what they all say. No massage for us, they say. No. Old George, who has three out of five senses on the fritz, who has to sit out in front of this bridge night and day, with no companionship, year after year, Old George is not allowed the simple pleasure of touching another human being, not allowed to satisfy the basic human need for –"
"Oh all right," the princess said. "Just stop your yammering."
"Would you?" his wrinkled face split into a grin.
"Yes. But make it quick," she said, lying down on her stomach on a nearby flat stone. "And if you go any lower than my third lumbar vertebrae, I’ll beat you to within an inch of your life."
"Oh, don’t worry, miss, I won’t," he said, placing his large hands on her neck. "I’ll be a perfect gentleman, I will."
"A little lower, please," the princess said, struggling to get the words out.
"Can’t hear you," the old man said.
"Argh, akhl, gack," the princess said, as his grip tightened. He certainly did have a strong grip for such a decrepit old man. However, she was able to loosen his grip by kicking backwards into his groin, and then turning and pummeling him about the face and upper body. In a matter of seconds she was on top of him on the ground, with her hands wrapped around his neck. His lips were turning the most interesting shade of green, and his breath – his breath? – was fouler than anything she’d ever smelled.
So it was that just before the old man was able to transform himself into the dragon, the princess strangled him into unconsciousness, then dragged his body to the edge of the cliff and tossed it over, where it fell a great distance and plunged like an anvil into the rapids below.
The princess got up and dusted herself off, then made her way across the bridge and to the cave, where she found lots of treasure. She found the ring the witch wanted, but before she left she took a few baubles along with it.
The princess thought of them as her insurance policy. Her father was impulsive, prone to angering witches, and she figured he’d be cursed again one of these days. It was better to have a gift to placate the next witch than to have to go on another quest like this.
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell 2010

A Very Short Story

The Hemingway style was brief. Condensed. He once wrote this very short story:

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

 It was only six words long. Wired Magazine once asked a group of writers to write a very short story, and published the results. They're here, and they're all entertaining. It's hard to pick a favorite, but I like Eileen Gunn's a lot:

Computer, did we bring batteries? Computer?

Six word stories are fun to write. They're super condensed, like haiku. Try one -- you may find that you enjoy writing a very short story once in awhile.

Hemingway And The Iceberg Theory

Ernest Hemingway was a powerful influence on me as a young writer. I still believe in his "iceberg theory", which he described as: 

"If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them.  The dignity of movement of the iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water."  

This is why Hemingway made his stories so short. They are like icebergs, with a lot going on underneath the surface. He revised his stories rigorously, making them tighter and yet more suggestive with each revision. He packed a lot of meaning into a small amount of words. Read "A Very Short Story" by Ernest Hemingway, and you'll see what I mean.

I have always felt that Hemingway was a better short story writer than novelist. His short fiction is so strong, but it seemed like the longer form of the novel was hard for him. There's a quote from "A Moveable Feast", his great book about being a young writer in Paris, where he says he had worked so hard on learning how to write taut, condensed stories that writing a novel seemed like an impossible task. He couldn't imagine himself writing something that long.

Whatever you think about his novels, he is one of the great short story writers in English. You can learn a lot about writing from reading his short story collections.

And following his iceberg theory.