By John McDonnell
Eventually life returned to normal for Dolores, or as normal as it can be when you have an alien for a houseguest, a mother who seems to be living in a different dimension, and a daughter who makes rebellion into an art form.
Speaking of which, Willow showed up one evening with Horst, her hairy, tattooed boyfriend and announced that they were getting married and moving to a trailer park. “We’d like to invite you to the wedding,” Willow said, “but Horst thinks you don’t like him.”
“Why would he think that?” Dolores said, trying to suppress her gag reflex at the presence of Horst sitting at her kitchen table, all 300 pounds of him smelling like a combination of crankcase oil, pepperoni, beer, and various illegal plant essences.
Horst smiled back at her, belched, and took another swig of his beer.
Willow said, “Because you never lend him any money when he asks. It hurts his feelings.”
Dolores wished she had someone, anyone to talk to besides Willow. Murphy was at the bar, and Larry was in the family room discussing soap opera plotting with Edna, who couldn’t understand why the nice young doctor on one of her shows was not available for house calls.
“Mom, are you listening?” Willow said. “It would make Horst feel better if you’d just give us money for the wedding.”
Just then Larry appeared. “Appeared” is perhaps not the best word. He was feeling a bit dicey, and he was fading in and out like a TV picture in a thunderstorm. He was trying for a Marine drill sergeant look, but couldn’t pull off anything more brassy than a bank teller with a nervous tic.
“Larry,” Dolores said. “What’s your opinion of a daughter who asks her mother to approve a marriage that she doesn’t agree with? Should she just throw in the towel and give her blessing?”
“I don’t think I have the mental capacity to answer that now,” Larry said. “I’ve just come from a conversation with Edna. What do you recommend for someone whose head feels like it’s going to explode?”
“Happens to me all the time, dude,” Horst said. “Here, take one of these.” He reached in his pants pocket, pulled out a prescription bottle, and flipped it to Larry, who promptly opened it and downed the whole bottle.
“Dude, I didn’t mean the whole thing,” Horst said.
“What was in that bottle?” Dolores said.
“This isn’t going to be pretty,” Willow groaned.
“I feel. . . strange,” Larry said. “Sort of like my molecules are boiling.” The air shimmered, and he turned into a large pink rabbit in a double breasted black pinstriped suit with wide lapels and a wide-brimmed hat. His big pink ears stuck out the sides of the hat.
“You’re all out to get me, see?” he said. “But I’m wise to ya. You won’t take me alive, dirty coppers. Take that!” He bounded over the kitchen table and pummeled Horst about the head and upper body, mixing in a few sharp kicks, till Horst was a slobbering, sobbing heap on the floor, Willow was screaming, and Dolores looked on, open-mouthed.
Just then Edna walked in the kitchen, and said, “Oh, we have a visitor! How do you do?” she said to the pink rabbit. “You look vaguely familiar. Have we met?”
Larry said, “No, I believe we haven’t--”
“My friend Harriet had a rabbit,” Edna said. “It had purple spots, if I recall. It was the most disagreeable thing, always hopping around interrupting people’s conversations. You look like you have much better manners than that.”
“Yes,” Larry said.
“Would you like to come in the family room and watch TV with me?” Edna said. “I have the most delightful extraterrestrial friend you’d ever want to meet. He stepped out for a moment, but he’ll be back.”
“Okay,” Larry said. He gave Horst one more swift kick, then bounded off behind Edna.
“Speak to me Baby!” Willow screeched, bending over Horst’s prone body. “Are you alive?”
Horst got up with a wild look in his eyes. “There’s no way I’m marrying into this family,” he said. “You people are crazy!” He bolted out the back door, with Willow following him.
Dolores looked at the shambles of her kitchen and decided she would go give Larry a big kiss.
THE END
Showing posts with label micro fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label micro fiction. Show all posts
Friday, October 29, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
The Thing In The Basement
A #Fridayflash Story
By John McDonnell
“Watch out for the thing in the basement,” Billy’s Uncle Hank used to say. He thought it was funny, and he’d smile when he told Billy about it. “Been down there a long time, since before I bought this house,” he’d say. “People told me about it, told me not to buy the house, but I didn’t listen. I know it’s there, though -- I can feel its presence. Like a cold, clammy feeling; it makes your skin crawl. You know something’s watching you, just waiting to pounce.”
Billy didn’t like his uncle. He was strange, had too many rules, and every rule had a punishment. The worst punishment was the basement. If you ever did something really bad, Uncle said, you would have to go downstairs where the thing lived.
The basement was called a “Michigan basement”. It was unfinished, with a bare earth floor and walls. There was a workbench, with tools scattered all around, and clutter everywhere. Old, broken furniture. Ancient toys. Old magazines moldering in stacks. A bare lightbulb in the ceiling. It smelled damp and musty, and there were strange noises that came from the shadows. His uncle came down here to do his woodworking, and he had an assortment of saws, lathes, and chisels. There was even a big industrial table saw that could cut thick planks of wood.
When Billy’s mother told him she was going away on vacation with his father and that he’d have to stay with his uncle for a week, he pleaded not to go.
“Now, Billy,” his mother said. “You’re being unreasonable. We can’t afford to hire a babysitter for you for the week, and we have no other close relatives living nearby. We’re not really friendly with any of our neighbors (you know I don’t believe in getting chummy with neighbors), so Uncle Hank is the only option we have. I don’t know why you keep saying you don’t like your Uncle Hank. Why, he’s my brother -- we’re so close, we could almost be twins.”
The first day, Billy broke a rule. His uncle had a strict rule about not wasting anything, and Billy accidentally tipped a liter bottle of soda over on the kitchen table, and all the soda poured out.
His uncle got red in the face, smiled, and said, “Well, Billy, I think for that infraction you need to spend some time in the basement.”
Billy begged him not to go, but his uncle didn’t listen. He grabbed Billy by the collar and marched him down the old wooden steps, then marched back up himself, closed the big wooden door and bolted it shut.
And then he turned out the light.
It was a good thing the house was set back from the road, and there were no neighbors close by, or they would have heard Billy’s screams. Billy’s uncle seemed not to notice the screams, or the pounding on the door, or any of the other noises that came from the basement. The next morning he came down to breakfast whistling a cheery tune. When he was finished eating his cereal, he said, “Well, Billy, I think you’ve had enough punishment for one night. Let’s see how you’re doing.”
When Billy’s mother got back from her trip and came to pick him up, she rang the doorbell over and over, but nobody answered. She tried the front door handle and found that the door was unlocked. She made her way through the house calling, “Billy, Hank, where are you?” In the kitchen she saw a cereal box on the sideboard, and a bowl and spoon in the sink.
The door to the basement was open.
She went downstairs slowly, calling, “Billy, Hank? Are you there?”
It was dark in the basement, and it took several moments before her eyes adjusted.
There was something at the far end of the room, by the table saw.
The thing in the basement moved toward her.
“Mama,” it said.
THE END
COPYRIGHT JOHN MCDONNELL, 2010. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
By John McDonnell
“Watch out for the thing in the basement,” Billy’s Uncle Hank used to say. He thought it was funny, and he’d smile when he told Billy about it. “Been down there a long time, since before I bought this house,” he’d say. “People told me about it, told me not to buy the house, but I didn’t listen. I know it’s there, though -- I can feel its presence. Like a cold, clammy feeling; it makes your skin crawl. You know something’s watching you, just waiting to pounce.”
Billy didn’t like his uncle. He was strange, had too many rules, and every rule had a punishment. The worst punishment was the basement. If you ever did something really bad, Uncle said, you would have to go downstairs where the thing lived.
The basement was called a “Michigan basement”. It was unfinished, with a bare earth floor and walls. There was a workbench, with tools scattered all around, and clutter everywhere. Old, broken furniture. Ancient toys. Old magazines moldering in stacks. A bare lightbulb in the ceiling. It smelled damp and musty, and there were strange noises that came from the shadows. His uncle came down here to do his woodworking, and he had an assortment of saws, lathes, and chisels. There was even a big industrial table saw that could cut thick planks of wood.
When Billy’s mother told him she was going away on vacation with his father and that he’d have to stay with his uncle for a week, he pleaded not to go.
“Now, Billy,” his mother said. “You’re being unreasonable. We can’t afford to hire a babysitter for you for the week, and we have no other close relatives living nearby. We’re not really friendly with any of our neighbors (you know I don’t believe in getting chummy with neighbors), so Uncle Hank is the only option we have. I don’t know why you keep saying you don’t like your Uncle Hank. Why, he’s my brother -- we’re so close, we could almost be twins.”
The first day, Billy broke a rule. His uncle had a strict rule about not wasting anything, and Billy accidentally tipped a liter bottle of soda over on the kitchen table, and all the soda poured out.
His uncle got red in the face, smiled, and said, “Well, Billy, I think for that infraction you need to spend some time in the basement.”
Billy begged him not to go, but his uncle didn’t listen. He grabbed Billy by the collar and marched him down the old wooden steps, then marched back up himself, closed the big wooden door and bolted it shut.
And then he turned out the light.
It was a good thing the house was set back from the road, and there were no neighbors close by, or they would have heard Billy’s screams. Billy’s uncle seemed not to notice the screams, or the pounding on the door, or any of the other noises that came from the basement. The next morning he came down to breakfast whistling a cheery tune. When he was finished eating his cereal, he said, “Well, Billy, I think you’ve had enough punishment for one night. Let’s see how you’re doing.”
When Billy’s mother got back from her trip and came to pick him up, she rang the doorbell over and over, but nobody answered. She tried the front door handle and found that the door was unlocked. She made her way through the house calling, “Billy, Hank, where are you?” In the kitchen she saw a cereal box on the sideboard, and a bowl and spoon in the sink.
The door to the basement was open.
She went downstairs slowly, calling, “Billy, Hank? Are you there?”
It was dark in the basement, and it took several moments before her eyes adjusted.
There was something at the far end of the room, by the table saw.
The thing in the basement moved toward her.
“Mama,” it said.
THE END
COPYRIGHT JOHN MCDONNELL, 2010. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 14, 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
http://www.bewilderingstories.com/issue379/new_year.html
Friday, March 19, 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
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
Friday, March 12, 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
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
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Deaf Jam, a flash fiction
DEAF JAM
By John McDonnell
The Count’s daughter was very frustrated with his hearing.
“I told you to get a hearing aid,” she said.
“Excuse me?” he said, cupping a hand to his ear.
“I said, ‘I told you to get a hearing aid!’” she shouted.
“There is nothing wrong with my hearing,” he said. “I can hear the sound of grass growing. I have the hearing of a bat.
“You’re deaf as a post,” she muttered.
“Buttered toast?” he said. “No thank you, I’m not hungry.”
“And you’re crazy as a loon,” she said.
He stood with his arms clasped behind him, looking out the castle window at the lightening sky. “Yes, the sun will be up soon,” he said.
“I know it’s difficult having me for a father,” he continued. “Handsome, brilliant, dashing -- It’s overwhelming, I know.”
“I’m going to throw up,” she said.
“If you would simply speak correctly, I could hear you,” he said. “You’ve never had good diction.”
“You old bat,” she hissed. “You probably can’t hear those church bells ringing.”
“Singing? Who is singing?”
She lowered her voice. “It means the villagers are coming after you with their pitchforks.”
“The problem is you mumble,” he said. “You must enunciate every word, like me.”
“Oh, you’re impossible!” she shouted. “I hate living with you.”
He turned. “I heard that. It was very disrespectful, young lady. Just for that, you’re grounded. I’m adding two more weeks on top of the punishment you got for falling in love with that village boy.”
She was about to shriek at him, but there was a sound of a large group of people banging at the door downstairs. She waited.
The Count puffed out his chest. “I am the master here. I must be firm with you at all times, my dear.”
There was a sound of splintering wood as the door was shattered, and then the sound of many boots coming up the stone stairs.
The Count yawned. “No more talk; it is time for sleep,” he said, opening his coffin and settling himself inside it. “We will talk again tonight,” he said, closing his eyes.
“I don’t think so,” his daughter said, as the townspeople burst into the room, with their garlic necklaces, their pitchforks, their crucifixes, and their silver stake.
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell 2010
By John McDonnell
The Count’s daughter was very frustrated with his hearing.
“I told you to get a hearing aid,” she said.
“Excuse me?” he said, cupping a hand to his ear.
“I said, ‘I told you to get a hearing aid!’” she shouted.
“There is nothing wrong with my hearing,” he said. “I can hear the sound of grass growing. I have the hearing of a bat.
“You’re deaf as a post,” she muttered.
“Buttered toast?” he said. “No thank you, I’m not hungry.”
“And you’re crazy as a loon,” she said.
He stood with his arms clasped behind him, looking out the castle window at the lightening sky. “Yes, the sun will be up soon,” he said.
“I know it’s difficult having me for a father,” he continued. “Handsome, brilliant, dashing -- It’s overwhelming, I know.”
“I’m going to throw up,” she said.
“If you would simply speak correctly, I could hear you,” he said. “You’ve never had good diction.”
“You old bat,” she hissed. “You probably can’t hear those church bells ringing.”
“Singing? Who is singing?”
She lowered her voice. “It means the villagers are coming after you with their pitchforks.”
“The problem is you mumble,” he said. “You must enunciate every word, like me.”
“Oh, you’re impossible!” she shouted. “I hate living with you.”
He turned. “I heard that. It was very disrespectful, young lady. Just for that, you’re grounded. I’m adding two more weeks on top of the punishment you got for falling in love with that village boy.”
She was about to shriek at him, but there was a sound of a large group of people banging at the door downstairs. She waited.
The Count puffed out his chest. “I am the master here. I must be firm with you at all times, my dear.”
There was a sound of splintering wood as the door was shattered, and then the sound of many boots coming up the stone stairs.
The Count yawned. “No more talk; it is time for sleep,” he said, opening his coffin and settling himself inside it. “We will talk again tonight,” he said, closing his eyes.
“I don’t think so,” his daughter said, as the townspeople burst into the room, with their garlic necklaces, their pitchforks, their crucifixes, and their silver stake.
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Another Horrifying Flash Fiction Tale
I've been writing horror stories lately. Very short horror stories. My latest, The Smell Of Love is up on the Micro Horror site today. Here's the link!
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
My Flash Fiction Story Is Live Today
I recently started writing flash fiction again after a three year hiatus. My first published story from the new batch is live today at Flashes In The Dark magazine. It's a dark fantasy/horror/spec fiction called "Tick Tock". I appreciate any feedback you give me, readers. Also, if you're reading this after February 23, it will probably be archived. You can either search for it under Recent Posts in the right column, or under Archives for February, or under my name. I hope this is the first of many new stories that I will be publishing.
One big favor you could do for me, if you like the story, is to click on the icons at the end of it and submit the story to some social networking sites. Thanks!
One big favor you could do for me, if you like the story, is to click on the icons at the end of it and submit the story to some social networking sites. Thanks!
Monday, February 15, 2010
Preditors & Editors -- Inside Scoop on Publishing
I like Preditors & Editors
because it is a great resource about publishing and writing. Look at the categories -- it has everything from Agents & Attorneys to Workshops. It's a great way to find out the inside scoop on the publishing industry. I hadn't visited the site in awhile, but when I stopped by recently it had a plea for visitors to contribute to the Preditors & Editors legal defense fund. Apparently, P & E is being sued by some people who don't like all the information that is divulged at the site, and they're asking for donations to help them mount a defense in court. It's a good cause, and I hope people help them out.
In the meantime, if you just want to research a magazine, an agent, a publisher, or anything else related to publishing, P & E is the site for you.
because it is a great resource about publishing and writing. Look at the categories -- it has everything from Agents & Attorneys to Workshops. It's a great way to find out the inside scoop on the publishing industry. I hadn't visited the site in awhile, but when I stopped by recently it had a plea for visitors to contribute to the Preditors & Editors legal defense fund. Apparently, P & E is being sued by some people who don't like all the information that is divulged at the site, and they're asking for donations to help them mount a defense in court. It's a good cause, and I hope people help them out.
In the meantime, if you just want to research a magazine, an agent, a publisher, or anything else related to publishing, P & E is the site for you.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Flash Fiction Markets
Flash fiction, or quick fiction, is getting more and more popular. People lead busy lives, and it's hard to sit down with a thousand page novel and spend the time to really get immersed in it. You can read a flash fiction story, however, in about the time it takes to brew a cup of coffee. Flash fiction is by definition short: these stories are always less than a thousand words, sometimes much less. Writing it is a lot quicker than writing a novel, too, which may be why more and more writers are turning to flash fiction. You can write the first draft of a flash fiction story, edit it, and send it out to an online magazine in a matter of hours. Where are these magazines? Just go to: Flash Fiction Markets: A Collection of Websites and Magazines That Publish Micro-Fiction
This site has a listing of flash fiction markets, and if you scroll to the bottom of the page you'll see more magazines listed in the comments section. There are lots of other markets out there, but this is a good starting place to see where you can submit your stories.
This site has a listing of flash fiction markets, and if you scroll to the bottom of the page you'll see more magazines listed in the comments section. There are lots of other markets out there, but this is a good starting place to see where you can submit your stories.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Flash Fiction Writing Group Helps You Polish Your Stories
If you want to get better at flash fiction, you may want to join an online writing group. This is a group where you submit stories by email and other members offer helpful criticism. When someone else submits a story, you are expected to comment on their story also. This is a great way to get feedback on your stories, and you can get better as a writer from it. Not all criticism is useful, but you'll definitely get some good ideas from an online writing group. Sometimes the group members will tell you where they got their stories published, and that will alert you to good markets for your own work. I've had a great experience with a group called FlashXer, on Yahoo Groups. There are some friendly, helpful people on this group, which is led by Michael Kechula, who must be one of the all-time flash fiction champions. He has had hundreds -- probably thousands -- of stories published in the last 6 years, and he is a good source of information and helpful critiques. There are other groups out there, but this is the one I have had the best experience with. One thing I like about FlashXer is that several times a week Mike sends out a writing prompt, so you don't have to come up with an idea on your own. You just take Mike's prompt and write a story around it. You can learn more about FlashXer here.
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