By John McDonnell
“Willow is taking a medieval history course at the community college,” Dolores said to Larry one day.
“I don’t understand why anyone would try to teach history to Willow,” Larry said. “She measures Time by her tattoos. If it happened before she got her first tattoo, it doesn’t exist to her.”
“Could you bring that nice Irish monk back from the 7th century?” Dolores said. “Maybe he could help Willow with her history homework.”
“I don’t like the 7th century,” Larry said. “There’s a lot of prejudice against extraterrestrials there.”
“Please?” Dolores said.
Larry sighed, there was a shimmering in the air, and then the monk Fergus was standing in the kitchen, blinking his eyes.
"Faith,” he said. “It's quite the skill you have, to be snatching people away from their breakfast and bunging them 14 centuries into the future. You're sure the Devil plays no part in it?"
"No," Larry said. "It all makes sense on the quantum level. No bogeymen involved at all." He was feeling a lack of confidence today, and so he was changing shape every few seconds from a Steller's Sea Cow to a late 20th century U.S politician, complete with bleached teeth and poufy hair, wearing a mustard yellow suit.
"Oh, I'm glad you're here," Dolores said, clapping her hands. "My daughter is studying the Middle Ages in school, and I asked Larry to bring you back, because I thought you'd be a great source for her, seeing as how you're living in the Middle Ages.”
"Middle Ages you say?" the monk said. "In the middle of what, may I ask?"
Willow walked in wearing black from head to toe, with hair that looked like an explosion in a paint factory, and more piercings than a pincushion.
"Mom, I don't need help with my homework," Willow said. "I can do it myself."
"Why don't you just ask this nice monk if he'll help?" Dolores said. "He actually lives in that time so he'll be able to help you."
“Is it one of the Norsemen you are?” the monk asked. “I couldn’t help noticing the tattoos and nose rings and so forth. In my day the Vikings decorated themselves like that. A rude lot they were, too. Wouldn’t stop for a bite to eat, no, had to get right down to the business of plunder.”
“This is my way of expressing myself,” Willow said, her lip curled in a snarl. “And if you don’t like it, you can--”
“That’s enough, Willow,” Dolores said. “This monk is our guest.”
The monk wrinkled his brow, cogitating for a moment. “What’s a self, if I may ask?”
“You don’t know what a self is?” Larry said. “I thought I was the only one who couldn’t figure out my identity. A self is you. It’s who you are. All your wants and dreams and longings. Your identity.”
“What a wonderful invention!” the monk cried. “Why, in my day we weren’t allowed a self. Did you never wonder why none of the monks ever signed their names to their work? It’s because nobody cared about us. Only kings and queens had a self. The rest of us riffraff were just part of the sea of humanity.”
“I know the feeling,” said Larry, who was morphing into a variety of small animals. “On my planet most of us do not have a self. That’s why I feel out of place on this planet. Here, everybody knows exactly who they are. It’s unsettling.”
“Willow, sit down and have some breakfast,” Dolores said. “You look like a concentration camp survivor, you’re so skinny.”
“Mom, stop telling me how to live my life!” Willow shrieked. “You have no right to do that. I swear, it’s like prison living here. All you want to do is run my life. I can’t stand it! I’m going to post all about this on my blog!” She stomped out of the room like a person who had been sorely put upon.
“What’s a blog?” Fergus asked.
“It’s a place where you publish outrageous personal details for the world to see,” Larry said.
“‘Tis a charming concept,” Fergus said.
“In my day we didn’t have blogs,” Edna said, coming into the kitchen. She was dressed in a long white robe and a turban. “We depended on gossip. Why, when I went skinny dipping with the golf team at our country club, the whole town knew by sunrise the next day. Gossip is still the best information delivery system.”
“Aye to that,” Fergus said. “And you wouldn’t believe how fast it gets around the monastery when a man has a drop too much of the ould poteen.
“But that’s a story for another time.”
THE END
Showing posts with label online short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label online short story. Show all posts
Friday, March 18, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
Larry And The Irish Question
By John McDonnell
St. Patrick's Day was the one time when Murphy actually made a profit at his bar, because his joint was located half a block from the St. Patrick’s Day parade route, and there were always a number of thirsty souls who would stop in for a cold one after the festivities. Murphy had enlisted his family to help with the crush, including Larry, who had taken the form of a blue-skinned, six-armed Hindu deity so he could handle all the drink orders at the crowded bar.
It was impossible to keep everyone's glass filled, and Larry was ready to keel over from exhaustion.
"We need more help!" he yelled to Murphy.
Murphy was busy adjudicating an argument between two men over whether it’s possible to eat 65 chicken wings in ten minutes, and he said, "You'll have to think of something, Larry."
Larry did what he always did in an emergency -- he disappeared for a few seconds. When he reappeared, he had a 7th century Irish monk named Fergus with him.
The monk blinked once, looked around, and said, "Is it a drinking establishment I find myself in?"
"Yes," Larry said. "I need help tending bar. I'll take you back to the monastery when the rush is over."
The monk clapped his hands. "Praise be to Jesus, I've died and gone to Heaven." He looked at all the bottles on the wall with a blissful smile.
"No," Larry said, mixing drinks, washing out glasses, and wiping down the bar at the same time. "This is not Heaven. It's Murphy's bar. You're in the 21st century, in a roomful of drunks, and I need help."
"Do you know how to mix a Singapore Sling?" Edna said. She was on roller skates, in the costume of a 1950s car hop, complete with a pink scarf and a boxy little red hat. She had painted her nails red, and was chewing gum.
The monk looked at her quizzically. "And who might you be?" he said.
"My name is Edna," she said. "I know I'm a little old for roller skates, but I was a champion skater in my day. I used to sneak out of the house at night and compete in the Roller Derby. Father would have been appalled had he known I was mixing it up with large women of Croatian descent several times a week."
The monk looked at Larry and said, "Begorrah, what language is she speakin’?"
"I'm not sure," Larry said.
"Are you a monk?" Edna said. "I had a boyfriend once who entered the priesthood after a few dates with me. He had a sudden realization that celibacy was better for his mental health. By the way, thank you for saving Western Civilization. Wasn't it you nice young men who copied out all the Greek and Latin texts and saved us from becoming barbarians?"
"Yes, and ‘tis a thankless business," the monk said. “Alone in a drafty room catchin’ me death of cold, surrounded by stacks of dusty manuscripts. And me with a throat as parched as the Sahara!"
He leaped over the bar in one motion, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and drained half of it in the blink of an eye. He wiped his mouth with his hand and said, "You call this whiskey? Fourteen centuries of progress, and this is the best you can do? Faith, I think ye’ve gone backward, my lad." Then he went off with the bottle and joined a group watching a ballgame on the TV.
"Maybe I shouldn't thank him after all," Edna said.
"What is the purpose of this holiday?" Larry said in exasperation. "Is it just to drink yourself into a stupor and sing Irish songs at the top of your lungs?"
"Yes!" Murphy yelled. "And thank God for it, or I'd be in the poorhouse by April 15."
"You humans have too many holidays," Larry said. "We only celebrate holidays if they're for the good of civilization."
"Where’s the fun in that?" Edna said.
The monk was leading a cheer for Aristotle, and when that was finished he started one for Plato, but the crowd booed him and he sat down.
"When does it end?" Larry said to Murphy. "How long does the rush last?"
"Till the fight breaks out," Murphy said. "That'll be coming along any time now."
Just then somebody shouted, "Down with the frigging Irish monks! If it weren't for them we'd all be stupid and happy. The hell with civilization!"
The monk stood up and said, "I'll paste any man who doesn't like Plato!"
"I don't like Plato!" a voice said. "Euripides sucks too! To hell with all the Greeks.”
A bottle went flying through the air, and in seconds the whole bar erupted into a brawl. There were fists flying, glasses being smashed, and people slugging each other over the finer points of philosophy. Larry tried to intervene, but somebody took exception to the fact that he was a Hindu deity, and hit him over the head with a bottle of peppermint Schnapps.
The cops arrived in minutes and took half the bar away in paddy wagons. Larry had to wait till the next day to send the monk back to the 7th century, because the friar had spent the night in the clink explaining cursive writing to a couple of drunks.
"I think he was a charming fellow," Edna said, after the monk had gone back to his own time. "And I'm certainly glad you brought him back rather than one of those barbarians. Although they'd have probably fit right in with Murphy's clientele."
THE END
St. Patrick's Day was the one time when Murphy actually made a profit at his bar, because his joint was located half a block from the St. Patrick’s Day parade route, and there were always a number of thirsty souls who would stop in for a cold one after the festivities. Murphy had enlisted his family to help with the crush, including Larry, who had taken the form of a blue-skinned, six-armed Hindu deity so he could handle all the drink orders at the crowded bar.
It was impossible to keep everyone's glass filled, and Larry was ready to keel over from exhaustion.
"We need more help!" he yelled to Murphy.
Murphy was busy adjudicating an argument between two men over whether it’s possible to eat 65 chicken wings in ten minutes, and he said, "You'll have to think of something, Larry."
Larry did what he always did in an emergency -- he disappeared for a few seconds. When he reappeared, he had a 7th century Irish monk named Fergus with him.
The monk blinked once, looked around, and said, "Is it a drinking establishment I find myself in?"
"Yes," Larry said. "I need help tending bar. I'll take you back to the monastery when the rush is over."
The monk clapped his hands. "Praise be to Jesus, I've died and gone to Heaven." He looked at all the bottles on the wall with a blissful smile.
"No," Larry said, mixing drinks, washing out glasses, and wiping down the bar at the same time. "This is not Heaven. It's Murphy's bar. You're in the 21st century, in a roomful of drunks, and I need help."
"Do you know how to mix a Singapore Sling?" Edna said. She was on roller skates, in the costume of a 1950s car hop, complete with a pink scarf and a boxy little red hat. She had painted her nails red, and was chewing gum.
The monk looked at her quizzically. "And who might you be?" he said.
"My name is Edna," she said. "I know I'm a little old for roller skates, but I was a champion skater in my day. I used to sneak out of the house at night and compete in the Roller Derby. Father would have been appalled had he known I was mixing it up with large women of Croatian descent several times a week."
The monk looked at Larry and said, "Begorrah, what language is she speakin’?"
"I'm not sure," Larry said.
"Are you a monk?" Edna said. "I had a boyfriend once who entered the priesthood after a few dates with me. He had a sudden realization that celibacy was better for his mental health. By the way, thank you for saving Western Civilization. Wasn't it you nice young men who copied out all the Greek and Latin texts and saved us from becoming barbarians?"
"Yes, and ‘tis a thankless business," the monk said. “Alone in a drafty room catchin’ me death of cold, surrounded by stacks of dusty manuscripts. And me with a throat as parched as the Sahara!"
He leaped over the bar in one motion, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and drained half of it in the blink of an eye. He wiped his mouth with his hand and said, "You call this whiskey? Fourteen centuries of progress, and this is the best you can do? Faith, I think ye’ve gone backward, my lad." Then he went off with the bottle and joined a group watching a ballgame on the TV.
"Maybe I shouldn't thank him after all," Edna said.
"What is the purpose of this holiday?" Larry said in exasperation. "Is it just to drink yourself into a stupor and sing Irish songs at the top of your lungs?"
"Yes!" Murphy yelled. "And thank God for it, or I'd be in the poorhouse by April 15."
"You humans have too many holidays," Larry said. "We only celebrate holidays if they're for the good of civilization."
"Where’s the fun in that?" Edna said.
The monk was leading a cheer for Aristotle, and when that was finished he started one for Plato, but the crowd booed him and he sat down.
"When does it end?" Larry said to Murphy. "How long does the rush last?"
"Till the fight breaks out," Murphy said. "That'll be coming along any time now."
Just then somebody shouted, "Down with the frigging Irish monks! If it weren't for them we'd all be stupid and happy. The hell with civilization!"
The monk stood up and said, "I'll paste any man who doesn't like Plato!"
"I don't like Plato!" a voice said. "Euripides sucks too! To hell with all the Greeks.”
A bottle went flying through the air, and in seconds the whole bar erupted into a brawl. There were fists flying, glasses being smashed, and people slugging each other over the finer points of philosophy. Larry tried to intervene, but somebody took exception to the fact that he was a Hindu deity, and hit him over the head with a bottle of peppermint Schnapps.
The cops arrived in minutes and took half the bar away in paddy wagons. Larry had to wait till the next day to send the monk back to the 7th century, because the friar had spent the night in the clink explaining cursive writing to a couple of drunks.
"I think he was a charming fellow," Edna said, after the monk had gone back to his own time. "And I'm certainly glad you brought him back rather than one of those barbarians. Although they'd have probably fit right in with Murphy's clientele."
THE END
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!
Tuesday, January 26, 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.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
What I Did On My Vacation
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