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
Showing posts with label online story writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label online story writing. Show all posts
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Friday, May 14, 2010
No Place Like Home, a #fridayflash story
By John McDonnell
Although Murphy was reluctant to try flagging the alien again and risk getting zapped back to the Cretaceous era, he knew the creature was getting more intoxicated because it was morphing into an array of different body sizes, genders, and species.
"So," he said. "What's your name?"
"Larry," the alien said.
"Larry? That's a funny name. I thought your name would be Zork, or Xargon Four, or something like that.”
The alien had changed from a giant yellow squidlike thing to a dead ringer for Mrs. Walsh, Murphy's first grade teacher, complete with a pencil tucked behind her ear, glasses, and a bun.
"It's not really Larry," Larry said. "There are too many glottal stops in my name for your larynx to handle. Larry is easier for you to say."
"Oh." Murphy mixed up another pink fruity drink and the alien sucked it down.
"By the way,” Murphy asked. “What are you doing here? You here to wipe out humanity from the planet, or maybe turn us all into your mindless slaves?"
Larry was now the size of a Clydesdale horse, chestnut brown, and he laughed ironically at that, showing his teeth and shaking his head. "That's hilarious," he said. "Me taking over your planet. Now I've heard everything. You have a great sense of humor." He stamped his feet, rattling the bottles on the wall behind the bar. "Another drink, please."
"What's so funny about that?" Murphy said. "I thought that's what you aliens did. Take over planets and all." He mixed the drink quickly and set it down on the bar.
Larry slurped it up and then turned into an adult male orangutan, upwards of 300 pounds, with a protruding lower lip and a melancholy expression on his droopy face. "It's not funny. It's sad. I'm a failure. Nobody is interested in conquering this penny ante planet. It's a back channel two bit dump that has no strategic importance, populated by a race of idiot primates who are rapidly turning it into a toxic wasteland. I was sent here to monitor you." He began scratching himself pensively. "There is no career advancement in this posting. I have been marooned here, because they don't think I can handle anything more important."
"I know the feeling," Murphy said. "I once had a job where--"
"It's enough to make you crazy," Larry said. "Can you put a banana in the next drink? But anyway, as I was saying, I'm so ashamed, and then I get angry, really angry.” In the blink of an eye he had turned into a scaly green dragon, with smoke coming out of his nostrils and a tail that was wagging back and forth and knocking tables and chairs over behind him.
"Calm down, Larry," Murphy said, not wanting the creature to start breathing fire in his bar. "Maybe you should think about going home and sleeping it off. What do you say? Sound like a good idea?"
Larry started crying, and big tears were dropping on the bar. He made a sniffling noise and his huge body shook with spasms of grief.
"I don't have a home," Larry said. "Oh, I have a place to stay on this miserable planet, sure. But that's not a home. I'm 12,000 light years from my planet, and I'm stuck here until somebody reassigns me. That will never happen, though, because I've dropped off the map. They've forgotten me." He put his head on the bar and started sobbing.
"Now, now," Murphy said, patting his head gingerly. "Why don't you come home and stay with me and the missus? I have a spare bedroom, and I'm sure it will be all right with Dolores."
"Really?" Larry said. "That's so nice of you."
"Don't mention it," Murphy said. "It's the least I can do, seeing as how you got rid of that hood Boom Boom for me.”
Now Larry had morphed into a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman who looked like a Playboy centerfold. In fact, she was dressed like a centerfold.
"Uh, Larry," Murphy said, imagining the look on Dolores' face when he introduced Larry to her, "could you focus a bit better? I liked the UPS driver look you had before. I think that suits you better."
"Sure," Larry said, and in an instant he was the balding, pot-bellied guy who'd come in the bar several hours ago. Every once in awhile he'd hiccup, though, and for a second or two he'd transform into the orangutan, the centerfold, or some other creature, then immediately morph back into the middle aged man.
This is going to be interesting, Murphy thought, wondering how he was going to explain this to Dolores.
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell, 2010.
Although Murphy was reluctant to try flagging the alien again and risk getting zapped back to the Cretaceous era, he knew the creature was getting more intoxicated because it was morphing into an array of different body sizes, genders, and species.
"So," he said. "What's your name?"
"Larry," the alien said.
"Larry? That's a funny name. I thought your name would be Zork, or Xargon Four, or something like that.”
The alien had changed from a giant yellow squidlike thing to a dead ringer for Mrs. Walsh, Murphy's first grade teacher, complete with a pencil tucked behind her ear, glasses, and a bun.
"It's not really Larry," Larry said. "There are too many glottal stops in my name for your larynx to handle. Larry is easier for you to say."
"Oh." Murphy mixed up another pink fruity drink and the alien sucked it down.
"By the way,” Murphy asked. “What are you doing here? You here to wipe out humanity from the planet, or maybe turn us all into your mindless slaves?"
Larry was now the size of a Clydesdale horse, chestnut brown, and he laughed ironically at that, showing his teeth and shaking his head. "That's hilarious," he said. "Me taking over your planet. Now I've heard everything. You have a great sense of humor." He stamped his feet, rattling the bottles on the wall behind the bar. "Another drink, please."
"What's so funny about that?" Murphy said. "I thought that's what you aliens did. Take over planets and all." He mixed the drink quickly and set it down on the bar.
Larry slurped it up and then turned into an adult male orangutan, upwards of 300 pounds, with a protruding lower lip and a melancholy expression on his droopy face. "It's not funny. It's sad. I'm a failure. Nobody is interested in conquering this penny ante planet. It's a back channel two bit dump that has no strategic importance, populated by a race of idiot primates who are rapidly turning it into a toxic wasteland. I was sent here to monitor you." He began scratching himself pensively. "There is no career advancement in this posting. I have been marooned here, because they don't think I can handle anything more important."
"I know the feeling," Murphy said. "I once had a job where--"
"It's enough to make you crazy," Larry said. "Can you put a banana in the next drink? But anyway, as I was saying, I'm so ashamed, and then I get angry, really angry.” In the blink of an eye he had turned into a scaly green dragon, with smoke coming out of his nostrils and a tail that was wagging back and forth and knocking tables and chairs over behind him.
"Calm down, Larry," Murphy said, not wanting the creature to start breathing fire in his bar. "Maybe you should think about going home and sleeping it off. What do you say? Sound like a good idea?"
Larry started crying, and big tears were dropping on the bar. He made a sniffling noise and his huge body shook with spasms of grief.
"I don't have a home," Larry said. "Oh, I have a place to stay on this miserable planet, sure. But that's not a home. I'm 12,000 light years from my planet, and I'm stuck here until somebody reassigns me. That will never happen, though, because I've dropped off the map. They've forgotten me." He put his head on the bar and started sobbing.
"Now, now," Murphy said, patting his head gingerly. "Why don't you come home and stay with me and the missus? I have a spare bedroom, and I'm sure it will be all right with Dolores."
"Really?" Larry said. "That's so nice of you."
"Don't mention it," Murphy said. "It's the least I can do, seeing as how you got rid of that hood Boom Boom for me.”
Now Larry had morphed into a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman who looked like a Playboy centerfold. In fact, she was dressed like a centerfold.
"Uh, Larry," Murphy said, imagining the look on Dolores' face when he introduced Larry to her, "could you focus a bit better? I liked the UPS driver look you had before. I think that suits you better."
"Sure," Larry said, and in an instant he was the balding, pot-bellied guy who'd come in the bar several hours ago. Every once in awhile he'd hiccup, though, and for a second or two he'd transform into the orangutan, the centerfold, or some other creature, then immediately morph back into the middle aged man.
This is going to be interesting, Murphy thought, wondering how he was going to explain this to Dolores.
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell, 2010.
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.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
What I Did On My Vacation
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