By John McDonnell
“This is a wicked good steak,” Joey said. “Where’d ya get this meat, Angie?”
“You like it?”
“I love it. I never tasted nothing like it.”
“I got it from the supermarket. They have a new butcher in the meat department. He’s such a cute guy, blonde wavy hair, ice blue eyes. And so helpful. The kind of guy who really listens to a girl, and tries to help her out. Anyway, he has the best meat.”
“Yeah, well, that’s good, Angie. I’m glad you found a new friend. Now, listen, I’m gonna tell you something, but I don’t want you to cry. I hate it when you cry.”
“What’s that, Joey?
“I got a new girlfriend. Her name’s Honey, and she has a body on her like a damn Mack truck. I mean, she has curves on top of her curves. She has skin like, you could bounce a quarter off it.”
“You used to say that about me, Joey.”
“I can’t help it, Angie, I’m in love with her. You’re not crying are you?”
“I’m not crying, Joey.”
“That’s a switch. You always cry when I tell you about a new girlfriend.”
“I’m over that, Joey. I mean, after the 200th time, a girl gets used to it. Well, maybe not used to it, so much. You want another piece of steak?”
“Yeah, sure. This is the best meat I ever had. So what was it you were saying?”
“Nothing, just that I decided crying don’t do no good. I mean, what good did it ever do me to cry about you cheating on me on our wedding night? Or the time when I was in the hospital after my car accident, and you couldn’t come to see me right away because you had a date?”
“Angie, I told you, I promised that girl I’d take her out. I didn’t want to break a promise.”
“I know, I know. Here’s your steak. Good, isn’t it?”
“Better than the first one. I better finish this fast, though. I gotta date with Honey tonight. Funny thing, she hasn’t answered her cell phone all day.”
“I’m sure she’ll turn up eventually, Joey.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Now, here’s a nice little salad I made you.”
“Angie, you know I don’t like salad.”
“Joey, it’s good for you. You don’t eat enough salad. Besides, I fixed this one special.”
“Yeah, looks like you put some crazy new vegetables in it. What are these things, anyway. They look like little pink carrots, except -- what the? Is this a finger? What is this, a joke? It’s a joke, right? And wait, is this a ring? Oh my god, that’s the ring I just gave Honey!”
“Remember that nice butcher I told you about? Well, it turns out he’s a whiz with a knife. Oh, I’m sorry, Joey. Was there something wrong with the meat? You look like you have an upset stomach, sweetie. You’re turning all green.”
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell, 2010. All rights reserved.
Showing posts with label quick fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label quick fiction. Show all posts
Friday, July 9, 2010
Friday, July 2, 2010
Larry's New Girlfriend
By John McDonnell
It was Dolores who came up with the idea that Murphy should give Larry a job in his bar.
“It’s no good having an alien in the house all day,” she said. “I never know what he’s going to turn into. Yesterday he was a walrus. Now my living room sofa stinks of clams. And my mother thinks she can fix him up with her favorite soap opera actresses. Her hold on reality is getting shakier since he’s been around.”
So Murphy reluctantly hired Larry as a bartender. Larry was a quick study, and in no time he was a master mixologist, sometimes turning himself into a four-armed Hindu deity in order to keep up with drink orders on busy nights. He was a good listener, and could converse on any subject except chaos theory and modern Art, so he was popular with Murphy’s clientele.
Larry was adept at handling misunderstandings among the patrons, too. Once, when two inebriated men started arguing, Larry changed into a large, red-bearded Viking warrior, and when he split their table in half with his battle axe they suddenly decided to make up.
Larry’s only drawback was that he tended to mix himself pink fruity drinks while on the job, and after a few of these he had less control over the physical details of his existence. You never knew if he was going to change into a life form that was charming, curious, or toxic, and anything could set him off.
Murphy found a way to deal with that by hiding the little paper umbrellas that Larry put in his drinks, since Larry thought the umbrellas were essential and wouldn’t take a snootful without them.
Business improved, because people liked Larry. Murphy even came up with theme nights, where Larry would turn into famous people from the past and answer questions while he tended bar. Babe Ruth was a popular one, as was Sigmund Freud, although Murphy had to tell him no more Marilyn Monroe after he nearly caused a riot in the bar.
Larry met several women at the bar and even went out on a date or two, but nothing came of it. Dating was awkward for Larry; he was prone to creating mini black holes in restaurants if his meal was undercooked, or turning himself into an ostrich when he didn’t know what to say.
Murphy began to think that Larry would never find a girlfriend, until one day when he had to call a pest control company after he found a rat in the kitchen. When the exterminator showed up it was a woman named Myra who had pasty white skin, a lumpy body, and Coke bottle glasses. She wore a dark green uniform and was a little too interested in rodents.
“Rats are highly intelligent,” she said. “They form communities just like humans, and they are highly efficient breeders. One male and female rat can have over a million descendants in less than two years.”
Murphy shuddered at the thought of a million rats running around his bar, but Larry, who was currently in the form of a toothless, gray-bearded prospector from the Old West, perked up.
“Yes ma’am,” he cackled, “and don’t you know that rats regulate their body temperature through their tails. And, by cracky, they can stay afloat for three days. Not only that. . .”
“You have an interest in rats?” Myra said. Her glasses were steaming up.
“Why yes,” Larry said, changing into a myopic professor in a cable knit sweater. “I happen to think they are an extremely well-adapted life form.”
“Agreed,” Myra said. “They are fascinating animals. Much more so than humans.”
“I concur,” said Larry. “Highly evolved.”
Myra coughed. “I, uh, never met anyone like you,” she said. “Would you, er, would you want to go out to lunch?”
“I suppose that would be a highly useful thing to do, since we could discuss rats.”
“Yes,” she said. “Highly useful.”
“I’m a vegan,” Larry said.
“Oh, me too!” Myra said. “I know a great place down the street. They make the best burgers out of broccoli and kale.”
They walked out the door and left Murphy wondering at the strangeness of love.
THE END
COPYRIGHT JOHN MCDONNELL, 2010. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
It was Dolores who came up with the idea that Murphy should give Larry a job in his bar.
“It’s no good having an alien in the house all day,” she said. “I never know what he’s going to turn into. Yesterday he was a walrus. Now my living room sofa stinks of clams. And my mother thinks she can fix him up with her favorite soap opera actresses. Her hold on reality is getting shakier since he’s been around.”
So Murphy reluctantly hired Larry as a bartender. Larry was a quick study, and in no time he was a master mixologist, sometimes turning himself into a four-armed Hindu deity in order to keep up with drink orders on busy nights. He was a good listener, and could converse on any subject except chaos theory and modern Art, so he was popular with Murphy’s clientele.
Larry was adept at handling misunderstandings among the patrons, too. Once, when two inebriated men started arguing, Larry changed into a large, red-bearded Viking warrior, and when he split their table in half with his battle axe they suddenly decided to make up.
Larry’s only drawback was that he tended to mix himself pink fruity drinks while on the job, and after a few of these he had less control over the physical details of his existence. You never knew if he was going to change into a life form that was charming, curious, or toxic, and anything could set him off.
Murphy found a way to deal with that by hiding the little paper umbrellas that Larry put in his drinks, since Larry thought the umbrellas were essential and wouldn’t take a snootful without them.
Business improved, because people liked Larry. Murphy even came up with theme nights, where Larry would turn into famous people from the past and answer questions while he tended bar. Babe Ruth was a popular one, as was Sigmund Freud, although Murphy had to tell him no more Marilyn Monroe after he nearly caused a riot in the bar.
Larry met several women at the bar and even went out on a date or two, but nothing came of it. Dating was awkward for Larry; he was prone to creating mini black holes in restaurants if his meal was undercooked, or turning himself into an ostrich when he didn’t know what to say.
Murphy began to think that Larry would never find a girlfriend, until one day when he had to call a pest control company after he found a rat in the kitchen. When the exterminator showed up it was a woman named Myra who had pasty white skin, a lumpy body, and Coke bottle glasses. She wore a dark green uniform and was a little too interested in rodents.
“Rats are highly intelligent,” she said. “They form communities just like humans, and they are highly efficient breeders. One male and female rat can have over a million descendants in less than two years.”
Murphy shuddered at the thought of a million rats running around his bar, but Larry, who was currently in the form of a toothless, gray-bearded prospector from the Old West, perked up.
“Yes ma’am,” he cackled, “and don’t you know that rats regulate their body temperature through their tails. And, by cracky, they can stay afloat for three days. Not only that. . .”
“You have an interest in rats?” Myra said. Her glasses were steaming up.
“Why yes,” Larry said, changing into a myopic professor in a cable knit sweater. “I happen to think they are an extremely well-adapted life form.”
“Agreed,” Myra said. “They are fascinating animals. Much more so than humans.”
“I concur,” said Larry. “Highly evolved.”
Myra coughed. “I, uh, never met anyone like you,” she said. “Would you, er, would you want to go out to lunch?”
“I suppose that would be a highly useful thing to do, since we could discuss rats.”
“Yes,” she said. “Highly useful.”
“I’m a vegan,” Larry said.
“Oh, me too!” Myra said. “I know a great place down the street. They make the best burgers out of broccoli and kale.”
They walked out the door and left Murphy wondering at the strangeness of love.
THE END
COPYRIGHT JOHN MCDONNELL, 2010. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Petey And Muggs Discuss Evolution -- a #fridayflash story
By John McDonnell
“The sign says don’t throw peanuts to the lions,” Muggs said.
“This one ain’t interested anyway,” Petey said, pointing to the huge male who was pacing back and forth in his cage inside the lion house, his shoulder muscles rippling with every step. “This boy wants his steak dinner.”
They had come into the lion house following a short man in a blue suit and a white straw hat, who was holding the arm of a young woman in a red pleated dress that stopped an inch above the knee. The man and woman were leaning against a railing near one of the cages at the far end of the corridor. There were six male lions, each with his own cage, and they were all pacing back and forth, waiting for their dinner. Every once in awhile, one of them would let out a deep, moaning roar, which echoed like thunder in the tiled building. The air was thick with their animal smell.
“So is that Mrs. Fishburn?” Muggs said, pointing to the woman in the red dress.
“That, my friend, is not Mrs. Fishburn,” Petey said. “But that is the reason Mr. Fishburn has been fiddling Mr. Donovan’s books. He’s got a chippie.”
“That ain’t right,” Muggs said.
“Aw, marriage ain’t natural anyway,” Petey said. “Look at them lions. They don’t get married, do they?”
“Animals and people is different.”
“No they ain’t. Ain’t you heard of evolution? They’re havin’ a big trial about it right now in Tennessee. All them Bible people want to convict a teacher named Scopes for teachin’ that we came from monkeys.”
“I didn’t come from no monkey.”
“You sure about that? I think I seen some of your relatives in the gorilla house.”
“Hey, what’s he doing down there?” Muggs said.
The man in the straw boater was throwing peanuts at a lion. He was throwing one peanut after another. He hit the big cat in the eye, and the lion roared. The man in the hat roared back, laughing and making a fist at the lion. The girl next to him giggled at the game he was playing.
“That ain’t right,” Muggs said.
* * *
The Packard was in the shop, so they had to walk back uptown.
“Funny how them lions got so excited,” Petey said.
“It was loud in there,” Muggs said. “My ears still hurt.”
“You probably shouldn’t have pressed Mr. Fishburn’s head against the cage. I thought he was havin’ a heart attack when you did that.”
“The sign said don’t throw peanuts to the lions,” Muggs said. Muggs wrinkled his brow in thought for a moment, then said, “You think people and animals are the same?”
“Nah,” Petey said, grabbing an apple from a fruit stand while the proprietor wasn’t looking. “We’re the ones that belong in the zoo.”
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell, 2010
“The sign says don’t throw peanuts to the lions,” Muggs said.
“This one ain’t interested anyway,” Petey said, pointing to the huge male who was pacing back and forth in his cage inside the lion house, his shoulder muscles rippling with every step. “This boy wants his steak dinner.”
They had come into the lion house following a short man in a blue suit and a white straw hat, who was holding the arm of a young woman in a red pleated dress that stopped an inch above the knee. The man and woman were leaning against a railing near one of the cages at the far end of the corridor. There were six male lions, each with his own cage, and they were all pacing back and forth, waiting for their dinner. Every once in awhile, one of them would let out a deep, moaning roar, which echoed like thunder in the tiled building. The air was thick with their animal smell.
“So is that Mrs. Fishburn?” Muggs said, pointing to the woman in the red dress.
“That, my friend, is not Mrs. Fishburn,” Petey said. “But that is the reason Mr. Fishburn has been fiddling Mr. Donovan’s books. He’s got a chippie.”
“That ain’t right,” Muggs said.
“Aw, marriage ain’t natural anyway,” Petey said. “Look at them lions. They don’t get married, do they?”
“Animals and people is different.”
“No they ain’t. Ain’t you heard of evolution? They’re havin’ a big trial about it right now in Tennessee. All them Bible people want to convict a teacher named Scopes for teachin’ that we came from monkeys.”
“I didn’t come from no monkey.”
“You sure about that? I think I seen some of your relatives in the gorilla house.”
“Hey, what’s he doing down there?” Muggs said.
The man in the straw boater was throwing peanuts at a lion. He was throwing one peanut after another. He hit the big cat in the eye, and the lion roared. The man in the hat roared back, laughing and making a fist at the lion. The girl next to him giggled at the game he was playing.
“That ain’t right,” Muggs said.
* * *
The Packard was in the shop, so they had to walk back uptown.
“Funny how them lions got so excited,” Petey said.
“It was loud in there,” Muggs said. “My ears still hurt.”
“You probably shouldn’t have pressed Mr. Fishburn’s head against the cage. I thought he was havin’ a heart attack when you did that.”
“The sign said don’t throw peanuts to the lions,” Muggs said. Muggs wrinkled his brow in thought for a moment, then said, “You think people and animals are the same?”
“Nah,” Petey said, grabbing an apple from a fruit stand while the proprietor wasn’t looking. “We’re the ones that belong in the zoo.”
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
A Bad Idea -- a #fridayflash story
By John McDonnell
Petey and Muggs were leaning against the ring ropes watching the Princeton Strongboy sparring with another fighter at the gym in New Jersey. The Strongboy was tall and blonde, and threw quick, sharp jabs that splattered sweat from the other man’s head when they connected. They sounded like wet towels smacking against a cinderblock wall. He smiled and danced on his toes between jabs.
“Nice looking fella,” Petey said. “Went to college, I hear.”
“Why’s he a fighter then?” Muggs asked. “He should be one of them Wall Street boys.”
Petey laughed. “He’s doing okay knocking out the tomato cans they’re putting in front of him. Mr. Donovan has made a few shekels from him too.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Because he’s got to go down next week when he fights Irish Tommy Nolan. It’s all set up, only he’s not convinced he wants to do it.”
A bell rang, and the round ended. The Princeton Strongboy slipped through the ring ropes and stepped down to the floor. He spit his mouthpiece into a bucket held out by his trainer, a wizened man with stubbly white hair. The trainer gave him a towel and proceeded to unlace his gloves. When that was done, the trainer whispered in his ear and pointed at Petey and Muggs.
The Strongboy came over. “Can I help you fellows?”
“We’re here about some business,” Petey said.
“Yes, I know.”
“Mr. Donovan has an idea about your next bout.”
“I don’t like that idea.” He rubbed the towel vigorously through his hair, then draped it around his neck. “Sorry that you fellows had to come all the way out here, but you wasted your time.”
“That so?”
“I have too much to lose. If I beat Nolan, I’ll be the toast of the town. I’m different, you understand? I went to Princeton. The press loves me. Not your typical pug, if you know what I mean.”
“How come you’re not on Wall Street?” Muggs said. “Ain’t that where you boys go to work?”
The Strongboy laughed, showing his white teeth. “I’ll end up there eventually, working for father’s firm. For now, though, I’m making a better return beating up my social inferiors.”
“Any way we can convince you?” Petey said.
“Not a chance, boys,” the Strongboy said. He turned on his heel. “Have a nice ride back to town.”
Later, on the way back to town in the Packard, Petey said, “I’d a bet money he could take a punch.”
“Aw, you can’t fault him for that,” Muggs said. “He wasn’t looking.”
“He’ll need some dental work now.”
“I still can’t figure why he didn’t go to work on Wall Street,” Muggs said. “That’s where I’d go, if I was him.”
Petey whistled. “The size of you, why didn’t you ever go into the fight game?”
“I did. I fought a few bouts when I was a kid. Had a manager and everything.”
“Why didn’t you stick with it?”
“I had a problem. I never could remember the rules.”
“What rules?”
“Like when to stop hitting.”
“That would be a problem.”
“Yeah. I almost killed a fellow because of that. They had to pull me off him. After that my manager said I should retire.”
“Good decision,” Petey said. “You can’t go far if you don’t remember the rules.”
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell 2010
The Greatest Boxing Stories Ever Told: Thirty-Six Incredible Tales from the Ring
Petey and Muggs were leaning against the ring ropes watching the Princeton Strongboy sparring with another fighter at the gym in New Jersey. The Strongboy was tall and blonde, and threw quick, sharp jabs that splattered sweat from the other man’s head when they connected. They sounded like wet towels smacking against a cinderblock wall. He smiled and danced on his toes between jabs.
“Nice looking fella,” Petey said. “Went to college, I hear.”
“Why’s he a fighter then?” Muggs asked. “He should be one of them Wall Street boys.”
Petey laughed. “He’s doing okay knocking out the tomato cans they’re putting in front of him. Mr. Donovan has made a few shekels from him too.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Because he’s got to go down next week when he fights Irish Tommy Nolan. It’s all set up, only he’s not convinced he wants to do it.”
A bell rang, and the round ended. The Princeton Strongboy slipped through the ring ropes and stepped down to the floor. He spit his mouthpiece into a bucket held out by his trainer, a wizened man with stubbly white hair. The trainer gave him a towel and proceeded to unlace his gloves. When that was done, the trainer whispered in his ear and pointed at Petey and Muggs.
The Strongboy came over. “Can I help you fellows?”
“We’re here about some business,” Petey said.
“Yes, I know.”
“Mr. Donovan has an idea about your next bout.”
“I don’t like that idea.” He rubbed the towel vigorously through his hair, then draped it around his neck. “Sorry that you fellows had to come all the way out here, but you wasted your time.”
“That so?”
“I have too much to lose. If I beat Nolan, I’ll be the toast of the town. I’m different, you understand? I went to Princeton. The press loves me. Not your typical pug, if you know what I mean.”
“How come you’re not on Wall Street?” Muggs said. “Ain’t that where you boys go to work?”
The Strongboy laughed, showing his white teeth. “I’ll end up there eventually, working for father’s firm. For now, though, I’m making a better return beating up my social inferiors.”
“Any way we can convince you?” Petey said.
“Not a chance, boys,” the Strongboy said. He turned on his heel. “Have a nice ride back to town.”
Later, on the way back to town in the Packard, Petey said, “I’d a bet money he could take a punch.”
“Aw, you can’t fault him for that,” Muggs said. “He wasn’t looking.”
“He’ll need some dental work now.”
“I still can’t figure why he didn’t go to work on Wall Street,” Muggs said. “That’s where I’d go, if I was him.”
Petey whistled. “The size of you, why didn’t you ever go into the fight game?”
“I did. I fought a few bouts when I was a kid. Had a manager and everything.”
“Why didn’t you stick with it?”
“I had a problem. I never could remember the rules.”
“What rules?”
“Like when to stop hitting.”
“That would be a problem.”
“Yeah. I almost killed a fellow because of that. They had to pull me off him. After that my manager said I should retire.”
“Good decision,” Petey said. “You can’t go far if you don’t remember the rules.”
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell 2010
The Greatest Boxing Stories Ever Told: Thirty-Six Incredible Tales from the Ring
Friday, March 26, 2010
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
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
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
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
My Alien Abduction Story At Short Humour Magazine
I don't know why alien abduction stories seem so amusing to me, but they do. The other day I let my imagination run wild and I wrote a flash fiction story about one of these happenings. I did what Stephen King says he does: I asked some "what if" questions. I hope you like the result. The story is called "The Probe". Here's a link to it.
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, 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!
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, January 12, 2010
Speed Write!
Can you speed write?
"That's not writing. That's typing," Truman Capote said when he heard how many thousands of words the young Jack Kerouac wrote each day (I'm paraphrasing that quote, but you get the idea). Sometimes, though, you need to just type. The best cure for writer's block is to just sit down at your keyboard, turn on an alarm or timer, and type till the buzzer goes off. You don't edit, you don't correct misspelled words, you don't try to choose the right turn of phrase, or metaphor -- you just type.
If you do this I guarantee you'll turn out a lot of words. Some of them will be utter dreck -- in fact, a lot of them will be utter dreck -- but you'll get your creative juices flowing, and usually you'll find the germ of a good idea in the middle of all those words. Sometimes you get lucky, and a really great idea, or sentence, or paragraph comes out of what you wrote.
When you speed write you turn off the internal critic, that little gremlin inside who constantly tells you you're not good enough, and that the sentence you just typed is stupid, wrong, and will damn you to hell forever if you let anyone see it.
Here's a great site to teach you how to speed write: Write or Die by Dr Wicked. You can set a time limit and a word count, and then you just start typing. If you stop typing before you reach your time limit, there are visual and auditory cues to get you writing again (try the kamikaze mode!).
"That's not writing. That's typing," Truman Capote said when he heard how many thousands of words the young Jack Kerouac wrote each day (I'm paraphrasing that quote, but you get the idea). Sometimes, though, you need to just type. The best cure for writer's block is to just sit down at your keyboard, turn on an alarm or timer, and type till the buzzer goes off. You don't edit, you don't correct misspelled words, you don't try to choose the right turn of phrase, or metaphor -- you just type.
If you do this I guarantee you'll turn out a lot of words. Some of them will be utter dreck -- in fact, a lot of them will be utter dreck -- but you'll get your creative juices flowing, and usually you'll find the germ of a good idea in the middle of all those words. Sometimes you get lucky, and a really great idea, or sentence, or paragraph comes out of what you wrote.
When you speed write you turn off the internal critic, that little gremlin inside who constantly tells you you're not good enough, and that the sentence you just typed is stupid, wrong, and will damn you to hell forever if you let anyone see it.
Here's a great site to teach you how to speed write: Write or Die by Dr Wicked. You can set a time limit and a word count, and then you just start typing. If you stop typing before you reach your time limit, there are visual and auditory cues to get you writing again (try the kamikaze mode!).
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.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
What I Did On My Vacation
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Markets For Flash Fiction
Flash fiction is short. It fits today's hurried lifestyle. Short words. Short sentences. Short paragraphs. Readers love it.
If you write flash fiction, here are some markets where you can get it published.
If you write flash fiction, here are some markets where you can get it published.
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