By John McDonnell
It was another aimless Saturday afternoon at the bar, and Murphy was washing shot glasses and serving beers to a motley collection of patrons who were watching a ballgame on the battered TV.
Larry was practicing time jumps, and kept disappearing and reappearing with souvenirs from different eras. So far he'd brought back a dinosaur tooth from the Cretaceous era, a whalebone corset from 16th century England, and a five course Thanksgiving dinner from the future that was the size of an aspirin. He was dressed like a Turkish pasha, complete with a scimitar in his belt.
The serenity was interrupted by a portly man who burst through the door wearing a blue silk suit, a black pompadour and rings on each of his fingers.
"Tell me, brothers, have you seen The Light?" he said, walking over to Larry and Murphy.
"Light?” Murphy said. “My customers don’t like much light in here.”
“Actually, light is an interesting phenomenon,” Larry said. “When you get to the quantum level--”
"I’m talking about The Light of Salvation," the man said, slapping the bar for emphasis. "My name's Pastor Tommy Bogus, and I'm here to offer you eternal bliss. Have you seen my TV show?"
"Yes I have," said Edna, who had just been dropped off by Dolores while she did her Saturday errands. "You're that nice man whose show comes on between my soap opera about handsome doctors and the other one about cheating wives. Or is it cheating doctors and handsome wives?"
"There will be no room for cheaters in the Kingdom," Pastor Tommy said.
"I often wonder about religion," Larry said. "Interesting sociological phenomenon. Does it describe reality, or is it just the brain's way of explaining what it doesn't understand?"
"Why, it's as real as this solid wood bar," Pastor Tommy said, slapping the bar again.
"That’s actually vinyl," Murphy said.
"I think religion is such a comfort," Edna opined. "Why, I don't know how people can do without it."
"There are some civilizations in the universe that think it's nonsense," Larry said.
"There's nothing wrong with nonsense," Edna said. "The world needs more nonsense, if you ask me. It would improve our dispositions."
"As I was saying," Pastor Tommy said. "There's only one truth in the universe, and my religion has it."
"Truth," Larry said. "What is truth? When you ask someone to tell the truth, what are you saying?"
"You're saying he's screwed, if he’s married," Murphy said.
"Would any of you care to make a donation?" Pastor Tommy said, holding out a tin cup. "It takes a lot of money to keep that TV show going."
"Take a look at this place," Murphy said. "Does it look like I'm wallowing in money here?"
"I have a trust fund, and I'd be glad to dip into it for a donation," Edna said. "The only thing is, Father set it up so I don't get any of the money until I reach 65. I can’t imagine what he was thinking. You’d think I was the world’s worst spendthrift!” She readjusted her black taffeta cocktail gown and pillbox hat, looking at herself in the mirror behind the bar.
"How about you, son?" Pastor Tommy said to Larry.
The air shimmered and Larry disappeared. In a matter of seconds he reappeared with a small birdlike dinosaur, covered with feathers and sporting a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth. It was blinking as it stared around the room. It locked eyes with Pastor Tommy, flapped its wings, said “Auk!”, then cocked its head, waiting for a response.
"Good God, what is that?" Pastor Tommy said.
"A Bambiraptor,” Larry said. "From about 75 million years ago. Cute, but beware of those teeth. I thought you could sell it to a zoo and get some cash that way."
"Not if you paid me a million dollars," Pastor Tommy said. "Son, there’s only one word for that. . . ‘unnatural’!”
He bolted for the door, dropping his tin cup on the way. It clattered to the floor and rolled around, but Pastor Tommy paid no attention to it. He was headed for the light.
"Funny, he looks taller on TV," Edna said.
THE END
Showing posts with label short fiction story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short fiction story. Show all posts
Friday, January 28, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
A Viking In The Kitchen
By John McDonnell
"The neighbors are all getting their kitchens redone," Dolores said. "Why can't we?"
"I’ll be leaving now,” Murphy said, hoping to get out the door before Dolores told him for the 100th time that he needed to make more money.
"Did you know that the British actor Michael Caine was teased because he had a habit of reciting inane factoids and then saying, 'Not many people know that?'" Larry said. He was eating fish and chips at the kitchen table and wearing a mackintosh raincoat. Dolores did not know where he got the fish and chips, certainly not from her kitchen.
"I like Michael Caine," Edna said, coming into the kitchen in her nightgown, which had a raised collar and a long train, and looked like something Liz Taylor might have worn to the wedding of a close friend. "’To be or not to be, that is the question.’ Wasn't he terrific in Hamlet?"
"I don't think he played Hamlet," Murphy said. "You couldn't play Hamlet with that Cockney accent he has."
"Oh, dear," Edna said. "That must have been my father I'm thinking of. Yes, he played Hamlet in 1949 at the Stratford Festival in Canada. I remember it well, because we had to share a bedroom with Charlie Chaplin."
"Fascinating," Larry said. “In a parallel universe sort of way. Now, as I was saying, you could fix this kitchen up in a jiffy."
"Would you?" Dolores said. "I mean, you seem to be able to do anything, Larry, so--"
"I wouldn't recommend that," Murphy said.
"Why not?"
"Because Larry might come up with something different than what you're expecting."
"Nonsense, Murphy,” Dolores said. “Why Larry has the most wonderful taste--"
There was a shimmering in the air and everything seemed to go foggy for a second, and then the room was transformed into a Viking castle kitchen, with a stone floor, a huge oak table, pots of boiling chicken entrails cooking over a roaring fire in the hearth, and a whole hog roasting on a spit. The place stunk of cabbage, moldy cheese, blood and seaweed, and Dolores’s stomach did a somersault in response to it.
What smelled even worse, though, was the very large hairy man wearing ill-fitting clothes made from animal skins who was standing in the center of the room and blinking. He was carrying a large axe, and he looked like the type of fellow who settled the finer points of philosophy by using it.
"Larry, who is that?" Dolores said.
"I think his name is Athelred the Disemboweler," Larry said, "and I would say he's ready for his supper."
"By Thor, I need a hog's haunch and a mug of ale now!" Athelred said, and chopped off the corner of the table for emphasis.
"My, he's a bit high-strung," Edna said. "Although I do admire a man who knows his mind. The last time I met a man like that it was 1953, and I was introduced to my future husband at a barn dance. I had on a red pleated dress and a sky blue petticoat. Of course, you'll want to know why I had that color petticoat on--"
Athelred threw his axe at her head, but it missed and clanged off one of the pots on the fire, sending scalding grease and water all over the kitchen.
"I'll be leaving now," Murphy said, making for the door. "I’m not a fan of angry Vikings."
"By Odin's beard, I'll not miss again!" Athelred said, picking up his axe and hefting it in his large hands.
"Do we have any herbal tea?" Edna said. "If ever anyone needed a cup of tea it's this poor fellow."
"Larry, do something!" Dolores said, correctly surmising that Athelred was about to throw his axe again.
Larry went on calmly eating his fish and chips, but he stuck his foot out and tripped Athelred, causing him to fall hard on his head on the stone floor. The Viking got up quickly, but seemed to have misplaced his higher mental faculties.
"Now, that's better," Edna said. "Let's go in the other room and watch some TV." She took the dazed Viking’s hand and led him away, saying, "Do you have game shows where you come from?"
“Thanks, Larry,” Dolores said.
“No problem,” Larry said. “How do you like this layout? Of course, the ventilation is not great, and you get a lot of smells from the carcasses in the storehouse next door, but--”
“Larry, I’m fine with the kitchen I had,” Dolores said. “Could you change it back?”
“Are you sure? I know I didn’t include utensils, but they didn’t really use them back then--”
“Larry, change it back.”
“Yes Dolores.”
And Dolores decided her kitchen was not so bad after all.
THE END
"The neighbors are all getting their kitchens redone," Dolores said. "Why can't we?"
"I’ll be leaving now,” Murphy said, hoping to get out the door before Dolores told him for the 100th time that he needed to make more money.
"Did you know that the British actor Michael Caine was teased because he had a habit of reciting inane factoids and then saying, 'Not many people know that?'" Larry said. He was eating fish and chips at the kitchen table and wearing a mackintosh raincoat. Dolores did not know where he got the fish and chips, certainly not from her kitchen.
"I like Michael Caine," Edna said, coming into the kitchen in her nightgown, which had a raised collar and a long train, and looked like something Liz Taylor might have worn to the wedding of a close friend. "’To be or not to be, that is the question.’ Wasn't he terrific in Hamlet?"
"I don't think he played Hamlet," Murphy said. "You couldn't play Hamlet with that Cockney accent he has."
"Oh, dear," Edna said. "That must have been my father I'm thinking of. Yes, he played Hamlet in 1949 at the Stratford Festival in Canada. I remember it well, because we had to share a bedroom with Charlie Chaplin."
"Fascinating," Larry said. “In a parallel universe sort of way. Now, as I was saying, you could fix this kitchen up in a jiffy."
"Would you?" Dolores said. "I mean, you seem to be able to do anything, Larry, so--"
"I wouldn't recommend that," Murphy said.
"Why not?"
"Because Larry might come up with something different than what you're expecting."
"Nonsense, Murphy,” Dolores said. “Why Larry has the most wonderful taste--"
There was a shimmering in the air and everything seemed to go foggy for a second, and then the room was transformed into a Viking castle kitchen, with a stone floor, a huge oak table, pots of boiling chicken entrails cooking over a roaring fire in the hearth, and a whole hog roasting on a spit. The place stunk of cabbage, moldy cheese, blood and seaweed, and Dolores’s stomach did a somersault in response to it.
What smelled even worse, though, was the very large hairy man wearing ill-fitting clothes made from animal skins who was standing in the center of the room and blinking. He was carrying a large axe, and he looked like the type of fellow who settled the finer points of philosophy by using it.
"Larry, who is that?" Dolores said.
"I think his name is Athelred the Disemboweler," Larry said, "and I would say he's ready for his supper."
"By Thor, I need a hog's haunch and a mug of ale now!" Athelred said, and chopped off the corner of the table for emphasis.
"My, he's a bit high-strung," Edna said. "Although I do admire a man who knows his mind. The last time I met a man like that it was 1953, and I was introduced to my future husband at a barn dance. I had on a red pleated dress and a sky blue petticoat. Of course, you'll want to know why I had that color petticoat on--"
Athelred threw his axe at her head, but it missed and clanged off one of the pots on the fire, sending scalding grease and water all over the kitchen.
"I'll be leaving now," Murphy said, making for the door. "I’m not a fan of angry Vikings."
"By Odin's beard, I'll not miss again!" Athelred said, picking up his axe and hefting it in his large hands.
"Do we have any herbal tea?" Edna said. "If ever anyone needed a cup of tea it's this poor fellow."
"Larry, do something!" Dolores said, correctly surmising that Athelred was about to throw his axe again.
Larry went on calmly eating his fish and chips, but he stuck his foot out and tripped Athelred, causing him to fall hard on his head on the stone floor. The Viking got up quickly, but seemed to have misplaced his higher mental faculties.
"Now, that's better," Edna said. "Let's go in the other room and watch some TV." She took the dazed Viking’s hand and led him away, saying, "Do you have game shows where you come from?"
“Thanks, Larry,” Dolores said.
“No problem,” Larry said. “How do you like this layout? Of course, the ventilation is not great, and you get a lot of smells from the carcasses in the storehouse next door, but--”
“Larry, I’m fine with the kitchen I had,” Dolores said. “Could you change it back?”
“Are you sure? I know I didn’t include utensils, but they didn’t really use them back then--”
“Larry, change it back.”
“Yes Dolores.”
And Dolores decided her kitchen was not so bad after all.
THE END
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Dolores Meets Pierce Brosnan (Er, Larry). A #fridayflash story.
By John McDonnell
Dolores stopped in her tracks at the sight of Pierce Brosnan in a tuxedo in her kitchen. He was leaning against the refrigerator, calmly smoking a cigarette.
Although Dolores appeared to be trying to form words, no sound came out.
“Pleased to meet you,” Pierce Brosnan said, taking her hand and kissing it.
Dolores’s eyes flickered, as if her grasp on consciousness was just a wee bit loose, so Murphy quickly maneuvered a kitchen chair in the right position to catch her if she fell backwards.
“Dolores?” Murphy said, but she was transfixed by the flashing white teeth and green eyes of Pierce Brosnan. Nothing short of a burst of small arms fire could have gotten her attention.
“Dolores!” Murphy shouted. “It’s not Pierce Brosnan. He’s an alien, remember? His name is Larry.”
There was no response, so Murphy did the only thing he could think of -- he pinched Dolores in the gluteal region of her anatomy.
“Ouch!” Dolores said, and turned to face Murphy.
“Hold on, dear,” Murphy said, shielding his face from her wrath. “I was just trying to get your attention. That’s not Pierce Brosnan, it’s an alien.”
Dolores’s face struggled with this information. “A what?” She seemed to be in a fog.
“Watch this,” Murphy said. “Larry, please stop being Pierce Brosnan.”
“Certainly,” Larry said, and transformed himself into a large black seal that bobbed its head back and forth and made a throaty “Oerk, oerk, oerk,” sound as it waddled past Dolores and through the swinging door, leaving Dolores staring intently at Murphy, the rosy bloom in her cheeks the only indication that her blood pressure was rising.
“Murphy,” she said.
“I know, dear,” Murphy said. “I know, I shouldn’t have brought him home. It’s just that I think he’s having a nervous breakdown, and he doesn’t seem to have a place to stay.”
“Perfect,” Dolores said. “An alien with a nervous breakdown. Just what I need.” She sat down at the kitchen table and absently pushed a stray hair out of her eyes. “He sure looked like Pierce Brosnan, though.” She narrowed her eyes. “He’s not going to pull any funny stuff, like abducting my mother, is he?”
Not a bad idea, Murphy thought, but he recovered and said, “Why no, dear. I don’t think he’s high up enough in the chain of command.”
“Okay, he can stay,” Dolores said. “I must be crazy, agreeing to this. Another drain on our finances.”
“Actually, I might have a bit more cash because of Larry,” Murphy said. “He zapped Boom Boom Putzinato, that gangster who was extorting money from me, into the Cretaceous Period.”
“That’s a useful skill,” Dolores said. “Except I don’t know anyone else who’s dumb enough to buy a bar in the worst neighborhood in the city, where they’re sure to have the local Mafia strongarming them.” She sighed. “What does he eat?”
Just then the swinging door opened, and Dolores’s mother Edna tottered in. “Do we have any halibut? That nice young man out there would like some fish.”
“I’ll handle it,” Murphy said. He went out into the living room and found Larry perched on the sofa watching a show on TV about bass fishing.
Murphy sat down in his leather easy chair, silently thankful that Larry wasn’t sitting in it, and said, “Larry, we need to talk. You can stay here for awhile, but you have to try to pull yourself together. This constantly changing shapes is not working. You have to choose one and stick to it.”
Larry let out a sob. “I can’t! I just can’t do it. I don’t know what’s the matter. I get these anxiety attacks, and I can’t seem to settle on one shape. I’m a failure. Do you know what else? I don’t understand metaphor. Not even a little bit. How can I infiltrate your civilization if I don’t understand metaphor? I have a literal mind, which is no good on this planet.” Now he was crying, making a hoarse, throaty sound that was so loud it was rattling the windows.
“Saints preserve us,” Murphy said, putting his hands over his ears. “Just quiet down, will you?”
Larry made a snuffling noise, and batted his long seal eyelashes, each one of them with a teardrop on the end of it. “Okay,” he said.
“Now, listen,” Murphy said. “Everything is going to be fine. You just need to rest, that’s all. And you need to do something to get on Dolores’s good side. She’s the boss here, and you’re not getting off to a very good start with her.”
“Can I give her a gift? Humans like gifts.”
“A gift? Yes, maybe that would work.”
“What does she like?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Flowers, I guess. She used to like it when I would bring her a bunch of flowers for no reason.”
“Good. Flowers it is. Go into the kitchen and bring Dolores out here.”
Murphy did as he was told.
When he brought Dolores back, however, he found that the entire living room had been transformed into a tropical rain forest, with flowers everywhere, but also snakes, huge insects, a family of howler monkeys engaged in heated debate, and macaws flying high up in the canopy.
“Oh, it’s lovely, Dolores,” Edna said. “Who does your decorating?” She pulled a mango off a tree and bit into it.
“Murphy!” Dolores said. “What happened to my house?”
“This is going to be harder than I thought,” Murphy said, under his breath.
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell, 2010. All rights reserved.
Dolores stopped in her tracks at the sight of Pierce Brosnan in a tuxedo in her kitchen. He was leaning against the refrigerator, calmly smoking a cigarette.
Although Dolores appeared to be trying to form words, no sound came out.
“Pleased to meet you,” Pierce Brosnan said, taking her hand and kissing it.
Dolores’s eyes flickered, as if her grasp on consciousness was just a wee bit loose, so Murphy quickly maneuvered a kitchen chair in the right position to catch her if she fell backwards.
“Dolores?” Murphy said, but she was transfixed by the flashing white teeth and green eyes of Pierce Brosnan. Nothing short of a burst of small arms fire could have gotten her attention.
“Dolores!” Murphy shouted. “It’s not Pierce Brosnan. He’s an alien, remember? His name is Larry.”
There was no response, so Murphy did the only thing he could think of -- he pinched Dolores in the gluteal region of her anatomy.
“Ouch!” Dolores said, and turned to face Murphy.
“Hold on, dear,” Murphy said, shielding his face from her wrath. “I was just trying to get your attention. That’s not Pierce Brosnan, it’s an alien.”
Dolores’s face struggled with this information. “A what?” She seemed to be in a fog.
“Watch this,” Murphy said. “Larry, please stop being Pierce Brosnan.”
“Certainly,” Larry said, and transformed himself into a large black seal that bobbed its head back and forth and made a throaty “Oerk, oerk, oerk,” sound as it waddled past Dolores and through the swinging door, leaving Dolores staring intently at Murphy, the rosy bloom in her cheeks the only indication that her blood pressure was rising.
“Murphy,” she said.
“I know, dear,” Murphy said. “I know, I shouldn’t have brought him home. It’s just that I think he’s having a nervous breakdown, and he doesn’t seem to have a place to stay.”
“Perfect,” Dolores said. “An alien with a nervous breakdown. Just what I need.” She sat down at the kitchen table and absently pushed a stray hair out of her eyes. “He sure looked like Pierce Brosnan, though.” She narrowed her eyes. “He’s not going to pull any funny stuff, like abducting my mother, is he?”
Not a bad idea, Murphy thought, but he recovered and said, “Why no, dear. I don’t think he’s high up enough in the chain of command.”
“Okay, he can stay,” Dolores said. “I must be crazy, agreeing to this. Another drain on our finances.”
“Actually, I might have a bit more cash because of Larry,” Murphy said. “He zapped Boom Boom Putzinato, that gangster who was extorting money from me, into the Cretaceous Period.”
“That’s a useful skill,” Dolores said. “Except I don’t know anyone else who’s dumb enough to buy a bar in the worst neighborhood in the city, where they’re sure to have the local Mafia strongarming them.” She sighed. “What does he eat?”
Just then the swinging door opened, and Dolores’s mother Edna tottered in. “Do we have any halibut? That nice young man out there would like some fish.”
“I’ll handle it,” Murphy said. He went out into the living room and found Larry perched on the sofa watching a show on TV about bass fishing.
Murphy sat down in his leather easy chair, silently thankful that Larry wasn’t sitting in it, and said, “Larry, we need to talk. You can stay here for awhile, but you have to try to pull yourself together. This constantly changing shapes is not working. You have to choose one and stick to it.”
Larry let out a sob. “I can’t! I just can’t do it. I don’t know what’s the matter. I get these anxiety attacks, and I can’t seem to settle on one shape. I’m a failure. Do you know what else? I don’t understand metaphor. Not even a little bit. How can I infiltrate your civilization if I don’t understand metaphor? I have a literal mind, which is no good on this planet.” Now he was crying, making a hoarse, throaty sound that was so loud it was rattling the windows.
“Saints preserve us,” Murphy said, putting his hands over his ears. “Just quiet down, will you?”
Larry made a snuffling noise, and batted his long seal eyelashes, each one of them with a teardrop on the end of it. “Okay,” he said.
“Now, listen,” Murphy said. “Everything is going to be fine. You just need to rest, that’s all. And you need to do something to get on Dolores’s good side. She’s the boss here, and you’re not getting off to a very good start with her.”
“Can I give her a gift? Humans like gifts.”
“A gift? Yes, maybe that would work.”
“What does she like?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Flowers, I guess. She used to like it when I would bring her a bunch of flowers for no reason.”
“Good. Flowers it is. Go into the kitchen and bring Dolores out here.”
Murphy did as he was told.
When he brought Dolores back, however, he found that the entire living room had been transformed into a tropical rain forest, with flowers everywhere, but also snakes, huge insects, a family of howler monkeys engaged in heated debate, and macaws flying high up in the canopy.
“Oh, it’s lovely, Dolores,” Edna said. “Who does your decorating?” She pulled a mango off a tree and bit into it.
“Murphy!” Dolores said. “What happened to my house?”
“This is going to be harder than I thought,” Murphy said, under his breath.
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell, 2010. All rights reserved.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Dolores, Larry, And A Naked Kim Kardashian. A #fridayflash story.
By John McDonnell
Murphy awoke to the shock of cold water splashed on his face, and a very angry wife hovering over him.
“Cornelius Fergal Murphy,” she said, hands on hips. “I want to know what Kim Kardashian is doing, naked on my living room sofa.”
It took Murphy a few seconds to process this information, and he lay there blinking and moving his lips, but no sound came out. Finally, he remembered bringing the alien home last night.
“That’s just Larry,” he said. “No need to get upset, Dolores.”
“THAT is not a Larry,” Dolores said. “I don’t know what her name is, but it’s not Larry.”
“I can explain,” Murphy said.
“I can’t possibly imagine how,” Dolores said, “but I’ll listen.”
“Well, you see, he’s an alien. That’s not really his true form.”
“An alien. Now I’ve heard everything.”
“I swear, Dolores, it’s the truth. He came into the bar last night and had a little too much to drink--”
Dolores threw up her hands. “I should have known! Didn’t I tell you to stop bringing these lost souls here? I’m sick of taking care of these misfits from that hole-in-the-wall bar I told you not to buy.”
“This is different, Dolores. He’s feeling abandoned, and--”
“Let him see a psychiatrist then. I can’t afford to feed another mouth.”
“I don’t know if he has a mouth, actually. Although he likes pink fruity drinks.”
Dolores rolled her eyes. “I’m just glad my mother sleeps like a rock. If she had seen that naked woman on the couch--”
“Dolores, dear,” came a voice from downstairs. “We have a visitor. Come and see.”
Dolores cursed under her breath and ran out of the room, followed by Murphy, who ran downstairs in only his undershirt and boxer shorts.
Larry was sitting on the sofa, this time as a full grown silverback gorilla, watching a game show on TV with Dolores’ mother Edna, who was dressed in a turquoise off the shoulder gown, gloves, and a pillbox hat with a veil that would have looked chic in 1947.
“He’s got a perfect score in Jeopardy,” Edna said, grinning as Larry picked insects out of his chest hair.
“As long as they stay away from questions about particle physics I’m good,” Larry said.
“Dolores, this is Larry,” Murphy said.
Larry grunted, and Dolores stood there with her arms folded across her chest, sizing him up.
“You didn’t tell me we were having visitors, dear,” Edna said to Dolores. “I wasn’t properly dressed, so I went back and put on my dressy clothes.”
“I didn’t KNOW we were having visitors,” Dolores said.
“Larry, can I talk to you privately?” Murphy said. He pulled on Larry’s hairy arm and led him to the kitchen, where he closed the swinging door so Dolores wouldn’t hear.
“Listen, Larry,” Murphy whispered. “Dolores doesn’t handle change very well, and if you’re going to stay with us you have to find a form that works for her.”
“Oh, sorry,” Larry said, and in a flash he was Kim Kardashian again. “Interesting body dynamics,” he said, moving unsteadily on his feet. “Balance has to be recalibrated, because of added weight in lower extremities.”
“No!” Murphy said. “Not that form! Dolores won’t like that one.”
“Oh, yes,” Larry said. “Territorial human females. Primitive response. What do you suggest?”
“Well, first I would suggest that you move your lips when you talk, instead of doing that thought transference thing,” Murphy said. “Second, what about something cute and cuddly, like a--”
Larry transformed into a six foot tall Emperor penguin. He waddled back and forth, smelling of salt water and fish, and said, “Penguins are cute, according to a recent survey of human affectional impulses.”
“Jesus, Mary and St. Joseph,” Murphy said. “No to the penguin! Something else.”
Larry turned himself into Jesus, complete with a long white robe and a halo. “Is this better? You mentioned Jesus.”
“Murphy, I don’t know what you’re doing in there, but I’m coming in,” Dolores said, from the hallway.
Murphy put his head in his hands. “Say your prayers, Murphy,” he muttered. “You’re going to die soon.”
He wasn’t sure what happened next, but when Dolores came through the door she was met by a dead ringer for Pierce Brosnan, in a tuxedo, and smelling of a minty cologne, showing his teeth in a blindingly white smile.
“Ah,” Dolores said, stopping in her tracks.
“Mmm?” Pierce Brosnan said.
“Oh, Lord,” Murphy said.
THE END
Murphy awoke to the shock of cold water splashed on his face, and a very angry wife hovering over him.
“Cornelius Fergal Murphy,” she said, hands on hips. “I want to know what Kim Kardashian is doing, naked on my living room sofa.”
It took Murphy a few seconds to process this information, and he lay there blinking and moving his lips, but no sound came out. Finally, he remembered bringing the alien home last night.
“That’s just Larry,” he said. “No need to get upset, Dolores.”
“THAT is not a Larry,” Dolores said. “I don’t know what her name is, but it’s not Larry.”
“I can explain,” Murphy said.
“I can’t possibly imagine how,” Dolores said, “but I’ll listen.”
“Well, you see, he’s an alien. That’s not really his true form.”
“An alien. Now I’ve heard everything.”
“I swear, Dolores, it’s the truth. He came into the bar last night and had a little too much to drink--”
Dolores threw up her hands. “I should have known! Didn’t I tell you to stop bringing these lost souls here? I’m sick of taking care of these misfits from that hole-in-the-wall bar I told you not to buy.”
“This is different, Dolores. He’s feeling abandoned, and--”
“Let him see a psychiatrist then. I can’t afford to feed another mouth.”
“I don’t know if he has a mouth, actually. Although he likes pink fruity drinks.”
Dolores rolled her eyes. “I’m just glad my mother sleeps like a rock. If she had seen that naked woman on the couch--”
“Dolores, dear,” came a voice from downstairs. “We have a visitor. Come and see.”
Dolores cursed under her breath and ran out of the room, followed by Murphy, who ran downstairs in only his undershirt and boxer shorts.
Larry was sitting on the sofa, this time as a full grown silverback gorilla, watching a game show on TV with Dolores’ mother Edna, who was dressed in a turquoise off the shoulder gown, gloves, and a pillbox hat with a veil that would have looked chic in 1947.
“He’s got a perfect score in Jeopardy,” Edna said, grinning as Larry picked insects out of his chest hair.
“As long as they stay away from questions about particle physics I’m good,” Larry said.
“Dolores, this is Larry,” Murphy said.
Larry grunted, and Dolores stood there with her arms folded across her chest, sizing him up.
“You didn’t tell me we were having visitors, dear,” Edna said to Dolores. “I wasn’t properly dressed, so I went back and put on my dressy clothes.”
“I didn’t KNOW we were having visitors,” Dolores said.
“Larry, can I talk to you privately?” Murphy said. He pulled on Larry’s hairy arm and led him to the kitchen, where he closed the swinging door so Dolores wouldn’t hear.
“Listen, Larry,” Murphy whispered. “Dolores doesn’t handle change very well, and if you’re going to stay with us you have to find a form that works for her.”
“Oh, sorry,” Larry said, and in a flash he was Kim Kardashian again. “Interesting body dynamics,” he said, moving unsteadily on his feet. “Balance has to be recalibrated, because of added weight in lower extremities.”
“No!” Murphy said. “Not that form! Dolores won’t like that one.”
“Oh, yes,” Larry said. “Territorial human females. Primitive response. What do you suggest?”
“Well, first I would suggest that you move your lips when you talk, instead of doing that thought transference thing,” Murphy said. “Second, what about something cute and cuddly, like a--”
Larry transformed into a six foot tall Emperor penguin. He waddled back and forth, smelling of salt water and fish, and said, “Penguins are cute, according to a recent survey of human affectional impulses.”
“Jesus, Mary and St. Joseph,” Murphy said. “No to the penguin! Something else.”
Larry turned himself into Jesus, complete with a long white robe and a halo. “Is this better? You mentioned Jesus.”
“Murphy, I don’t know what you’re doing in there, but I’m coming in,” Dolores said, from the hallway.
Murphy put his head in his hands. “Say your prayers, Murphy,” he muttered. “You’re going to die soon.”
He wasn’t sure what happened next, but when Dolores came through the door she was met by a dead ringer for Pierce Brosnan, in a tuxedo, and smelling of a minty cologne, showing his teeth in a blindingly white smile.
“Ah,” Dolores said, stopping in her tracks.
“Mmm?” Pierce Brosnan said.
“Oh, Lord,” Murphy said.
THE END
Thursday, April 29, 2010
MUGGS AND THE CAKE, a #fridayflash story
By John McDonnell
Muggs brought the last box of whiskey bottles in and set them down on the long counter in the center of the gleaming kitchen in the Stokes mansion, next to the other ten wooden boxes he’d unloaded from the Packard. Petey was sitting at a table, discussing something with the chef, a large man dressed in white, with a red face and a walrus mustache.
“Nothing doing,” the chef said. “Put it on our account.”
“That won’t do,” Petey said. “Mr. Donovan said your boss was to pay us upfront.”
“I don’t have time for this,” the chef said. “I am preparing for the biggest social event of the season. I have 300 guests coming tonight.”
Petey whistled. “300? I’d hate to see that many people with dry throats.”
The chef laughed, and his whole body shook. He took a white towel from around his neck and mopped his face with it. “You’re trying to scare me? You palookas don’t mean a thing to us. Mr. Stokes knows everyone. The Governor is going to be at the party tonight. Charles Lindbergh is coming. This is the first party he’s been to since he got back from Paris. There’s a Cardinal coming, and several mayors.”
“Be a shame if they got thirsty,” Petey said.
Muggs was having a hard time concentrating on the conversation. The kitchen was alive with smells: turkey, ham, cake -- in fact, there was a very large chocolate cake on the counter not far from the whiskey.
“Could I have a piece of that cake?” he asked.
“What?” the chef said. “Sure, help yourself.” He turned back to Petey. “You don’t understand, do you? Get it into your thick skull that you’re to charge the whiskey to Mr. Stokes’ account.”
“This is swell cake,” Muggs said, eating a large slice of the cake with his hands.
“I better talk to Mr. Stokes,” Petey said, getting up from the table. “He’s a banker, right? I’m sure he knows a lot about paying bills.”
The chef got up and went over to a section of the kitchen where there were big knives stuck in a wooden block. He pulled out a very large gleaming butcher knife and came back, then stood in the doorway that led from the kitchen to the rest of the house, blocking it with his considerable bulk. “Get out of here now, you scum,” he said. “Or I’ll carve you up like a couple of beefsteaks.”
“Gee, that was swell cake,” Muggs said, as Petey drove down the mile-long driveway from the big house. “You should have had a piece.”
“I wasn’t hungry,” Petey said.
“I wish I knew how to cook,” Muggs said. “I’d make a cake for myself every day.”
“I hope they have an assistant chef,” Petey said. “Otherwise, dinner ain’t going to be served on time.”
“He should have stuck to making cakes,” Muggs said, licking a speck of chocolate icing off his thumb. “He was good at that.”
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell 2010
Chocolate Fudge Birthday Cake 7"
Muggs brought the last box of whiskey bottles in and set them down on the long counter in the center of the gleaming kitchen in the Stokes mansion, next to the other ten wooden boxes he’d unloaded from the Packard. Petey was sitting at a table, discussing something with the chef, a large man dressed in white, with a red face and a walrus mustache.
“Nothing doing,” the chef said. “Put it on our account.”
“That won’t do,” Petey said. “Mr. Donovan said your boss was to pay us upfront.”
“I don’t have time for this,” the chef said. “I am preparing for the biggest social event of the season. I have 300 guests coming tonight.”
Petey whistled. “300? I’d hate to see that many people with dry throats.”
The chef laughed, and his whole body shook. He took a white towel from around his neck and mopped his face with it. “You’re trying to scare me? You palookas don’t mean a thing to us. Mr. Stokes knows everyone. The Governor is going to be at the party tonight. Charles Lindbergh is coming. This is the first party he’s been to since he got back from Paris. There’s a Cardinal coming, and several mayors.”
“Be a shame if they got thirsty,” Petey said.
Muggs was having a hard time concentrating on the conversation. The kitchen was alive with smells: turkey, ham, cake -- in fact, there was a very large chocolate cake on the counter not far from the whiskey.
“Could I have a piece of that cake?” he asked.
“What?” the chef said. “Sure, help yourself.” He turned back to Petey. “You don’t understand, do you? Get it into your thick skull that you’re to charge the whiskey to Mr. Stokes’ account.”
“This is swell cake,” Muggs said, eating a large slice of the cake with his hands.
“I better talk to Mr. Stokes,” Petey said, getting up from the table. “He’s a banker, right? I’m sure he knows a lot about paying bills.”
The chef got up and went over to a section of the kitchen where there were big knives stuck in a wooden block. He pulled out a very large gleaming butcher knife and came back, then stood in the doorway that led from the kitchen to the rest of the house, blocking it with his considerable bulk. “Get out of here now, you scum,” he said. “Or I’ll carve you up like a couple of beefsteaks.”
* * *
“Gee, that was swell cake,” Muggs said, as Petey drove down the mile-long driveway from the big house. “You should have had a piece.”
“I wasn’t hungry,” Petey said.
“I wish I knew how to cook,” Muggs said. “I’d make a cake for myself every day.”
“I hope they have an assistant chef,” Petey said. “Otherwise, dinner ain’t going to be served on time.”
“He should have stuck to making cakes,” Muggs said, licking a speck of chocolate icing off his thumb. “He was good at that.”
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell 2010
Chocolate Fudge Birthday Cake 7"
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)