Very Very Short Stories

[Undertow]

The Break

He drew the swatch to his face, closed his eyes and inhaled. The faint smell of lilacs and sweat had once permeated the lemon yellow fabric. A warm summer breeze brushed his skin, playfully gamboling through town, past the hardware store, the café, the cinema. His hands enveloped hers; her burning green eyes were like beacons now, their lips pressed together. His heart hung in the air, the moment passed, and then faded into a dream, a haze; another part of the world almost forgotten.

It was in these precious seconds, these Zen gifts of peace, that he was able to collect his spirit, steel his nerves and hold out – if not just one more minute, perhaps one more day.

A shell exploded miles away; a bridge fell, crumbling. With the rattling sound of machinegun fire from a distant plaza like a drummer beating a tin pan, he stuffed the memento back into his shirt pocket, picked up his rifle and fell in line.

 

[flat-top]

He knew what that knock meant. He put on his coat and hat, grabbed his satchel and took one last look around.
He opened the door and was met by the black cloaked figure who waited outside.

 

[Undertow]

Last Glass

“Two please,” I said with a hint of nostalgia. I had rehearsed this moment in my mind so many times that it finally felt like I was a character in the screen production. I looked back at our table; he was watching me, eager, a grin had cracked over his lips. His eyes hadn’t lost their flame, but I could tell the midnight train had run too long and it was time to retire in the yard.

I walked back to the table and set a glass in front of him. He looked down into the ale hungrily and then shot me a wink, “Thanks boy,” he said, his smacking lips like the clap from a looming thunder head. He lifted the glass and drank; a trickle to start, then a deep, refreshing draught.

I’d been waiting for this day all of my adult life, and here it was, our last and only glass together.

 

[Woland]

"No flies on Frank" by Mr. John Lennon

Not very, very short, but IMHO a grand little read:

There were no flies on Frank that morning - after all why not? He was a responsible citizen with a wife and child, wasn't he? It was a typical Frank morning and with an agility that defies description he leapt into the bathroom onto the scales. To his great harold he discovered he was twelve inches more tall heavy! He couldn't believe it and his blood raised to his head, causing a mighty red colouring.

'I carn't not believe this incredible fact of truth about my very body which has not gained fat since mother begat me at childburn. Yea, though I wart through the valet of thy shadowy hut I will feed no norman. What grate qualmsy hath taken me thus into such a fatty hardbuckle.' Again Frank looked down at the awful vision which clouded his eyes with fearful weight. 'Twelve inches more heavy, Lo!, but am I not more fatty than my brother Geoffery whise father Alec came from Kenneth -- through Leslies, who begat Arthur, son of Eric, by the house of Ronald and April -- keepers of James of Newcastle who ran Madeline at 2-1 by Silver Flower, (10-2) past Wot-ro-Wot at 4/3d a pound?'

He journeyed downstairs crestfallen and defective -- a great wait on his boulders -- not even his wife's battered face could raise a smile on poor Frank's head -- who as you know had no flies on him. His wife, a former beauty queer, regarded him with a strange but burly look. 'What ails thee, Frank? she asked stretching her prune. 'You look dejected if not informal,' she addled.

"Tis nothing but wart I have gained but twelve inches more tall heavy than at the very clock of yesterday at this time -- am I not the most miserable of men? Suffer ye not to spake to me or I might thrust you a mortal injury; I must traddle this trial alone.' 'Lo! Frank -- thous hast smote me harshly with such grave talk -- am I to blame for this vast burton?'

Frank looked sadly at his wife -- forgetting for a moment the cause of his misery. Walking slowly but slowly toward her, he took his head in his hands and with a few swift blows gad clubbed her mercifully to the ground dead. 'She shouldn't see me like this,' he mubbled, 'not all fat and on her thirtysecond birthday.'

Frank had to het his own breakfast that morning and also on the following mornings.

Two, (or was it three?) weeks later Frank awake again to find that there were still no flies on him.

'No flies on this Frank boy,' he thought; but to his amazement there seemed to be a lot of flies on his wife -- who was still lying about the kitchen floor. 'I carn't not partake of bread and that with her lying about the place,' he thought allowed, writing as he spoke. 'I must deliver her to her home whore she will be made welcome.'

He gathered her in a small sack (for she was only four foot three) and headed for her rightful home. Frank knocked on the door of his wife's mothers house. She opened the door.

'I've brought Marian home, Mrs. Sutherskill' (he could never call her Mum). He opened the sack and placed Marian on the doorstep.

'I'm not having all those flies in my home,' shouted Mrs. Sutherskill (who was very houseproud), shutting the door. 'She could have at least offered me a cup of tea,' thought Frank lifting the problem back on his boulders.

 

[V.C. Brunswick]

From "McTeague" by Frank Norris

McTeague sadly missed his concertina. Sunday afternoons when there was no work to be done, he was accustomed to lie flat on his springless bed in the little room in the rear of the music store, his coat and shoes off, reading the paper, drinking steam beer from a pitcher, and smoking his pipe. But he could no longer play his six lugubrious airs upon his concertina, and it was a deprivation. He often wondered where it was gone. It had been lost, no doubt, in the general wreck of his fortunes. Once, even, the dentist* had taken a concertina from the lot kept by the music store. It was a Sunday and no one was about. But he found he could not play upon it. The stops were arranged upon a system he did not understand.

Now his own concertina was come back to him. He would buy it back. He had given the clerk four dollars. He knew where he could get the remaining seven.

The clerk had told him the concertina had been sold on Polk Street to the second-hand store there. Trina had sold it. McTeague knew it. Trina had sold his concertina -- had stolen it and sold it -- his concertina, his beloved concertina, that he had had all his life. Why, barring the canary, there was not one of his belongings that McTeague had cherished more dearly. His steel engraving "Lorenzo de' Medici and his Court" might be lost, his stone pug dog might go, but his concertina!

"And she sold it -- stole it from me and sold it. Just because I happened to forget to take it along with me. Well, we'll just see about that. You'll give me the money to buy it back, or...."

His rage loomed big within him. His hatred of Trina came back upon him like a returning surge. He saw her small, prim mouth, her narrow blue eyes, her black mane of hair, and uptilted chin, and hated her the more because of them. He'd get that seven dollars from her, or he'd know the reason why.





*In the story, set in 1890s San Francisco, McTeague is a former dentist who had been practicing without a license.

 

[Frankie Lamb]

Shoot for the moon
The door was unlocked,and I pushed it open, slowly, hoping to put off as long as I could from seeing what I hoped wasn't there. no dice; she was there alright, just like Marty said she'd be; or at least her body was. God only know where her mind was.
She lay sprawled on a torn and dirty couch, dressed in a light blue silk gown and high-heeled slippers, like she was ready to step out on the town for the evening. Her head rested on a small, square pillow like the one's people used to have during the war; it had "Keep 'em Flying" printed across the front. One leg dangled off the side of the couch and her eyes were half closed. An ever so slight smile graced her lips. I stood there, looking at her for a long minute, trying to understand how a dame like her could end up like this. She had enough dough to go anyplace in the world, and do anything she wanted for as long as she wanted, but instead of an airplane, or a boat, she rode a junkie's needle. I watched her stomach to see if she was breathing normally; she was. It would be some time before the stuff wore off, but she wasn't in any immediate danger. Smack was her passport to anyplace she wanted to go, even the moon or the stars, and it only took a minute or two to make the trip. In a couple of years, if she lived that long, she'd make that one final trip, one way, and end up stuck up there forever. I guess the moon's a nice place to visit, but frankly, I wouldn't want to live there.
I turned and walked out of the room, quietly closing the door behind me.

 

[Zemke Fan]

Disaster (Barely) Averted.

The storm roared over the Blue Ridge Mountains, gathered energy over the Piedmont, and smashed into Chesapeake Bay overturning half a dozen vessels with 60 mile-an-hour winds and six foot waves. ”Brand New Day,” a 37 foot cruiser on a day-sail out of Annapolis, was one of dozens of boats caught naked and unprepared. Fred, the rookie captain, turned on the diesel, headed into the approaching darkness, and ordered first mate Helen below deck to “grab the life jackets.”

Struggling to furl the final yards of mainsail when the maelstrom struck the boat, Fred watched helplessly as the wind shredded the rotting canvas of the bimini and ripped its steel supports from the deck. He forced Helen to go below again, ignoring her pleas to abandon the helm and join her in the “safety” of the cabin. What ensued was 15 minutes from hell with a nasty devil’s brew of vertical rain, stroboscopic lightning, and kettle-drum crescendos of thunder.

When the tempest had passed, they returned to the marina, popped open the Heineken, and assessed the damage. Fred described to Helen the terror of the experience and her wifely response was both swift and sympathetic: “Can we go back out?” she asked. “I missed everything!”

 

[scotrace]

"Cheese Danish, please."
"Sure thing. Coffee??"
"That'd be great. Black. Thanks."
The sliders of the counter slammed shut and she gave a start. Pulling the compact from her purse, she peered at her lips, picking off the bit of cigarette paper she found. I look terrible. She tucked the compact away, controlling her breathing tightly. Reaching over the glass case, she took her Danish and coffee, paid, gave a forced smile, and left the deli.
Out in the searchlight sunshine she clipped nervously over the sidewalk, pausing twice to turn toward a shop window, her eyes casting back over her path, trying to see if anyone was following. At the door to Jeever's place, she climbed the cement stairs, gave one last look around, and flicked open the door.
Upstairs, she went into the bedroom, taking bites of the roll. She didn't want food, but felt faint and needed something sweet to carry her. She opened the closet and pulled out a suitcase. Catching sight of a sticker for Hotel Rialto, Havana, she winced. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she pulled the paper lid off the coffee and sipped before absently leaving it on the nightstand to light a cigarette, her hands shaking so that she had to use both to steady the flame of her lighter.

Making love at the hotel the night before, she had felt safe for the first time in months on the run. They had dared to make some plans: get clearer of the mess, let things settle down, maybe a trip to Havana for awhile. She had given herself to him more completely, almost fallling off the bed to the floor - they had laughed. A free laughter.
In the morning she went down to the desk for toothbrushes, came back and found him, throat slit open in a way that made her cry out now, remembering. She remembered how strange it was - the smell of so much blood, filling the air so quickly. She felt the rise of nausea all over again.
She had followed her gut.
Run.
He had tucked the money under the backseat, hidden in the springs, and they hadn't found it. Leaving her clothes behind, she grabbed her purse, got into the car and drove until the fuel went almost dry before stopping to compose herself. She found an A&P, bought nylons and a few makeup essentials and kept driving, driving to the only place she could think of.

Stubbing out her smoke, she took another pull of the strong coffee. She noticed a flash of something brassy in her half-open purse, and pulled out the room key. Taking it in her hand, she clutched it to her chest, and began to cry.
Losing herself in her grief, horror and terror, she didn't hear anyone else come into the house until she heard him speak.
He was a mouse of a man; soft cap, leather jacket. And a pistol.
"What do you want?" The words lunged from somewhere deep in her throat, her terror gripping her, mascara running down her cheeks.
"Ill get evvyting I need in a minute, baby."
The room seemed to explode, she felt a slamming jolt, and everything went black.

 

[Zemke Fan]

Okay boys and girls...

Repeat after me: If you're in a dark place, don't write fiction! (Good one, Scott!)

 

[Zemke Fan]

It’s a Generational Thing. [Edited version of OP]

The revelation came to him during the firm’s summer open house for congressional staff. Through the buzz of his third cheap-as-bathwater gin martini, he realized that even if all the men had paper bags over their heads it would still be possible to separate his demographic — the cranky old white guys — from the earnest young suck-ups merely by observing their cocktail party skills. His generation was adroit at juggling a fork, a six-inch Chinet plate, and an overflowing 12 ounce highball glass. The twenty-something, androgynous, Tom Ford wannabes, on the other hand, could pound down the booze while responding to email (at a minimum of 90 characters a minute) on the Blackberries seemingly superglued to their palms. Such new age dexterity — even more than their curly-toed, square-cut, Italian shoes and high-water trousers — was what really pissed him off about these guys. (Well, that and the fact that they had the same prima donna attitude that he did 30 years ago.)

 

[V.C. Brunswick]

With Hills Like Home
Author unknown

He wasn't a fast thinker. When he was home, in the hills of Victoria's Great Divide, milking cows and mending fences earned him enough to live on. So there was no cause to think too hard. Not about those things, anyhow.

Perhaps he thought about other things. He never mentioned them. He didn't think too much about the war. He'd done that before he enlisted and, having made up his mind, he did whatever was required in action or out of it.

When he looked from the brow of the hill to the wide plain below and saw on the far side, miles away, vague columns of moving vehicles, all seeming to press toward him, he was not disturbed.

His pals in the hastily dug pits near him were talking in voices whetted by excitement.

"We won't be long now, boys."

"We'll fix the ___"

"Hey, Corporal! Think there's any chance of getting leave today?"

He wasn't expected to say much. While the distant columns turned from vague mirage to reality, spread about the plain and then turned into hives of bustling grey shapes, cloaked in silence by the expectant air between, he was looking at them as if they were part of the landscape.

That hill over on the left -- he had turned his head toward it -- was just about as steep as the hill he'd tackled with his pony over the river at home. Halfway up had been enough. Then he'd struck a cattle track and followed it round until he'd reached the plateau where the old man kangaroo had stuck up the dogs.

That mountain was the sort of thing that saved you from thinking. It expressed itself, and that went for you, too. Those trees, if they had been a bit scraggier and more taller, might have been gums. There was something familiar about the way the creek appeared from nowhere round the rocky corner and winked at the doubtful sun.

From here, those trees might have been wattles planning a great golden blooming when their time came. Over on the other side...

The first shell whined above. He bent his head a fraction nearer the pit-top and tried at the same time to look up.

One of ours? Yes. There was a disturbance in the distance out in front, and a lazy roar rolled through the valley.

"They're off!"

"You beau-tee!"

The only thing that didn't fit in the picture was that little village down below. It crouched in close to the hill, as if it were seeking protection. At home tha houses all spread out, as if they wanted to have their own free air.

More shells, churning things up a bit over yonder, too. That's made them faster than they intended . Darkness coming on now, thougn.

If things were a bit slack, sometime or other during the year, this would be the place to come for a week. Bring a pack-horse and the dog. Sleep over there near the shelf where the little hill changed its mind and decided to continue growing into a full-size mountain.

Darkness coming over blotted out the details and left the outlines. He looked at the sky background. His pals were getting ready for whatever might happen in the night. He began to do the same thing, not talking much, except to say something about "those swine spoiling all this." It did not seem to have much to do with the work in hand.

Sometime after midnight there was a sharp burst of fire. Voices and a clatter sounded in front, and there were dark figures moving. They seemed close. With the concerted anger of a pack of dogs suddenly wakened, the machine guns barked and spat.

For half an hour it went on, then the bedlam gradually eased. Guns fired their parting shots. In the new silence they were as distinct as the last drops falling from a tap that had been abruptly turned off.

They wrapped him in a blanket and pulled him in from where he had gone raging at the intruders with his bayonet. A chance shot in the dark had got him.

There was not much in the way of keepsakes or papers to send home for him. Only a letter just begun. There had been time for him to write only, "Greece is a lovely place, with hills like home. I wouldn't mind staying here..."


from
Active Service: With Australia in the Middle East
edited by The Military History and Information Section, A.I.F. (Middle East)
(Canberra: Australian War Memorial, 1941)

 

[Zemke Fan]

VERY nice story, VCB, but it's not what I had in mind for this thread. This thread is for very, very short stories (150-250 words) written by the poster. I suggest you start a thread in WWII, it would be great to have some similar stories posted there!

 

[Widebrim]

VERY nice story, VCB, but it's not what I had in mind for this thread. This thread is for very, very short stories (150-250 words) written by the poster. I suggest you start a thread in WWII, it would be great to have some similar stories posted there!

Yes, very good, but as a matter of technicality to the original editor of the work referenced, Greece is not in the Middle East, but in SE Europe.

 

[rue]

*bump*


She was woken up by by the sound of a phone ringing in the distance. As she laid there, she tried to open her eyes, but the light streaming through the window made it too painful. Rolling over and crawling across the soft carpet she searched blindly for the phone. Finally she was able to reach up and grab the cord and pull it down to her. "Hello?" She said breathlessly.
"Are you okay? I've been trying to reach you for hours."
"Who is this?" She said as tried to place the voice on the other end.
"It's Sam. What happened?"
"Sam? Help me." she whispered.
"I'm coming. Stay right there and don't move."
She dropped the receiver and broke into tears as it all came back to her.

When Sam finally arrived he found her curled up in a ball crying quietly. He bent down to touch her and she screamed.
"It's okay honey. Sam's here."
She reached out to him and he took her in his arms. There they sat for what seemed to be an eternity, before he spoke again. "I'm going to take care of you from now on. I've always loved you and this time when I ask you to run away with me you will."
She looked up at him with her big green teary eyes and said "I love you too Sam. I'll do whatever you ask, just take me away from here"
And with that he picked her up and carried her out the door, never looking back.


*Sorry, I like a happy ending

 

[R.G. White]

Here's the end of a story I'm writing. It's in a very early stage, so this part probably will look nothing like the final version.


Anderson jogged down the white corridor and came to an abrupt stop outside of cabin C-82. He knocked on it repeatedly. Harder and harder each time. An elderly woman past by and looked at him with a queer gaze; uttering something in a melodramatically surprised voice.
“Helen! Helen! You open this door this very instance! Do I make myself perfectly clear! Open up, you stubborn woman! Open this door, I need to speak with you. Please…”
He smoothed his suit calmly and inhaled deeply. The elderly woman was taking her sweet time walking the length of the ship, always glancing back. Anderson glared at her until she gasped, ‘I never!’ turning into the grand-staircase.
Anderson leaned his palm against the door and began speaking in a much sweeter voice, “Helen, please open the door, sweetheart. I apologize for the way I acted. I was rather immature wasn’t I,” he gave a nervous laugh, “please open… I only wish to speak with you dear. I had no right accusing you of being heartless. It was a cruel thing for me to say, but you do not seem to understand… understand my… I haven’t been happy since the day I saw you walk away from me. I remember everything so vividly about the June evening. June 8th, 1920. You looked so lovely. You were wearing that blue gown with that positively atrocious hat - you remember, the one with the celluloid blueberries and lilies. I hated that hat, but it looked truly marvelous on you. You always had that ability…
I’m beginning to ramble. Oh, please, please, open up. I cannot continue like this. I have never gotten over you. I have never lived past that day! Please Helen! I’m positively making a fool of myself standing here like this! Helen! Helen!”

Anderson began to persistently rap his knuckles against the door. Refusing to give up until she opened. Finally, with a click, Anderson could see Helen’s maid, Ruthy. Her face was tear stained.
“Can I help you Mr. Barker?” She sniffed.
“Yes, I wish to speak to speak to Miss. Reynolds.” He said, regaining his composure.
Ruthy stuck her hand into her pocket and pulled out a letter on ship-board stationary, “This is for you.” She shoved the paper into his hands and slammed the door shut…



Society Column - February 9, 1929

Miss Helen Reynolds-Fitzgerald, the widow of former bank owner David N. Fitzgerald, was found dead in her cabin aboard the S.S. Margaret of Stream Line yesterday morning by her maid Ruth Chapman. Miss Reynolds-Fitzgerald was cooping with serious illness believed by her doctors to be a result of her husband’s death two years ago. On advice from Doctor J.R. Schmidt of Capestein Hospital Miss Reynolds-Fitzgerald embarked on a two month cruise. Her body will be left in Rome tomorrow and shipped back to New York aboard the S.S. Maria Catherina of the Iebino Shipping Line. Information of her funeral shall be included in tomorrow mornings newspaper.

Society Column - February 11, 1929

Millionaire Anderson Barker’s body was found floating near the shores of Italy this morning, after having been missing since the morning of February the ninth. Coincidently, Mr. Barker was aboard the same liner as widow Helen Reynolds-Fitzgerald, who died of illness only one day before Mr. Barker appeared to be missing from the ship. No connection between the two has been made, but from our resources we have been informed the two appeared to be quite close to one another during the one-month of the two-month long voyage. We are told the death was accidental, as there were very high seas the night of Mr. Barker’s disappearance. Mr. Barker was last seen on the promenade deck around eleven o’clock Sunday night by Mr. Jacob Cavalcade of Philadelphia. The cargo ship S.S. Maria Catherina, which is to transport Miss Reynolds-Fitzgerald’s body back to New York, will also transport Mr. Barker’s. The S.S. Maria Catherina departs tomorrow morning and is expected to arrive in New York on February 22.

 

[rue]

Very nice RG

 

[R.G. White]

Thank you very much! So was yours!

 

[rue]

Awww thanks, I was just finishing a story on this thread... it was so dark I'm no writer, but you are.

If you ever do finish that book, please let me know

 

[R.G. White]

Aw! Thank you very much, Rue!

 

[Yeps]

He caught her eyes across the room. She looked away. Turning his collar against the rain, he stepped out into the cold.