|
I create these little stories as way of jump-starting myself when I sit down to write. I just start typing whatever pops to mind.
Then I see where it's going and pound it into what you read below. I write three or four of these a week, but most are not fit for
human consumption. Some offer the beginnings of what might make a good, larger, story. Those I tuck away. So once a week I will post
one of the best of the rest here on the website.
- The Plastic Orange Army Man
Today I found an orange plastic army man on the sidewalk. I picked him up and took him home and put him in the bag with my green and gray little plastic army men. I bought the bag at a yard sale with the intent of making an animated toy war epic. I got everything ready. I set up a table-top diorama movie set. I had the camera. I had the editing software. I even had a Brian Eno song picked out for the soundtrack. But I could never muster up a story. Maybe the orange guy will help.
- Bob and Barbara
Bob, the crippled son of a barnstorming faith healer, didn't die of natural causes. His girlfriend Barbara pushed him, wheelchair and all, into the lake. They were having another one of their arguments about whether meditation should be the emptying of all thought or intense concentration on nothing when she hit him square in the chest with a sledge hammer then wheeled him off the end of the dock.
The police found her a couple hours later under an overpass on highway 12. She was sitting in the lotus position, gently rocking back and forth, humming a Tom Waits tune.
- Ad Girl
- She was posed leaning on the hood of an old Mercedes in the local car classified rag. Blood red page boy hair topped a face surprisingly free of any piercings. Below her face was a form-fitting white suit and skirt and tights and shoes. The red and white together seemed to be a mistake, like someone photoshopped some riot grrl's head onto the body of some cubicle babe. I called the number in the ad and not so subtley asked who the girl was. He said she came with the rag's camera man. I think I'll sell my car.
- Lightning
- I miss the lightning. For a while I lived on the eastern edge of central Massachusetts. There was a hill there that the lightning loved. The city scraped the hill top clean to stop the fires. Lightning rods did nothing to calm the brilliant fury. During good storms it would strike the hill a hundred times an hour. We would sit in our cars parked at the town landfill and watch the static ballet. We'd roll down our windows just a bit to smell the wet ozone reeling from the glory of it all. Power and fear. Danger and excitement.
- Sin and Redemption
- "Responsibility and sin do not have to be mutually exclusive. Not all sin is irresponsible. Some sin is for the greater good." Larry repeated these phrases to himself. On the train he memorized them from the pamphlet that the brotherhood gave him. At first he didn't believe the phrases, but when he read the details, saw the biblical passages, he came to believe. God wouldn't lie. There were God's words telling him this was right. It was a sin and there would be punishment but in the end, redemption and glory. Now he had purpose and a brand new gun.
- Hallelujah
- Martha cried as the music faded to the gentle hiss of the tape player. Larry thought about getting up and shutting off the stereo. He looked at Martha. The tears had stopped but her face was red and wet. Her eyes were closed. He moved to get up. Martha grabbed his arm and looked him in the eye. Larry sank back down on to the couch. "One more time." Martha begged as the auto-reverse clicked and the tape began to play every cover version of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah that Martha could find, for the fifth time in a row.
- Paper Man
- Herschel sat at the table with closed eyes. The sounds of the crowd faded. The sound of the clock became more and more distinct. As the ticks echoed he went over in his my mind what would happen next. Visualization, his coach called it. Then the buzzer rang. Herschel's eyes flew open and his hands jumped into action. Intricate rehearsed motions faster than thought. A blur of tanned fingers and clean white paper. Seven seconds later Herschel threw up his hands revealing a paper sculpture of a three-masted schooner. The crowd gasped. Another shiny origami trophy for Herschel's mantle.
- Sad Victory
- Joe the mouse killer saw the the tell-tale tail of sad victory. He looked to Martha for sympathy but got none. She was busy writing the check. The blood money. Another hundred dollars. Another dead little rodent. Joe picked up the trap and held it over the plastic bag. He pulled back the catch and felt the tiny lifeless body hit the bottom of the bag. "I've been chasing that thing for three months." Martha said. "I tried everything, all kinds of traps, and you catch him in fifteen minutes." Joe frowned and said, "It's all in the bait."
- Rita's Little Red Wagon
- Rita pulled the cord and the engine sputtered. She pushed the choke in a bit and pulled the cord again. It sputtered then caught. She gave it some gas and the lawn mower roared to life. Rita's daddy came running into the garage. "You did it!" He yelled. "Of course daddy. I told you. I take broken things apart and put the parts in my little red wagon. Then I put them back together and they work." Her daddy stared at the mower, the wagon and his six year old daughter and said, "Okay, I owe you an ice cream."
- Chain Reaction
- Bob woke up yesterday morning and knew that Sunrise was dead. John Sunrise Carter, whose stated life goal was to become the Spaulding Gray of porn, no longer walked among the living. Bob called to tell me that I was next. I didn't understand what he meant. This morning I woke up and knew that Bob was dead. I laid there in bed too sad to cry. Tomorrow you will wake up and know that I am dead. Tag, you're it!
- Rituals
- Drinking in dark bars with mannequins with tape players in their chests. Neon cliches dance across our faces. The would-be muses dance behind our backs. To my left Charlie's Tascam softly hums bad jazz. To my right Pete's Wollensack clicks into rewind. Soon his tale about the hooker that got away will start once again. Across the table Carlos sits silently. The playback head on his old Nagra is still broken. I listen in desperation for clues to anything that will make us holy. Buying another round. Drinking another beer. Glory babes at the bar, waiting for sacred moments.
- Emily
- Emily was somewhere between eighty and one hundred and twelve, depending on which website you'd care to believe. The dementia had been mild, just some pacing and staring into space, nothing of much concern. Two weeks later she wasn't eating, drinking or sleeping. She paced for hour upon hour, circling a single spot till something distracted her. She didn't know who we were. She staggered around the floor. The lack of food was making her stumble. Her heart was racing and uneven. When her breathing went raspy we knew it was over. The needle stopped the confusion and the pain.
|
