Lost Colony – 50 Word Story

The Settlers stood side-by-side on the moon’s surface, watching mushroom clouds bloom, orange and lovely, across the Earth.

“Guess the old adage is true,” one said.

“His partner turned. “What’s that?”

The astronaut skipped a stone ninety yards across the Sea of Tranquility. “You can never go home again.”

Chump City Nights – Flash Noir

The same electric sign has hung out over the sidewalk in front of Dusty’s Pub since 1946. The sign features a cartoon French maid dusting the word “Dusty’s” with a feather duster. One warm summer evening in 1978, Dusty, the club’s namesake and creative genius behind the sign, clutched his chest, slid down a wall behind the bar, and was no more. His widow sold Dusty’s before Dusty was cold and the pub went to a man named Claude Radke.

Radke did not rename Dusty’s Pub. Instead, he opted to spend the money needed for a new sign on something more practical. This practical something turned out to be a seven cartons of cigarettes which he smoked through in four weeks.

As Dusty had, Claude Radke required that “his girls” wear the uniform of the French maid on the sign. On Friday and Saturday nights, two of Claude’s girls would skitter about the pub slinging drinks and tickling the noses of their tippers with feather dusters. It was said that Radke’s girls would tickle other things although that remained, as yet, unproven.

One drunken night, Claude Radke groped one of his girls and she slapped him. Hard. Humiliated, he tossed her out on the sidewalk to the drunken cheers of his small knot of elderly regulars.

The banished waitress showed up at my desk the next morning with information about Claude Radke she thought I could use. She was right. I dropped by Dusty’s later that afternoon to tell him the good news.

Three men sat at the bar when I walked in. They swiveled to me.

“Afternoon, boys,” I said, opening my jacket. “Stop by again when you can’t stay so long.”

They grumbled at the badge and finished their drinks, tearing bills from wallets and flipping them onto the bar.

“So long, Claude,” one said.

“Thanks for stopping, guys,” Radke replied bitterly. The door closed behind them and Radke said: “What in hell do you want?”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” I said, taking a seat. “I’m on duty.”

He scowled. “A comedian.”

We were the only two in the building so I made a show of looking around and asked: “How’s business?”

His eyes narrowed to fiery little slits of hate. “You want something, cop?” he snarled, “or are you just here harassing a hardworking businessman for no reason?”

I shrugged. “Your gal, Louise, stopped in to see me this morning.”

“Not my gal.”

“Not anymore.”

“Not anymore,” Radke said. He dried his hands on a towel.

“She claims you sell cocaine.”

Radke waved a hand in dismissal. “Bah.”

“She told me you keep a pile of it in a coffee can in back.”

“If you knew Louise. She’s crazy.”

“You won’t mind if I look around a bit since you’ve got nothing to hide.”

Claude Radke smiled sweetly; a golden tooth glinted. “Be my guest,” he said. “Long as you got a warrant.”

“Funny you should say that,” I said. I made a show of pulling open my jacket, reaching in, and coming out with a crisp, white sheet of paper, triple-folded.

Radke’s eyes shot to it and stayed there. His forehead bunched up. His nostrils flared.

“Do not do it Radke,” I said.

He bolted out the back.

I laid my palms on the bar, tried to vault it, and bashed a shin. I went down over a couple stools and gimped out the door, cursing a blue street. I went around to the alley and there stood Claude Radke, hunched over and gasping at the ground.

“You should have turned left,” I panted.

He ran a ways before sliding out in the gravel. He landed on his hands and rolled over onto his back. He laid there and moaned for a while and when he sat up, I was there. I palmed his forehead and laid him back down in the rocks.

“I don’t gotta talk to you, cop!” he snarled. “I want my lawyer.”

I let go of his face and sat n the dirt besi, panting. Radke was panting too. A deep, bloody gash had been carved out above his right eyebrow and both knees were torn up slick.

“Too old to be running, Claude. Where in hell would you even go?”

“I want my lawyer.”

“So you said.”

 

I stood and dusted my pants and held out a hand to Radke. He ignored it and climbed up on his own, wincing. We walked back towards the pub.

“I’m not arresting you,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“On the level.”

He stopped. “What is this?”

“Here it is: You give me the coffee can and I’ll walk out of here. You get to decide what you do with your time for the next three to five.”

Radke’s eyes got narrow and shrewd. He scowled. “You’re gonna sell it?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“You’re a coke head?”

I shrugged and walked. “Take it or leave it. Ask yourself how much your lawyer charges and compare.”

He grimaced and kept up. “I didn’t take you for a dirty blackmailer, cop. Next month you’ll be back for more.

“One and done. I’ll shoot straight with you, Claude. We’ve known each other a long time.”

He jutted out his chin. “And if I don’t?”

I shrugged. “The Department gets it. You pay an attorney for a plea deal, and you probably do time.”

We walked in the back door of Dusty’s and he put a large can of Folger’s in my hands. I opened it; Louise was telling the truth. I set the can on a table, pulled cuffs from my belt and said: “Claude Radke, I’m arresting you for possession of a narcotic with intent to sell. You have the right to remain silent…”

“You lied to me,” Radke said. His lips were shiny and spit flew when he said it.

I put the cuffs on him, finished his rights, and marched him around the bar out the front door. The pub was still empty.

“You said-”

“I lied.”

Radke was bewildered.

I dug in my jacket pocket, removed the folded paper, unfolded it and showed it to him.

“LOST,” it said. “Male German Shepherd answers to the name Rex. Missing since June 17th. Has shots and is friendly. If found, please call…”

I folded the paper back into my jacket and Claude Radke and I took a drive downtown.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moving Day – Short Short Story

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“Just grab it and toss it out.”

You do it!”

“Seriously? This is why you yelled at me to come in here?”

“Please, will you?” she pleaded. “Can you kill it, Josh?”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because I can’t.”

Her brother grinned. “Can you imagine if it had babies and they were all crawling on your face when you woke up?”

She shrieked high and shrill and long and he added squeaking baritone wails and they laughed and laughed until nothing was funny anymore.

He wiped his eyes and sniffed. “It can’t hurt you.”

“You won’t do it?”

“You only have to look at it a few more hours.”

She frowned. “It will still be here even if I can’t see it.”

They sat quiet. “Will you bring your stuffed animals?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“No.”

“I’m going to bring all mine. And my dolls. And the toys from when I was little.”

“Dad said we’re supposed to leave the stuff we don’t need.”

“I don’t care what he said!”

He blinked at her. He turned and looked out the window. “I should go pack,” he said.

“Do you think mom will be sad when we’re gone?”

He leaned forward and rested his forehead against the glass. “Probably.”

“Do you remember that fight they had when I spilled my juice?”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “I wished I didn’t spill it.”

“I know,” he sighed. “It’s ok though.” He turned from the window. “I’m going to pack.”

She stepped in his path with her doll. “Do you want to play army men or something? You can use Barbie for the monster. I won’t get mad.”

“I have to pack. I’m sure Mom will be up soon to help you.”

She tossed the doll on the bed. “I’m going to ask her to kill it.”

“It’s only a few more hours you have to think about it.”

“No,” she shook her head. “It will still be here. Even when I can’t see it.”

 

 

The Predator – Flash Fiction

Miles Vandelay stood at the head of the table and hoisted his wine glass with his left hand. With his right, he pinged the glass repeatedly with a spoon. His eyes glittered with booze and triumph.

“Real quick,” he said. “I don’t want to hold up the party – ”

“Get off the stage!” said his VP of Operations, Todd Alton. He grabbed a bread roll from a basket on the table and tossed it at him. Soon, rolls were coming in from all over the room. They bounced off his chest and sailed past his head as he bobbed and ducked. “You’ll make me spill my wine!” he protested.

“There’s plenty more where that came from!” yelled Ezra from another table and the room erupted into applause and whistles.

Vandelay laughed and held up a palm. “All right, all right, you animals, but you know I’m cheap. I want to enjoy every. last. drop.” He upended the glass and held it up as a gladiator might hold the decapitated skull of a defeated enemy. The employees roared and upended their glasses, holding their empties high.

“They say,” said Vandelay, “All’s fair in love and war and I suppose that’s true. I’ve been through enough wives to know the love part is anyway.”

The room hooted and whistled.

“I’d like to add,” Vandelay continued, “that all’s fair in business too. To those of you who are here tonight, I salute you. This evening, we celebrate the culmination of our efforts. Our moment of glory is at hand!”

The room exploded into cheers. Rolls flew from table to table and Alton popped a fresh bottle, champagne spraying everyone at the table.

“Now I know this merger wasn’t easy,” Vandelay said after the cacophony had died. “We had to let some good people go and that can be difficult,” he said in a somber tone. “The good news is…we’re drinking their cut!”

The employees roared and pinged their glasses with their silverware.

“Some will say that life is more than money. They’ll tell you horror stories of deathbed regrets and spiritual reckonings. I would point out that every person who talks like that is broke and a loser! You don’t hear that garbage from successful people!”

“Amen!” said Ezra and the room laughed.

“I would submit to you that there are two types of people in this world: the hunters and the hunted. Looking around this room, I see victorious hunters and, to the victors go the spoils!”

The employees cheered and stomped their feet.

“The bonus checks that you received today were the largest Vandelay Industries has ever paid.”

He raised his hand as the decibel levels went to their highest point of the night. The employees stood as one to chant, “Van-de-lay! Van-de-lay!”

He smiled and waited for calm. “All right. All right. Now listen. It would be easy for us to rest on our laurels but life is about the survival of the fittest. You’re either growing or you’re dying, there is no coasting. So I raise my glass…wait…somebody give me a full one,” he said, tossing the empty over his shoulder.

The employees laughed and someone handed him a full glass of champagne. “Eat, drink, and be merry!” he said. “For tomorrow we…have to get up early and do it again!”

As he drank, he heard the laughter. In his peripheral, he saw glasses lifted to faces.

Then it went black.

He awoke with a start to find himself lying in an alley. It was cold and he was wearing only a t-shirt. “What the hell?” he asked, looking at the gravel. Pieces of broken glass glinted in the rocks. “I must’ve…blacked out…got robbed,” he muttered.

A voice startled him. “No,” it said. “You weren’t robbed.”

He turned to see a homeless man, long-haired and filthy, seated beside him. He wore ripped corduroy pants and torn shoes with duct tape holding them together. He smelled of smoke and rotten teeth and body odor. He wore an army jacket but Vandelay doubted very much that a man like that had served in the armed forces.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Ah…” the man said, smiling. “That’s not the question. The question is, who are you?” The homeless man put a bottle wrapped in a paper bag to his lips and drank. Then he set it down and laughed heartily as red wine trickled from his lower lip down into his beard.

“Yeeeaaah…okaaay,” said Vandelay. “That’s great, Crazy. I’ll be on my way now. Good talk.”

Vandelay stood but something was wrong. He was too close to the ground. He was too small. Too light.

He was a child.

“What is this?!” he demanded. “This can’t be…this isn’t real!”

The homeless man turned and winked, his eyes remarkably clear. “Oh, it’s real. You see, Miles, you didn’t do so hot in your last life. In fact, you made a real mess of it. This is your do-over. A mulligan. Another chance to live it right.”

Vandelay’s face was horrified. “How do you know my name?…No! No, this isn’t right! I’m asleep or…on something…Todd dosed me with something or…this isn’t how this is supposed to work!”

The homeless man smiled. “Well…maybe you should sleep it off.”

Miles nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I just need a little sleep. I just need to sleep it off.” He sat down and wrapped his arms around his chest; the wind was icy. He closed his eyes and drifted…

“Kevin?”

He opened his eyes. “Yes, Mama?”

“Kevin, come back to the box where it’s warm; I got a fire going. Who were you talking to, son?”

Kevin’s eyes were confused as if a dream had just ended he couldn’t quite remember. He looked up and down the empty alley. After a moment he said, “No one, Mama.”

Now try this:

The Nihilist

 

The Questioning – Short Story

Chase didn’t realize he’d been abducted, not at first. Lingering from the night before was a vague recollection of an infomercial about a revolutionary new cleaning product and the pyramid of beer cans he had built on the coffee table. He must have fallen asleep on the couch.

When he awoke, the hangover he expected was there but his surroundings were not. He found himself lying in the fetal position on the floor. In itself, this wasn’t particularly alarming, Chase experienced floor awakenings as frequently as not after nights of heavy drinking. However, he was lying in the midst of a white, extremely well lit, circular room and it was this aspect of his current condition that gave him pause.

Too groggy to devote as much energy to this new revelation as was merited, he pulled himself to a seated position with great care, his hands pushing hard on his temples as he waited for the vertigo to subside. It washed over him in lurches and eddies and he tasted a warm hint of bile in his saliva. He wondered if he might vomit on the sterile-looking floor.

A feminine voice came then, jarring him badly. “Stand please,” it said.

It was whisper soft and didn’t seem to Chase that it came from outside his head at all. Rather, it was present like the voice one might hear when thinking. His eyes darted about the room for its source but there was nothing. He felt it prudent to obey and struggled to his feet, vertigo spinning the room in lazy circles.

“What is this?” he demanded of the empty room. “Who are you?”

“You will be administered a battery of questions, Chase Allen Edling. Please answer each to the best of your ability.”

“I didn’t sign up for any test and I want to go home,” said Chase. “Who are you? How did I get here?”

“Your questions will be addressed when testing is complete,” said the voice. “Please answer each question to the best of your ability.”

“Listen,” said Chase. “I’m drunk and sick and it’s way too bright in here. I don’t know what this is or who you people are but I’m starting to get annoyed. I need food and water and I want to go home. It’s Saturday and I have things to do.”

The lights in the room dimmed by half cutting the glare. Chase found himself simultaneously grateful and furious. Just as there appeared to be no source for the voice, there appeared to be none for the light. It just…was. He saw no windows or doors and the ceiling looked exactly like the floor, flat, white, and seamless. It was as though he was standing in a highly polished, over-sized toilet paper tube.

A large stand materialized before him. On it sat a two types of pizza, a glass of what appeared to be water, a Snickers and a package of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. He grabbed the glass and smelled it. Then he dipped his finger in it and put it to his lips. Tasting nothing, he drank the glass and returned it to the stand. When he released it, he saw that it was full again.

Pizza didn’t seem like great hangover food so he chewed on the Snickers.

The voice said: “Question 1. Rolling Stones or the Beatles?”

Chase spoke with his mouth full. “What?”

“Rolling Stones or the Beatles.”

“Uh,” said Chase drinking half the glass of water and watching it refill itself. “Rolling Stones. Is this a joke? Seriously, what is this?”

“Question 2,” said the voice. “Michael Jordan or Magic Johnson?”

“Listen, you guys got me good, can we just wrap this up? Seriously, I’ve got lots of stuff to do today.”

“Michael Jordan or Magic Johnson?”

“I don’t even watch the NBA,” said Chase. “I don’t know. What’s the question? Are you asking which one had the best career, who was more talented, who I’d want to have a beer with…?”

The voice repeated the question.

“Uh…” said Chase in a resigned tone. “Michael I guess.”

The questions continued in this way for a long time, Coke or Pepsi? Beyonce or Whitney? Johnny Depp or Robert Downey Jr.? Finally, after an hour or so, the session was complete and the lights came back up to full strength. Chase saw that the stand with his food and water had vanished. He felt better now although he noticed his hands were still shaky.

“So then…” he said when the voice fell silent, “that’s it? I can go?”

“You’re free to go, Mr. Edling,” the voice said. “Thank you for your participation.”

A massive drone appeared then, descending from the ceiling. Robotic arms folded him into a seated position and soon it was carrying him out of the building and high above the city below. Within minutes it deposited him in his front yard and vanished.

“Look for a new iphone to be delivered later today,” said the voice. “This gift is our way of saying thank you for taking our survey. Sincerely, your friends at Amazon.”

 

Now try this: Magnificent Discovery – Short Short Story

 

 

Of Blue Blood and Enchantment – Short Story

Bradley Carlisle was a bully but it wasn’t emotional or physical abuse that had made him this way. To the contrary, he’d been pampered and idolized all his life.

After all, he was a Carlisle.

It was said that his ancestors were among the elites of the elite who sailed over on the Mayflower from the old country. Whether this was true, Bradley cared not one whit. He didn’t depend on ancient history to grasp his social value. His chiseled features, wavy blonde hair, and already muscular build were evidence of his superior genetics and, as the only Carlisle offspring, the substantial family fortune would one day belong to him. Amongst his peers, his alpha status had never once been challenged.

Shannon Cook was a witch. She knew it in her heart and, though she’d never cast a spell that worked, she felt the magic within. She had discovered the Craft in a library book back in her hometown. Spells, Enchantments, and High Incantations the tome was called and she read it cover to cover, memorizing as she went.

Gangly and flat-chested, Shannon wore thick, heavy glasses that were in continual need of adjustment as they slid down her nose. She had thin, stringy hair that hung limply to the sides of her face in long, brown ponytails held by pink rubber bands.

Her intelligence, she had come to discover, was a blessing and a curse. It afforded her the chance to skip a grade and landed her in this highly touted prep school but, in doing so, it also put her in league with children who were older, savvier, and more physically developed than she.

The students at this new school wore uniforms and for that she was grateful because it spared her the effort of trying to conjure up some sort of style. Still, she spoke with the distinct non-accent of the upper Midwest and it was quickly apparent to anyone who conversed with her that she was nothing more than a scrub from flyover country.

It was the first hour of the first day of eighth grade and, as fate would have it, she found herself sitting directly in front of Bradley Carlisle. He marked her as a target instantly and since they were both there a full ten minutes before the bell, he was free to begin his inquisition. Students began filing in, in chattering groups of twos and threes. Often, they would stop mid-sentence to eyeball her as they made their way to their seats.

“Are you new?” he demanded.

She turned around and was momentarily speechless, he was a beautiful boy.

“I…uh…yes. We…just moved here…in the summer. I’m Shannon,” she said. “Shannon Cook.”

He sat back and didn’t bother replying. After a few seconds, he deliberately ogled her chest until she turned away, flushed and humiliated. A couple rows back, a girl tittered.

When the bell rang after class, he breezed by her joining the crush of kids pouring from the classroom into the hall. All eyes fixated on him but he seemed to ignore everyone. She found herself gawking along with the others until he vanished from sight. He was so beautiful even if he was mean.

That was the last time he spoke to her for months. As the school year went on she almost hoped he’d torment her again but she may as well have been a houseplant for all the attention he paid her.

Then, late one Friday afternoon as she was rearranging her locker, she saw someone approach peripherally. When she turned to see who it was, there he stood right beside her. Bradley Carlisle was standing at her locker!

Her heart raced.

“Hey Shannon,” he said warmly and immediately her eyes darted about to see who was watching. This had to be some sort of set up. But there was no one around, just the two of them. Everyone else,  it seemed, was gone for the weekend.

“Uh….hi,” she said nervously. What do you want?

“So…a few of us are going to the beach Saturday and I thought maybe you’d like to come?” he said.

She shut her locker but didn’t turn to face him focusing her gaze on her closed locker door instead. “I don’t really like the beach…thanks though,” she replied softly.

She began to turn away from him but he caught her arm and said, “well, maybe we could go downtown or to a…museum or…the library or something.” He was trying to think. “What do you like to do?”

Now, she knew it was a trap but like every other kid in school, she lacked the courage to challenge him.

“I like all of those things. I…I just don’t really like the beach.”

He seemed to mull that over and she hazarded a glance at him.

He could be a model.

“Well…” he said, “maybe I could call you or text you or something and we can figure something out. Do you think I could get your number?”

Here it was. His goal was to get her number.

But why?

She briefly considered giving him a fake but decided against it and he punched her number into his phone as she recited the digits.

“Thanks!” he said, “We’ll see you this weekend.”

With that, he walked away and she was left standing at her locker suspicious and confused and giddy in spite of herself.

That night her phone rang and her heart leapt in her chest.

Unknown Caller

She waited and answered on the third ring. “Hello?” she said.

“Yeah…is this Shannon?” asked a male voice. “Shannon Cook?”

“Yes,” she said.

There was a pause and then, “I’d like The Special.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “The what?”

“The Special. Can I get The Special?” asked the voice.
“The…Special?” Shannon asked.

“Yeah, you know…The Special,” the voice said. He emphasized the word.

“I…think you must have the wrong number,” Shannon told him.

“But,” said the voice, “this is Shannon Cook, right?”

“Yes…”

“You don’t know what The Special is?” he asked.

“No…”
There was a pause and the line went dead.

She sat staring at the phone in her hand for a few seconds when it rang again.

Unknown Caller

“Hello?”

“Yeah, hey…” a different man’s voice this time, “is this Shannon Cook…?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to order The Special,” he said.

By the third call, she had disabled her ringer and, when she checked on Sunday night, she had received 37 voice messages and twice as many texts. All of them referenced The Special but one. In the midst of the texts was a message that simply read: CLICK ME in blue font.

Under normal circumstances, she’d never click a link to anything from a random text but these were decidedly not normal circumstances and she thought she had a pretty good idea whose phone it had come from.

The site was repulsive. A dark internet page for sickos who were into kiddie porn. The pictures were so graphic and awful it took a second to process what she was seeing.

As she was about to close the page in disgust she saw her name. It was next to a photo of a young girl who was clearly not her performing an act she had never even heard of before. Under the photo were the words: “Ask for The Special” and beneath that, was her phone number.

***************************

Bradley Carlisle was bored in his room when his phone vibrated.

Shannon Cook

He answered eagerly.

“Hey, Shannon!” he said happily, “How’s it going?”

“Magick powers, I summon thee!” she exclaimed. “Dark sorceries beyond…!”

He listened confused as she yammered on nonsensically. He couldn’t understand the words and, by the time the phone went dead, he had forgotten all about it.

And all about Shannon.

In fact, the only thing on his mind as he hopped across the bedroom floor was finding some nice, tasty mosquitoes for supper.

**********************************

Now try this: The Red Pyramid – Friday Fictioneers