In Writing on May 24, 2013 at 11:38 am
“Pick up the phone.”
Colin listened a moment, to the far-off sound of the freeway and cars driving through the mist.
The stranger made no reply, simply inclining his head toward the phone. Colin shrugged and grabbed the broken receiver.
“There’s not even an earpiece on it, mate. How’m I supposed to hear?”
The voice that replied sounded digital and broken, like a recording from some earlier era, but the feeling of hot breath as the stranger whispered in Colin’s ear was distinct:
“The better question is: How am I speaking without a voice?” Read the rest of this entry »
In Fiction on May 9, 2013 at 11:32 pm
Tough Guy Bobby Caduzo
“A little… light for a mob joint, isn’t it? I mean, watercolors? Artsy mirrors. Glass eggs in baskets? I thought we were here to meet ‘tough guy Bobby Caduzo.’ This don’t strike me as a place for no tough guys.”
“Hey shut your mouth, would ya? Show some respect. Bobby’s right over there.”
“Where? I only see the broad at the counter.”
“Bobby is the broad at the counter, stupid. Barbara Caduzo.”
“Sal, I’m in deep with these guys, man—how’s some chick supposed to help?”
“Heh. Tony, sometimes it’s real obvious you grew up without a mudda.” Read the rest of this entry »
In Fiction on May 2, 2013 at 9:37 pm
I tried to give the form of nature to the works of man. The organic curve, the subtle softness—an answer to the harsh lines and right angles we use to distinguish ourselves from the beast.
The Segrada Familia, Park Güell, Casa Batlló: these were my life’s work.
Perhaps the world laughs at me now, struck by a tram and left to die in the street—literally a victim of the industrial age. But, if so, they misread these symbols.
For in my death I will reveal what man truly is: an object. Inert.
But a work of art. Read the rest of this entry »
In Fiction on April 25, 2013 at 10:22 pm
Each evening I would find the ladder moved—and a book or two from the shelf displaced. Kant and Thoreau, Marx and Neruda; I would find them open on the floor, on the desk… by the cat bowl.
Naturally I became concerned, so I left work early and drove home, determined to catch the intruder in the act.
I entered quietly and climbed the stairs. Hearing a noise in the den, I prepared to pounce.
My gray tabby, Gary, met me with mild surprise, crouched by a first edition Dostoevsky.
“Got anything lighter, buddy?” he asked. “This stuff is murder.” Read the rest of this entry »
In Fiction on April 18, 2013 at 4:48 pm
Lane braced his palms in the beach rocks and studied the hive.
“Maybe it floated from Africa?” he said. “Killer bees.”
“Don’t joke,” Warren complained with a pout. “Is anything in it?”
Lane thought he heard a faint buzzing, and even smelled a sweetness like honey, but there was no movement in the golden lattice.
“Nah…” he began, but suddenly he felt a sharp pain and he jumped. When he pulled his hand away, blood began to pour from a deep gash in his palm.
In the rocks, a thousand stony carapaces turned, and Warren sprinted down the beach. Read the rest of this entry »
In Fiction on April 11, 2013 at 9:19 pm
The man leaned heavily on his staff but, weary as he seemed, his eyes shone. He shook his head.
“I thank you for the offer,” he said. “But I’ll make my bed out in your field, if it’s all the same.”
He turned, and as he looked up in wonder at the darkening sky, I saw that his back was roped with scars.
“Why aren’t you bitter?” I asked, but he tottered off into the tall grass without a word.
“I guess you might call me a salvage artist,” he called at last from afar. Read the rest of this entry »
In Fiction on April 4, 2013 at 11:37 pm
Despite this darkness and the uncountable years that have passed, the scene is still before me: the hill running up into nothing, the grass yellowed with mustard flowers, and the swollen tree standing deformed and defiant against the blanching sky.
Snapshots taken by my mind in panic as they pulled me into the car.
I am not me, I remember thinking. I can’t be.
And now I understand: The boy I had been was taken by that tree and hidden away in its gnarled trunk to keep him from evil.
Someday I’ll go back and I’ll find him again. Read the rest of this entry »
In Fiction on March 28, 2013 at 10:44 pm
“Two eyes that never blink.
Four legs that quiver.
Sixteen bodies still and cold as death.
What am I describing?”
Mr. Carken stepped into the light and fixed Sean and Jake in a wild stare.
“The answer?” he drawled. “Two nosey boys who’ve found something they weren’t supposed to find.” Read the rest of this entry »
In Fiction on March 20, 2013 at 11:29 pm
“Well, you can lead a horse to water, but—“
“Finish that sentence, and ‘drink’ will be the last word you ever speak, David.”
Dave eyed the horse, smirking.
“I’m just not sure what’s wilder, man, the fact that you’re watering the grass or the fact that you’re talking to me about it.”
The horse dropped the hose and raised its somber, wizened eyes. Read the rest of this entry »
In Fiction on March 1, 2013 at 3:10 pm
Leo had been asking his parents to buy him a car for months. Nothing fancy, of course—he didn’t need a Ferrari—just something to get around in. He’d begged and begged, ingratiating himself, playing the good son, doing humiliating chores, but all for nothing.
Or so he had thought, until his father unveiled what he surely believed to be a terrific joke: a homemade jalopy, with rusted doors, salvaged seats and a shifter made from the head of a piston.
But suddenly Leo saw the car for what it was and whispered with utter sincerity:
This is my quick response to the Friday Fictioneers prompt this week. Click the blue guy to check out the other great stories!
Happy weekend everyone!
Related: The Hideout // Silence // The Pebble