Short Story Excerpts
I crave a "tall" short story, potently spiked, with a splash of truth and a twist of fate.
Grey Asylum
My old man loomed like a diseased tree, twisted and discolored, with scanty foliage. Like ill-fated acorns my sister and I took root near the sickly wood, struggling in its dank shadow for a spot of sunshine and warmth.
He often stumbled home with random acquaintances, telling them how he had lost his precious car and our mother in a fiery accident. I was too young to understand much. But I knew my mother was forever gone, and my sister and I had to stay with our impecunious aunt whenever the old man was, as she put it, away on business.
Three insufferable years later, the old man went away on business for a long time, and people from human services came for us. From inside the van I overheard my aunt whispering to the driver, Please look out for them. I’m afraid they’re damaged goods.
He often stumbled home with random acquaintances, telling them how he had lost his precious car and our mother in a fiery accident. I was too young to understand much. But I knew my mother was forever gone, and my sister and I had to stay with our impecunious aunt whenever the old man was, as she put it, away on business.
Three insufferable years later, the old man went away on business for a long time, and people from human services came for us. From inside the van I overheard my aunt whispering to the driver, Please look out for them. I’m afraid they’re damaged goods.
Fortune Teller of Miyazaki
I lived with my
parents for twenty-two years. There weren’t many good jobs around, and I couldn't afford
a place of my own. That’s how I spun it. It sounded reasonable, ordinary, like I always
wanted to be. But I was anything but.
I'm not proud to admit my fears of heights, flying, confined spaces, crowds, germs, and drowning. My phobias debilitated me like a mental stray jacket. I never wanted to leave the house. When I had to leave the house, to appear somewhat normal, I used the stairs instead of elevators and avoided large crowds. At the root of my fears was the biggest of them all: death: the moment of, cause of, subsequent white light or darkness at the end of the proverbial tunnel leading to an unconfirmed oblivion.
Death by disease, accident, murder, suicide, the idea felt like a time bomb planted in my head. I heard it ticking, and chipping away at my life like the grim reaper with an icepick. I should’ve accepted it like normal people do. But I was stuck. My therapist encouraged me to face my fears gradually.
“Don’t look down from high places,” she said. “Look out at the horizon instead. Don’t get in the middle of crowds; stay on the periphery and near exits until you get used to it. Visit an airport and watch planes take off and land to build confidence, and then take a short flight to a nearby city.” My therapist was clever, and she never gave up on me. Because I’m a manga and anime geek, she suggested that I live and work in Japan. It seemed impossible to move so far away, but I got it: extreme cures for extreme ailments. I liked the idea. But the getting-there part made me cringe with . . . well, fear.
I'm not proud to admit my fears of heights, flying, confined spaces, crowds, germs, and drowning. My phobias debilitated me like a mental stray jacket. I never wanted to leave the house. When I had to leave the house, to appear somewhat normal, I used the stairs instead of elevators and avoided large crowds. At the root of my fears was the biggest of them all: death: the moment of, cause of, subsequent white light or darkness at the end of the proverbial tunnel leading to an unconfirmed oblivion.
Death by disease, accident, murder, suicide, the idea felt like a time bomb planted in my head. I heard it ticking, and chipping away at my life like the grim reaper with an icepick. I should’ve accepted it like normal people do. But I was stuck. My therapist encouraged me to face my fears gradually.
“Don’t look down from high places,” she said. “Look out at the horizon instead. Don’t get in the middle of crowds; stay on the periphery and near exits until you get used to it. Visit an airport and watch planes take off and land to build confidence, and then take a short flight to a nearby city.” My therapist was clever, and she never gave up on me. Because I’m a manga and anime geek, she suggested that I live and work in Japan. It seemed impossible to move so far away, but I got it: extreme cures for extreme ailments. I liked the idea. But the getting-there part made me cringe with . . . well, fear.
Sun-dried Toad Wafers
My ratty teddy bear, squishy baseball, rusted
tricycle, and Radio Flyer wagon seemed to have existed before the dawn
of me—a menacing six-year old boy, born-ready to explore the fantastic
world of insects and reptiles. As I grew, so did my desire for
collecting things and hauling them around in the grungy old wagon
alongside my freckled-face cousins Danny and Eddie.
They were my age, identical twins, distinguishable only by their nonidentical attitude and fashion. Our mothers were sisters, frugal matriarchs of our one-car families. Whenever my cousins and I wanted something special, we met with the matriarchs. Timing was crucial. Making a request at the wrong time usually ended badly. The moms had to be aligned in a joyous mood, measured by the quantity of whiskey sours and the frequency of their laughter; otherwise, forget it.
Experience-based requests such as a day at the beach or carnival were usually well received. But material requests such as bicycles—not the little kiddy ones with training wheels mind you—were met with cookies and maybe-next-year cynicism provided our legs could reach the pedals. Ugh … we were so screwed when it came to bikes. Don’t get me wrong; I liked walking and running as much as the next kid—cookies too—but having no other means to go farther faster was a royal bummer! And I wouldn't be caught dead riding that stupid tricycle. Needless to say, I gawked heavily with envy at the big kids when they rode by on their bikes.
They were my age, identical twins, distinguishable only by their nonidentical attitude and fashion. Our mothers were sisters, frugal matriarchs of our one-car families. Whenever my cousins and I wanted something special, we met with the matriarchs. Timing was crucial. Making a request at the wrong time usually ended badly. The moms had to be aligned in a joyous mood, measured by the quantity of whiskey sours and the frequency of their laughter; otherwise, forget it.
Experience-based requests such as a day at the beach or carnival were usually well received. But material requests such as bicycles—not the little kiddy ones with training wheels mind you—were met with cookies and maybe-next-year cynicism provided our legs could reach the pedals. Ugh … we were so screwed when it came to bikes. Don’t get me wrong; I liked walking and running as much as the next kid—cookies too—but having no other means to go farther faster was a royal bummer! And I wouldn't be caught dead riding that stupid tricycle. Needless to say, I gawked heavily with envy at the big kids when they rode by on their bikes.
Forging Truths
In
1956, my parents emigrated from Puerto Rico to Florida. I was a year old.
Since my mother and I were Puerto Rican by birth, and all Puerto Ricans were
granted US citizenship, moving to the US was a matter of time and money.
I see you squinting, trying to see the Latino in my face. Well, I got my fair complexion and blue eyes from my father, a native German and official member of the Nazi Party. Listen to this. In the Second World War, my father operated in Paris, France, under Bruno Lohse. You ever heard of Lohse? Hermann Göring appointed him special agent. He was assigned to loot fine art from private Jewish collections. For three years, my father helped Lohse steal and store fine art for Hitler and Göring. My old man, shit, he was a world class thief.
I see you squinting, trying to see the Latino in my face. Well, I got my fair complexion and blue eyes from my father, a native German and official member of the Nazi Party. Listen to this. In the Second World War, my father operated in Paris, France, under Bruno Lohse. You ever heard of Lohse? Hermann Göring appointed him special agent. He was assigned to loot fine art from private Jewish collections. For three years, my father helped Lohse steal and store fine art for Hitler and Göring. My old man, shit, he was a world class thief.
Jack Bouchery's Last Supper
In handcuffs and leg irons, Jack Bouchery--balding, mustache, tattooed arms squeezed through tightly-rolled shirtsleeves--entered the room in the custody of four extra large correctional officers dressed in navy blue uniforms. We were petrified with fear. The imposing figure lumbered towards us, imparting equal measure of impassive gazes to the production crew. He saved his last acknowledgement for me, casting a pale blue squint above a gap-toothed smile that made my skin prickle.
Reluctantly, I felt myself sloping towards him. “Mr. Bouchery, I’m Brian Smith. Thank you for granting this interview.” Before our hands could meet, a guard politely reminded me to maintain more than a handshake’s distance from the serial killer.
Reluctantly, I felt myself sloping towards him. “Mr. Bouchery, I’m Brian Smith. Thank you for granting this interview.” Before our hands could meet, a guard politely reminded me to maintain more than a handshake’s distance from the serial killer.
Mr. Chubby
Ashley
was grateful—grateful for flushing her childhood dreams down a non-stick toilet with multifunctional bidet and heated seat. In
her mind the merger of high tech hygiene and plumbing fixtures epitomized Japan. Clearly,
there was infinitely more to the culture than classy crappers and odourless
orifices. But Ashley had become obsessed. And when she wasn’t obsessing, she
was pondering the scarcity of jobs worth having—jobs once known as careers in
her English speaking homeland.
She looked forward to someday repatriating and having a lovely house with a dog, a loyal husband with a job, two new cars in a garage, and obedient children with extraordinary talents. She dreamed of spending most of her time and money on her children and even more time and money on her children’s children, and communing among active seniors provided social security still existed. Or she could nix all of that and marry a Japanese man with a clean butt.
She looked forward to someday repatriating and having a lovely house with a dog, a loyal husband with a job, two new cars in a garage, and obedient children with extraordinary talents. She dreamed of spending most of her time and money on her children and even more time and money on her children’s children, and communing among active seniors provided social security still existed. Or she could nix all of that and marry a Japanese man with a clean butt.
Ghost Pirate
The moon hung low on the eve of my fourth birthday. I remember it well, pale bluish-glow, casting distorted shadows of leafless tree branches across cracked-plaster walls. In my steel bed I stared at the wardrobe door, terrified that something might be lurking behind it. I imagined long reptilian fingers with razor sharp claws opening the door.
I ran to my parents’ bedroom and cowered between them. My father—a burly fisherman with more stories than a thief in custody—escorted me back to my room. He opened the wardrobe and had me look inside. “See for yourself, lad!” said he. “No monsters. No ghosts here. It's all in your head!”
Aye, but sometimes our greatest fears are imagined.
I ran to my parents’ bedroom and cowered between them. My father—a burly fisherman with more stories than a thief in custody—escorted me back to my room. He opened the wardrobe and had me look inside. “See for yourself, lad!” said he. “No monsters. No ghosts here. It's all in your head!”
Aye, but sometimes our greatest fears are imagined.
Dream Teller
Grandpa gave Emily a magical wink and extended his arm outward, methodically waiving his index finger, composing his script in air. Recognizing the routine, the girls settled down in delighted anticipation and closed their eyes. Finally, in a warm baritone quality sweetened by years of honey in his tea, Grandpa leaned forward and spoke those time-honoured words that most children yearn to hear: “Once upon a time…”
Blood On The Cat
Six months after Mrs. Gardner’s funeral, I saw Mr. Gardner, impassive, moping around the house with his sweaty head immersed in a cloud of blue-grey smoke that trailed behind him like a steam ship. He stopped talking, and then he stopped eating. A once handsome military officer with a friendly sense of humour, his rapid regression to a zombie-like state left him emaciated in soiled pyjamas with an unremitting cough and one final mission left in life to accomplish: anchor his death to a chain of smouldering cigarettes dangling from his bluing lips.
Thicker Than Water
Juliana put her hands on the steering wheel and imagined racing along the Pacific Highway, listening to three-hundred-fifty-five steel horses galloping under the hood. She looked around like a child at a circus. “Oh my God, it’s so amazing!” She meant to put her hand on the gearshift but Pierce’s hand was already there. Startled, she retracted and gazed into his steel-blue eyes. Something about them had changed. They were a shade lighter than before, radiant, pulsating.
She barely noticed him leaning towards her. Her gaze moved from eyes to lips and she turned to face him more squarely. It had been too long since she felt aroused. An overwhelming urge to touch him coaxed her hand to his neck. She pulled him closer and pressed her lips to his.
As they kissed, he peered through the windows. The last thing he wanted was a random law officer or security guard mucking things up. He put his hand behind her head and moved his lips across her flushed cheek, dragging his tongue over her jaw and onto her supple neck. He nibbled and kissed, and she arched her back and moaned softly. She took his hand and placed it over her left breast.
He waited patiently, listening to the cadence of her breathing and heart rate approaching the point of no return. At the perfect moment, he gently and skilfully sunk his fangs into her throbbing jugular vein. She tensed up and then relaxed with a shudder. Blood gushed into his firmly attached mouth, as massaging fingers, gyrating hips, and rhythmic waves of pleasure wholly consumed her.
Intoxicated with dopamine and oxytocin, Pierce felt a rush of energy and euphoria as her life flowed like warm sherry down his throat.
“I feel dizzy,” she whispered, just before losing consciousness.
She barely noticed him leaning towards her. Her gaze moved from eyes to lips and she turned to face him more squarely. It had been too long since she felt aroused. An overwhelming urge to touch him coaxed her hand to his neck. She pulled him closer and pressed her lips to his.
As they kissed, he peered through the windows. The last thing he wanted was a random law officer or security guard mucking things up. He put his hand behind her head and moved his lips across her flushed cheek, dragging his tongue over her jaw and onto her supple neck. He nibbled and kissed, and she arched her back and moaned softly. She took his hand and placed it over her left breast.
He waited patiently, listening to the cadence of her breathing and heart rate approaching the point of no return. At the perfect moment, he gently and skilfully sunk his fangs into her throbbing jugular vein. She tensed up and then relaxed with a shudder. Blood gushed into his firmly attached mouth, as massaging fingers, gyrating hips, and rhythmic waves of pleasure wholly consumed her.
Intoxicated with dopamine and oxytocin, Pierce felt a rush of energy and euphoria as her life flowed like warm sherry down his throat.
“I feel dizzy,” she whispered, just before losing consciousness.
Green
Oscar Locksley felt as green and strong as the Hulk.
Turned herbivore six years earlier, he drove an electric car unless he walked to work. Oscar loved to talk about his green lifestyle with anybody who would listen, but his hefty spendthrift colleagues raised swollen chins and turned shoulders.
At 7:00 he arrived at Westwood Middle School and scrubbed his desk, keyboard, and mouse with a rag and alcohol. He washed his hands with environmentally friendly detergent. During lessons he observed chubby students hocking and swallowing green mucus.
At the end of the day, he jogged three miles to a gym beside a green grocer where he bought organic produce for dinner. On his way home Oscar stopped at the corner of Westwood and Wilshire Boulevard. He inserted ear-buds and searched through his player for Green Day’s Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
The light turned green.
He turned up the music and stepped off the curb.
Barreling through a red light, a city bus catapulted Oscar’s body like a rag doll south on Westwood Boulevard.
Turned herbivore six years earlier, he drove an electric car unless he walked to work. Oscar loved to talk about his green lifestyle with anybody who would listen, but his hefty spendthrift colleagues raised swollen chins and turned shoulders.
At 7:00 he arrived at Westwood Middle School and scrubbed his desk, keyboard, and mouse with a rag and alcohol. He washed his hands with environmentally friendly detergent. During lessons he observed chubby students hocking and swallowing green mucus.
At the end of the day, he jogged three miles to a gym beside a green grocer where he bought organic produce for dinner. On his way home Oscar stopped at the corner of Westwood and Wilshire Boulevard. He inserted ear-buds and searched through his player for Green Day’s Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
The light turned green.
He turned up the music and stepped off the curb.
Barreling through a red light, a city bus catapulted Oscar’s body like a rag doll south on Westwood Boulevard.
Erectile Malfunction
Jenny lays naked across a satin duvet of antique silver and claret.
Jimmy struggles to remove his trousers, falls against a dresser.
She gestures for him to come hither.
Hither he comes, quickly, sliding uncontrollably across the shiny bedding, flailing arms and legs, falling to the floor.
She helps him back onto the bed. Their lips fuse like bubblegum, red liquorish, honeydew on a balmy summer’s eve.
He pulls back and gazes through waffle-thick lenses at her malleable lips. “I have something to tell you, Jenny.”
“Have you?” she whispers, flicking her tongue at him like a probing serpent.
“Yes. You’re like a - a - why are you doing that?”
She closes her mouth and giggles.
“You’re like a sorceress who - who - whose seductive magic has turned me into a w - w - weird pubescent-man-boy with k - k - k - chronic anxiety disorders such as – as stuttering, disorientation, and - and this - this enormous erection!”
“Oh my God! Get off me!”
“Cut!” shouts Mark, tilting in his director’s chair, turning towards muffled sounds of laughter.
Jimmy struggles to remove his trousers, falls against a dresser.
She gestures for him to come hither.
Hither he comes, quickly, sliding uncontrollably across the shiny bedding, flailing arms and legs, falling to the floor.
She helps him back onto the bed. Their lips fuse like bubblegum, red liquorish, honeydew on a balmy summer’s eve.
He pulls back and gazes through waffle-thick lenses at her malleable lips. “I have something to tell you, Jenny.”
“Have you?” she whispers, flicking her tongue at him like a probing serpent.
“Yes. You’re like a - a - why are you doing that?”
She closes her mouth and giggles.
“You’re like a sorceress who - who - whose seductive magic has turned me into a w - w - weird pubescent-man-boy with k - k - k - chronic anxiety disorders such as – as stuttering, disorientation, and - and this - this enormous erection!”
“Oh my God! Get off me!”
“Cut!” shouts Mark, tilting in his director’s chair, turning towards muffled sounds of laughter.