Short Stories: December 2009 Archives

An Attempt At the Completely Absurd:

The glumblefilch sauntered into the room.  He was full of vim, vigor, and veracity.  His three blandlybulches protruded from his torso, nearly touching the floor and he admired them.  They were long and elegant.  Fragile looking but he knew they were sturdy.  The purplish hue they emanated set off the radiance of his six yellow eyes.  Most glumblefilches only had five eyes, but he had six.  He was quite proud of that, even if the other glumblefilches looked at him askance for his audacity, he had just one more eye that he could roll at their ignorance.

This glumblefilch was named Snodgrass.  That was not something he was particularly proud of, but it was his name.  He bore it with resolution and aplomb. He honestly didn't care what the other glumblefilches said about it.  It was better than Steve, Victor, and Roger. And it was miles above Roderick.  Roderick only had 3 eyes, Snodgrass mused, shaking slightly in his mirth.  A low chuckle escaped his lips.  Normally that would be fine, but tonight Snodgrass was with his boy at dinner, and a glumblefilch's low chuckle was actually quite a rumble.  His boy gave him a warning glance over his shoulder and Snodgrass settled down.  He didn't want to get his boy in trouble again. Last time that happened, Snodgrass wasn't allowed to come out from under the bed for a whole week.  That was torture.  Glumblefilches aren't known for there ability to handle solitude.  They need constant attention and reassurances or else they disappear.  By the time the week was over and his boy again came looking for him, Snodgrass had faded to near invisibility.  A couple hours later though, fueled by the laughter of his boy and the games they played together, Snodgrass was back to his three limbed, six eyed purpley self. 

The boy's mother had stuck her head into the room looking about curiously. "Who were you talking to?" she asked, her half smile showing she wanted to share in the fun.

"Just Snodgrass,"  the boy had answered.  With a confused look, the mother left the room.

So ... not wanting a repeat of a week under the bed, Snodgrass promised to be good during dinner.  He floated down to the floor folding his blandlybulches beneath him. 

He tried.  He really did.  He wanted to sit and wait quietly, but he was just not good at that.  After a few moments, he couldn't take it anymore.  He had to do something.  So, Snodgrass pulled himself into the tightest ball he could and rolled under the boy's chair.  Giggling softly to himself (this was going to be hilarious), the glumblefilch gulped and swallowed three big mouthfuls of air. Then he waited..   He could feel the air wanting to escape.  He held it in... He held it in more..  He giggled... Then he couldn't hold it anymore.

Remember when we talked about the rumbling of a glumblefilch's low chuckle?  Well, imagine what a full fledged belch would be like.  The silverware on the table rattled.  A Glass fell over, spilling milk onto the table.  The curtains flapped in the breeze.  The boy's mother fell over in a dead feint (OK, well almost).  The boy's father had the look of horrified disgust.  The dog ran into the living room, looking for a reprieve.  Low flying aircraft swerved crazily, looking for where that clap of thunder came from.

When the echoes died away, when the mouths of both parents closed, trying to hide their disbelief and the glumblefilch under the boy's chair fairly split in two trying to contain his mirth, the boy glared under his chair.

"SAMUEL!!!" the boy's mother admonished.

The boy looked astonished, "It wasn't me, Mom!!  It was Snodgrass!"

Samuel's father looked at him angrily.  "Young man, that is not the way we behave at the table.  And I've told you before.  There is no Snodgrass.  There is no such thing as a glumblefilch!!"

Snodgrass hmmphed quietly to himself. "No such thing??" he thought, "What does he know?"  In a rage, he rolled out from under the chair, hovered up to the height of the table and stretched out his blandlyfilches to their full reach. 

That's when he noticed he wasn't there.

The first punch landed with a splat against my cheek.  I barely felt it.  I think I was grinning so maniacally at that point that my cheeks were already tensed up, absorbing the blow without much damage.  It caught me off guard and staggered me back a step or two.  I didn't take my eyes off of the object of my fixation though.  Well, at least not until the second blow landed.  This time in the gut.  My breath left me in a gush and I bent over, nearly double, cradling my stomach. 

For a moment, I lost sight of my prize.  I saw only the rocks and grass at my feet.  Struggling to catch my breath I stood up straight again and smiled as my vision locked again just over the shoulder of this behemoth that was pummeling me.  This time the punch to the face hurt.  I'm pretty sure I heard the loud crunch of my nose breaking as his fist connected.  I know I tasted blood. 

This blow actually knocked me off of my feet.  I sprawled backward into the bushes that lined the side of the house.  Groaning with the fire that seemed to be consuming my face.  WOW!!! That hurt like hell!!  The behemoth was yelling something at me now, but I couldn't make out what he was saying.  Having rebounded off of the bushes, I was lying on my stomach inches from his feet.  Lord, please don't let him be pissed off enough that he's going to kick me...

As the ringing in my head began to taper off, I'm was able to make out what he was shouting, "Get up you little bastard!!" or something to that effect.  He moved to the side of me and kicked me hard in the upper thigh. "Get up!!"

With a Herculean effort, I pushed myself up, unsteadily rising to my feet.  I glanced back at what had been holding my rapt attention in disappointment.  The moment was gone, time to retreat.  I tried to find my way around this bruiser,  tried to find my way to the street so I could get home and nurse my broken face.  He shoved me, roughly.  I hit the side of the house with a sickening thud. My head slammed against the paneling with a sickening crack.  I prayed that it was the wood and not my skull that split.  The sasquatch grabbed the front of my shirt, holding me upright so he could deliver another punch to my face.  "I'll show you!!" he bellowed, "You fuckin' pervert!!"

We were both startled by a scream from above us.  "STOP IT!!!"  The shrill voice came from directly over our heads, from the bathroom window.  Cyndi was leaning out of it, her face filled with horror and a bit of fear.  "What the hell is wrong with you??"  The light behind her shimmered on her wet golden hair, creating a nimbus of light around her. Her robe was pulled tightly around her now, I guess she'd finished drying after her shower before sticking her head out the window to see what the commotion was about.  Despite my blood spattered face and probably already swollen nose, despite the pain in my gut, and the pounding in my head, I managed a weak smile. 

Jared, her older brother still held me, his fist ready for that final blow. "This little perv was watching you!!"  he yelled, much too loudly for my throbbing head.

She looked down at me then, perhaps a slight flicker of recognition in her eyes.  I could see that she was torn, emotionally.  Angry at having been spied on.  Embarrassed she had just stepped out of the shower, and I'd probably seen her drying off and putting on her lotion before the pummeling began.  Concerned, because I'm sure I looked a mess.  Hopefully I didn't look as bad as I felt.  After an appraising second, she said, "Let him go Jared, he's just a kid."

"But.." Jared began, obviously wanting to pummel me a bit more.

"Let him go, you've beat him up enough.  He'll never do it again."  With a pointed look at me she asked, "Will you?"

I was a bit miffed at being called "just a kid." She was only a few years older than me after all.  She's a senior though, and I guess we're all kids to her.  I shook my head in a silent promise that I'll never peep on her again.

"Let him go," she repeated with finality.

With reluctant glare, Jared gave me a hard shove in the direction of the street. "If I ever see you around here again, you'll get worse!" he promised.

I made my way toward the street, toward home.  Jared was making his way back into the house through the side door and was quickly out of sight.  Cyndi was still leaning out the window, watching me leave, a curious expression on her face.  If you asked me today, I would still swear there was a slight smile on those lips as I walked away.

So was it worth it?

Yeah..  It was worth it...

-E Steven Jones

Inspired by the Grass Roots Song:  Midnight Confessions

She saunters to the table, wearing that little black dress that she knows I love to see on her.  Her smile tells me that the drink in her hand isn't her first.  It's comfortable, relaxed, happy, and not just a little flirtatious.  The music in the background is soft, but evident and her hips sway unconsciously to it's rhythm.

"Are you just going to sit there all night? Or are you going to get up and join the rest of us?" She asks me.  I wonder if she has any idea of the effect that she has on me?  I almost groan aloud, but catch myself in time as I watch her put the straw from her drink to her lips.

I manage to keep my voice friendly and nonchalant. "Oh, I dunno. I'm having plenty of fun watching all you drunks making fools of yourself out there dancing," I joke.

"Drunk?!?!" she asks, her smile tells me I must have just unknowingly challenged her. "You haven't seen anything yet." My heart aches as she reaches for my arm to drag me away from the safety of the table.  A jolt of electricity jumps through me as her skin contacts mine. "C'mon," she tells me, dragging me to my feet, "You've been the playing the recluse long enough."

I'm hoping that she doesn't notice the melancholy smile on my face as I reluctantly rise.  I can't help but stare at the little gold ring around her finger, wishing I was the one who put it there.

For the rest of the night I have to watch her dancing with the rest of our group.  We're all out here tonight after finally closing the deal with our biggest client to date.  Too many hours we'd all spent at our tables, making little changes requested to the facade, the landscaping, the lighting of the office building for a 'to be named later' law firm.  But the deal was done, and now we're all out at this "intimate" little jazz club she'd gone to a while back.  I know that I'll be having the same dream tonight that I've had almost every night since all these late work nights started.

It's a simple dream, really.  I'm walking down the street with her on my arm.  Sometimes it's just the two of us, sometimes we're with a group of friends.  Sometimes I'm quiet when I tell her, sometimes I'm shouting it out to the world.  But the words are always the same.  And as I watch her on the dance floor now, they still are the same and I want to tell her, "I love you."

I stagger into work the next day, having slept very little.  And of course she's there.  With a ready smile and a cheerful "Good morning." My heart flutters at what I think is a one of those "meaningful stares" that I hear so much about.  But I fall back again from my reverie, almost immediately.  She reaches up her hand to brush a gorgeous strand of hair that has fallen over her eyes.  Her left hand.  The hand with that blasted little gold ring.

I resign myself to the rest of the day I have ahead of me. I try to bury the thoughts rushing through my mind, the electricity coursing through my body.  I know that she'll never be mine and that all of my "I love yous" are going to have to remain my secret, and all of my dreams and desires are going to have to remain my hidden midnight confessions.

He sat, perched precariously, on the back of the park bench.  The sun had long since set, but he could still make out the object of his obsessions in the dim lighting of the street lamps.  This thing had been bothering him for a week now, and he'd finally built up the courage to do something about it.  He looked to the left to make sure nobody was strolling down the path.  There was one street lamp, casting its pale glow upon the sidewalk.  The cracked and uneven pavement was free of pedestrians.  He looked to the right, toward the pond where, during the day, the children screamed in delight at the ducks geese chasing them down for handfuls of cracked corn.  Nobody was there.

He did hear a scream, however.  But it was off in the distance, and it was most definitely not in delight.  Probably just another stupid tourist out in the park after dark getting mugged.  No, there was no threat there to his plans either. 

He took a moment to feel around in his pockets, checking for the tools he would need to do this job.  Both items were there.  The knife.  And that other thing, the thing he'd spent the last two day scouring the park and nearby city streets for.  It had to be exactly right, or this wouldn't work.  He'd finally found what he was looking for in a pile of broken wood and cork at the east end of the park.  It was sharp, very sharp, and it was red. With a nod of resigned satisfaction, he hopped down from his perch.  The tattered hem of his trench coat momentarily getting caught on the arm of the bench.  A small tearing sound ripped through the night and he froze.  Glancing quickly around to left and right.  Was that heard?  Would someone know what he's about to do and run to stop him?

He heard no onrushing footfalls and with a sigh of relief straightened himself.  Slowly, he pulled the knife from his pocket.  It was only an old rusty pocket knife, but it was certainly up to the task.  It would probably be easier with something larger, something sharper, but this will do the trick.  Slowly, and with deliberation, he unfolded the blade.  With a soft audible click, it locked into place.  He took another step forward.

Then, with a resolve that surprised even him, he crossed the remaining space between him and it in three quick strides. One!  Two!  Three!! The knife came up in a blur.  This job had to be done quickly or he would be seen and then all would be over.  With impressive precision, he placed the tip in exactly the right spot. The hours of practice he'd spent this afternoon paid off.  A deft jerk of his wrist sent the staple flying from the board.  Before the edge of the poster could droop, he dropped the knife and caught hold of the faded paper.  An audible sigh escaped his lips as he raised that corner half an inch, making the top edge of the poster even with, and parallel to, the edge of the bulletin board. His other hand reached into his pocket and pulled out the red push pin he had found.  He placed its tip perfectly, he noted, into the corner of the poster and into the cork behind it.  Then he let go, took a step back and appraised his work.

"There," he thought, "now it is right."