Category Archives: Contemporary Short Stories

Settling In

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* Runner-up in the 2014 Stories Space Drabble Competition *

By Cecilia Rogers

New starts can be tricky at any age…

“It’s not what it looks like,” she said.

“It’s a cage—I hate it.”

“No, it isn’t a cage; it’s better here than it was there.”

“I LIKED it there! Why did we have to leave?”

“It was cramped. Here we have room, room to grow.”

“I don’t care! I wahhhnnnaagoooobaaaaaccckkkkk!!!!!”

“Oh don’t cry,” she wailed, “she’ll come soon!”

Which she did, summoned by the cries. One by one, each was lifted from the crib. Soothing sounds were heard, and their plaints gradually subsided to soft nuzzling.

“My darlings,” she whispered, “you are the best Christmas gift I’ll ever have.”

* * *
© 2014 by Cecilia Rogers • All rights reserved

 

Dear Purveyors of Canned Meat

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spam_varietiesWho knew it came in so many different varieties?

By Maggie Rascal

If only the spammers would listen, this is what I’d tell them…

Dear Purveyors of Canned Meat:

Thank you for your interest in our website. Because so many of you have left similar comments, we’ve put together a list of common observations, questions and concerns. Please consult this FAS (frequently added spam) guide before posting.

Most Sincerely,

The Site Administrators

FAS

The Helper

It’s thoughtful of you to be concerned about our SEO scores, Google ranking, social media marketing strategy and website layout. Really, though, we’re happy with how everything is going right now. We’ll keep your contact information on hand if we’re ever looking to make a change. Yup, it will be right there in its own special, circular file.

The Newbie

You have a lot of questions! Fortunately, the answers to most of them can be found easily, eliminating the need for us to post your comment that (coincidentally, we’re certain) leads to a site selling cheap shoes/purses/NFL jerseys/silicone wristbands. Here is the information you’re seeking: Continue reading →

Straight or Left

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lake-pontchartrain-ksbrooks-creditedBy M.P. Witwer

Taking a deep breath and pursing her lips, Tanya depressed the accelerator. Straight it would be.

Straight away from her lifetime home. Straight into the unknown. Straight onto the longest bridge in the world — ironic for someone panicky about crossing bridges, but that was how desperate her situation had become.

After discovering his great-grandmother’s “collection,” Jesse had immersed himself in the dark arts, over time morphing into a scary and paranoid Doppelganger, the very opposite of the man she had married.

When Tanya confronted him, he claimed it was all in fun, that the bizarre rituals he performed didn’t really do anything. But she knew better, on both counts. The last straw came when she found him, trance-like, mumbling an incantation over their wedding photo. Tanya waited until he’d left, then packed the car and headed for the bridge.

Her fear lifted as she drove. She felt ready to start over, comfortable facing the unfamiliar.

All too soon, however, the “other side” began to seem familiar. Frighteningly familiar. Spotting a Piggly Wiggly store just like the one at home didn’t unsettle her, but seeing the identical twin of their local diner next to it did. An exact replica of Pontchartrain Elementary three blocks away sent her into a cold sweat. Tanya haltingly followed her usual route, dread growing with each well-known landmark. She parked and sat in terrified silence, staring at her house — and Jesse out front, expecting her.

“Welcome home, darlin’,” he drawled, his eyes gleaming red. “Welcome home.“

* * *
© 2015 by M.P. Witwer • All rights reserved

Originally published at www.indiesunlimited.com on April 10, 2015. Photo of Lake Pontchartrain © K.S. Brooks. Do not use without attribution.

Prepping for College and for Life

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brailleBy Bill Fullerton

This fictionalized memoir is based on the author’s personal experience. The names have been changed to protect the innocent and not-so-innocent.

Back when he’d been a kid, Mark Cahill’s mother often took him along when she and her sister went shopping. One of the familiar sights on these trips was an old, legless, blind man peddling pencils at a downtown street corner. That the man was blind hadn’t impressed Mark nearly as much as had the small, wheeled cart he used to get around.

Still, except for a few old folks with failing eyesight, the man with the cart was the only blind person Mark had known prior to his being blinded in Vietnam. That lack of experience meant he faced the loss of sight with no preconceived opinions about being blind. It wasn’t until two years later, in the spring of ’71, when he reported to a blind rehab center for something called a college prep course, that he began to understand what it meant to be blind. The techniques and tools he learned were interesting, but what surprised him most was the wide variety of people in training. Continue reading →

Woof

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Jack-Russel-TerrierBy Steffanie

It’s a dog’s life looking out for family.

“Hello, boy.”

“Woof.” It’s Twink, actually.

“Here, boy.”

“Woof. Woof.” Watch it, stranger. Don’t go getting familiar. I need to check you out first, give you a good sniffing and…

“C’mon, boy. Come here.”

“Woof. Woof.” What’s with the orders? I don’t think I like your attitude. This is MY neighborhood and I’m a double-hard Jack Russel. So behave or I’ll…

“Come on. Come here, you little…”

“Woof. Woof. Woof.” Right. That’s it. I warned you. Now have some of THIS. Continue reading →

The Insolence of Condensation

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By Maggie Rascal

Don’t even think of showing me any condensation about spurious punctuation, rampant malapropisms, or the shallowness of boasting about deep thoughts…

condensation-condescension

Condensation is upfronting to a deep thinker like me.

Sitting in my bed on a cold rainy night, irked at an uppity bitch who says my writing is ‘confused’ and my punctuation made up,-x*€;>
Her condensation1 upfronts2 me. As my work is too deep to be judged by convectional3 standards.

Mumbo jumbo, gobbledygook, Beelzebub and rhubarb. With other deep thoughts running through my mind,-x*€;>
Waiting for the acolytes4 to pour in. As they will. From those smart enough to get it.

Drifting off to sleep, wandering5 just how many appropriate6 my incredulous7 deepness. While my thoughts are deeply deep,-x*€;>
Thinking deep thoughts about deepness and thoughts. And condensation.

1 condescension
2 affronts
3 conventional
4 accolades
5 wondering
6 appreciate
7 incredible

* * *
© 2015 by M.P. Witwer • All rights deeply preserved

The Barefoot Boy

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barefoot1A cautionary tale…

By Bill Fullerton

Over on a web site for the blind I often infest, someone said the first day of May, in addition to being May Day and Beltane, had also been something called ‘Barefoot Day’. To this I felt compelled to reply as follows, sort of:

As for that info about May 1st also being ‘Barefoot Day’, well, let’s just say I’ve been there, done that, stepped in sticker beds, into piles of chicken shit (being three at the time I reportedly called it “chicky doo-doo”), and onto sweet gum balls (like small mace heads) plus the occasional bit of hot paving tar, broken glass shards, the odd rusty can or nail, not to mention a sharp, pointed rock or two hiding in some weeds.

That’s why, having somehow managed to reach the prime of my mid-dotage, except for my bed and bath, I always wear shoes.

Of course, I’m sure none of the cultured, sophisticated Select Stories readers ever had any similar childhood/hippie/absent-minded barefooting experiences, right?

Now here’s what Paul Harvey would call, “The rest of the story,” about a close encounter of the worst kind between my bare foot and a pile of chicken manure. Continue reading →

Storybook Lovers

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storybook-loversBy Steffanie

So few words, for so much passion ….

My storybook lover is romantic, he would never hurry his sweetheart in a love scene, but tonight I want him to…

“Make love to me, darling. In one hundred words or less.”

“Micro fiction?”

“Yes.”

“Get your skirt off then.”

I begin slowly undoing the buttons on my…

“Just do it, don’t describe it.”

“It has to be sexy.”

“But you’re using all the words up!”

“Don’t shout at me.”

“Sorry, sweetie.”

Silence.

More silence.

“We’ve still got twenty words left.”

“We could have a…”

“Sssh, no dialogue, no description.”

“OK. Shall we?”

“Oh yes.”

Mmm… one hundred words.

Perfect.

* * *
© 2013 by Steffanie • All rights reserved

Sweet Things

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candy

By Allison M. Dickson

As the author herself puts it, this is a sinister little tale. Consider yourself warned.

It was Halloween night, so of course…razor blades. Also needles and wood splinters and rat poison. But just a dash. He didn’t want to kill anybody. He just wanted them to cry. Maybe they would never eat candy again. Maybe they wouldn’t turn into fat little slobs. Maybe they would live longer and have better teeth.

Maybe he was saving humanity.

Parents were crafty little inspectors, so he’d honed his skills over the years, each little candy bar a painstaking operation that would make a surgeon weep with envy. A singular puncture hole, a slightly imperfect seal, and all his hard work would be so much refuse for rats or other garbage bin carrion, and that would not do.

The right tools were essential. Fine tweezers for opening the ends of each package, a commercial heat sealer for closing them back up again so they looked fresh from the factory. A pair of tin snips for making the bits of needles and razor blades into devious silver confetti to be sprinkled carefully throughout each confection. A mortar and pestle to grind the rat poison into a fine powder so that he could combine it with a viscous mixture to be inserted with a hypodermic needle, undetectable particularly amid the caramel varieties.

He found a soldering iron to be useful for melting the chocolate back over the places he’d inserted his special ingredients. No one would detect his trickery—until it was too late. After his treatment, the candy looked just as it did before. Perhaps even better.

He was a maestro of the subtle. Continue reading →

Shardana

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Wetlands

By Dellani Oakes

She walked through the jungle, the soft light warm on her opalescent skin. Cobalt blue hair cascaded down her back in tumultuous curls. Shaking her head, she laughed, the sound ringing and echoing like bells.

Shardana had never seen a bell. She didn’t even know what they were, but he knew. He hadn’t heard bells in awhile, he missed them sometimes. But he had her laugh and that was almost enough.

The river roiled over boulders, falling over the cliff to rumble and tumble on the sharp rocks below. Shardana yanked her hand away, rushing headlong for the lip of the land. He wouldn’t be joining her in her long swan dive to the lower river. They’d learned long ago that his body couldn’t handle the trauma of either dive or water pressure like hers could. Shardana was not a soft and cuddly plaything. As lethal as she was dangerously beautiful, she ruled undisputed over her domain. Most days she was glad of her visitor. Others, she demanded he leave. He couldn’t go entirely, but he had a place to stay on his own, away from her wrath. Continue reading →