Metaphoric Spurs' Stories

One-Liners

2008-01-09T03:03:30Z

Failing to submit a minimum length Ficlet for the challenge last month, I did create the following one-line stories. They need a home, so here they are…

Oh, Shoot
She wasn’t desperate, just out of options, so the .44 would suffice.

Sounds of Silence
I went to the cemetery to talk to my mother. She didn’t answer.

Separation Anxiety
Our contract wasn’t legally binding, but our kids were genetically linked.

Peace Be Without You
Let there be peace on earth, as long as that guy keeps his smug ideas to himself.

You Are What You Don’t Eat
He ordered his usual and then sent it back, just to be different.

(I should really illustrate that last one as a cartoon.)

Lunchroom Lust (II)

2008-01-04T03:09:06Z

Delmar tore up turf while Myrna scooped up kitty litter. He threw pigskins while she claimed Charlotte’s Web on her list of favorite books. Every day he sat in the center of the lunchroom, surrounded by activity that had nothing to do with food, while she remained on the periphery of coolness, slurping cream of tomato soup from a Thermos.

Delmar moved his head from side to side to catch sight of Myrna through the shifting bodies of the cafeteria. She looked content in her isolation, resting one hand on the page of her book while the other raised steaming soup to her lips. The sunlight through the windows behind Myrna surrounded her in a glow, like she was circled in bright yellow highlighter. This girl, here. Take note.

Emotions don’t need explanation—if they did, they’d be rational and not a sensation that erupted within him like Mentos in Diet Coke. So Delmar remained satisfied with his infatuation, inexplicable as it was, as long as no one made him take it further than lunchroom lust.

N1t3W4tchr (P4rt IV)

2008-01-02T16:14:57Z

Taxi drivers in this city don’t pause; they’ll take off like drag racers, ripping your hand from the handle if you’re too slow settling into the cab. They don’t stop for anything but cash. A lot of cash. Or…could it be…

As I approached the cab, it inched forward in cadence with my stride. The tinted windows showed only my reflection, concealing the driver and passengers inside. I pivoted with a dancer’s sudden shift and backtracked.

The window rolled down. “What the hell are you waiting for? Get in!”

The back seat was empty, aside from a shoeboxed-sized parcel wrapped in mossy green paper.

“It’s not a bomb,” said the driver as he peeled away from the curb, slamming my door shut. “The weight’s evenly distributed.”

I tried to touch its smooth surface, but I was attached to the back of my seat with the taxi’s speed. The driver knew my motions even as he looked at the road ahead.

“Don’t touch it! I’ll need to lift the fingerprints.”

“Fingerprints?” He was no ordinary taxi driver.

Meaningless [a quirky pens&feathers challenge]

2008-01-02T02:20:57Z

This piece of wrinkled paper with curves and lines in crayon has no home, but it has my child’s name, and I cherish it. This small pink star? A button whose dress has forgotten it, so it waits patiently to be reunited with purple cordoroy. Coupons for food I’ll never buy compete with receipts from things we have already consumed.

Clutter in my kitchen annoys me, the smooth lines of the countertops interrupted by stray papers and trinkets I must not only keep, but keep handy. The papers multiply as if by magic, the pile growing deeper. I curse its presence, filtering through each item, but nothing makes its way to the garbage—I attach too much meaning to the meaningless.

The Only Son

2008-01-02T01:33:33Z

He never smiles. He never speaks. He looks at me with distrust, as if I were not his mother, as if I had not fed him, clothed him, played with him, given up my life for him. Being rejected by your own child stings like a fire in winter, a cold burn.

He recoils from my touch, pulling his hair in frustration. He points and grunts and then flings himself to the floor when I can’t decipher his secret language.

The doctors have yet to give him a label although the neighbors have. When they see us they retreat to their homes and close their doors, as if their pity were contagious.

The school came recommended by his early intervention therapists, although its smothering attention and barrage of tests may be worse than a mother’s fierce attachment. If he remains at home with me, I will continue to shelter him. If I place him in their care, I may become a stranger to my only son, but I am already a stranger to myself.

ReVeil Industries (III)

2008-01-02T00:36:54Z

“The Coldsmith digiskin can be permanently attached, with upgrades automatically delivered through the bloodstream. And it releases a synthetic lubricant, eliminating the need to blink.”

“Hmm,” said Redtics, stopping his chair. “But you should blink, shouldn’t you? We’re in business to veil our customers’ activities, not reveal them with open eyes.”

“That’s an easy adjustment,” I said.

“And the upgrades, are they over-the-counter or will they require a prescription?”

“Well,” I said, scanning through the status report on my cornea, “that’s what attracted me to ReVeil—”

“Don’t tell me,” interrupted Redtics, “you’ve heard rumors about our FDA contacts.”

“My former employer got bogged down in forms and applications,” I explained. “They are one of the few government agencies who still require paper.”

“And that’s the only reason you’ve come to ReVeil?” he asked. “Over paperwork?”

“No, sir, there’s other issues we need to discuss,” I replied, locking the classified data files.

ReVeil Industries (II)

2007-12-30T18:53:34Z

Mr. Redtics pounded his stubby fingers on the phosphorescent surface of his desk. It glistened and glowed from the pressure. He’s using that all wrong. The invisiboard senses body heat. A discreet flutter of the fingertips works best.

“So tell me, Waylon Coldsmith,” said Redtics, “all about your invention. We like new blood in the lab.”

“The Coldsmith digiskin is double-sided,” I said, removing the thin membrane from its case and fusing it onto my eye. “On one side of the digiskin, a monitor screen. On the other, an exact replica of your eye.”

“I see!” Redtics bellowed with a snort.

“The replica senses movement and light, reacting with pupil dilation. It can track people and objects with a smooth, natural motion while you sync data streams from multiple sources and platforms. No one will be able to detect it.”

“Ingenious! Everyone will need one!” Redtics spun around in his chair like a child. He was easily sold.

ReVeil Industries

2007-12-30T02:46:23Z

“Welcome to ReVeil Industries, may I…” A musical run of high-pitched notes interrupted her greeting. Archaic device, I thought. Maybe this wasn’t the employer for me.

“No, no!” she said, looking straight through me. “Finish it now or-” she stopped yelling and shifted her voice. “May I help you?”

“I’m Waylon Co-” was all I could get out before my thumb vibrated. “I’ll absorb the data stream,” I said, speaking into my fingernail. The name “Tad Redtics” flashed across my palm.

The door behind the receptionist dissolved, revealing a stout man with a half-shaven face—on the left side a beard, on the right, ruddy skin. “I imagine you’ll fit right in,” Mr. Redtics said, leading me to his office. “Most of our executives have digiskin hands. I’m testing a new facial prototype myself.”

“The face, sir?”

“Yes! Digiskin offers infinite applications! Instant disguises! Don’t these hairs look real?” he asked, rubbing the dark bristles.

If faux follicles impressed him, I knew the job would be mine.

Acreage (II)

2007-12-29T15:38:18Z

The stark white backings of the photographs reflected the overhead light like a camera flash, bright and blinding. Turning away, she stopped to stare at the back of her husband’s head, dull and flat, like the side of a pumpkin left to rot in the earth.

The years with him had their possibilities and then their disappointments, and now they were woven like a wool rug, the ends tied tight, forming an intricate pattern. She couldn’t leave without being hopelessly tangled. She had to drag him forward.

“When are you going to make a decision?” she asked, still examining his head.

“I told you, meatloaf is fine,” he replied.

She chuckled to brush off her building resentment. “No, not dinner,” she said. “Getting out of this apartment.”

“Are we back on this?” he asked, sighing. He folded the paper into his lap. It was an invitation to sit on the couch, but she didn’t accept it.

She chose a photo from the white grid on the table and held it up to the light.

Lunchroom Love

2007-12-27T14:53:41Z

His love for Myrna was like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—sweet but sticky, with a danger akin to a severe allergic reaction.

He had to pine for Myrna from afar, across the linoleum-tiled lunchroom, away from her adorable snorts between sips of Lactaid. His table served as the demarcation point, the last cafeteria seats reserved for those worthy of labels. Myrna, delicate Myrna, didn’t even have a stamp of cliqueness. She just floated between the PETA vegans and the marching band drop-outs like canned fruit in a jello mold, a delicious surprise in the midst of mediocrity.

He could not let the others know of his affections—the way she gnawed on her pencil like it was beef jerky, the ample curve of her bowed legs, how she always had a tissue ready for her post-nasal drip.

No, Delmar Swift could not succumb to Myrna’s quirky mystique. A football captain and the president of the Future Feline Rescue Workers could not date without violating the vicious equilibrium of high school politics.

Delayed

2007-12-26T20:28:58Z

The flight had been cancelled while en route to the airport and no explanation was given at check-in, just an apology and an offer to be booked on the next plane out—tomorrow night.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Is there bad weather in Newark?”

“No, sir,” replied the woman. The stiff grey fabric of her uniform prevented her from moving her arms, yet her fingers pelted the keyboard like rain as she announced his seat reservation and gate for the next day.

“Isn’t there some other flight, maybe on a different airline? You guys do that sometimes,” he asked, leaning in to glimpse at the monitor.

“Sir, seat 15A, gate 137 tomorrow at 7:50pm. Do you want me to book it or not?” Her eyes did not wander from the screen.

“But it’s my son’s birthday,” he pleaded.

“Seat 15A, gate 137 at 7:50pm. Yes or no?”

“It’s his first,” he said.

“Sir – birthdays, weddings, deaths – I’ve heard it all. This is all I’ve got,” she said, nodding to the customer behind him.

“But this is all I’ve got,” he said.

Pass the Ketchup

2007-12-24T01:48:28Z

Ketchup and chocolate chip cookies had no business being anywhere near each other. Not on the same table. And certainly not on the same plate.

But Leland devoured them like they were an elite pairing as extraordinary as Stilton and Port. His unrefined palate preferred tomato-based sauces spiked with high fructose corn syrup and cookies deep in unsalted butter. Gingersnaps went well with barbeque sauce. Snickerdoodles topped with Ragu made him swoon like an epicure at a four-star Michelin restaurant.

He considered bottles of ketchup like wines, examining the “best by” date stamped onto the plastic caps, preferring Heinz for Toll House and Hunts for Famous Amos. He even kept reserves of no-frills store brands, saved for special moments with white chocolate chunk.

When Wynona accepted his dinner invitation, she knew not of his peculiar taste buds. While his knowledge of tomato varieties proved fascinating, she decided there would be no second date after he dipped his hamburger in milk.

Child's Play

2007-12-23T21:57:39Z

All the other babies crawled through the tunnels, giggling in echo. Mothers knelt on the opposite side, clapping and coaxing with sugary voices. When the infants emerged, they would be hoisted above the mothers’ heads like trophies, legs kicking as if they were trying to swim through the bright blue sky.

Alec cried. He cried in the bucket swing. He cried on the spring rider shaped like a racecar. And on the dinosaur teeter-totter. He cried in the sandbox, throwing shovels, snot pouring from his nose, enough mucus to fill a bucket. The cavernous pockets of her diaper bag failed to produce a tissue.

She tried one last time to amuse him—just one laugh would suffice for today, for the week, for the month. She sat the boy at the top of the slide, its shiny orange plastic cheery, like the sun. He turned to reach for her, pleading and hysterical, arms flailing. She pried his sticky fingers from her shirt and pushed.

The Fabrication (Part III)

2007-12-23T17:11:02Z

“We’ll skip the stairs,” Joe said. “Just point us to the elevator.”

“The Chateau does not have lifts,” replied the desk clerk.

“Lifts?”

“Elevators, monsieur.”

“Damn it. Where did that bellhop go?”

“I apologize, but Henri is easily insulted and will not return.”

She imagined the desk clerk cursing bourgeois American tourists the moment they turned away. Reaching into her backpack, she smiled and handed him some heavy coins, assuming they were the most valuable. “That’s no problem,” she said, “we can handle this.”

Their room at the top of the turret was accessible by one spiral staircase. She looked up. It wound in a circle higher and tighter until it collapsed upon itself, like a shutter lens. Its stone steps were worn smooth in the center of each rise, a shallow basin carved by the boundless footsteps of the strangers that had come before them. She tried to envision their faces and their purpose—as she struggled to reconcile hers.

Joe called down from above, “This isn’t so bad, huh?”

The Fabrication (Part II)

2007-12-22T05:04:30Z

Despite the vast interiors of the castle, it lacked a main lobby. The check-in desk was concealed at the end of a narrow, twisting corridor. She stepped quickly but could not keep with her new husband’s pace.

The humidity of the passageway released an odor of mold and mineral, like a murky riverbed. Roughly hewn stone walls snagged at her coat, attempting to detain her.

She picked at the hole in her sleeve. The down filling did not escape because it was polyester. No wonder she had been so cold.

“Chateau Esprit D’Escalier—does it mean anything?” she asked the desk clerk as he presented the room key in a small, red velvet pouch.

“Madame, it is a clever response,” he explained, “that you realize only after the heat of an argument.” The guidebook had made no mention of the expression.

Joe bent over to pick up the bags, dismissing a bellhop he didn’t feel compelled to tip. “The wit of the staircase,” he added.

“Oui,” said the clerk, “a very long one, monsieur.”