Symptomatic - a 42-word microstory for yeahwrite.me

“Having any symptoms?” asked the psychiatrist quietly, looking up from the laptop over which her pale hands hovered in the ‘home’ position.

Unlike many doctors, I thought, shrinks needn’t be good with their hands…

(“hands… hands… hands…”)

“Uttley. Having any symptoms lately?” 

Exposition, Rising Action, Climax, Falling Action, Double Denouement

Hello, what's this? A six-sentence story link-up? By all means!

Seems every writer's space I enter yields an excuse to push the pen.

Surely this teetering homework pile can wait another hour or two.

Let's see what can be done in six sentences, shall we?

Dirk Freytag jammed his thumb down on the red record button of an old cassette tape machine, clearing his throat rather importantly as he did so, then proceeded to say absolutely nothing for about ten minutes as the heads of the cassette audibly dragged the ragged, oft reused ribbon to one side.

At a sharp, rapid rapping upon the small house’s outer door, Freytag thumbed the machine off again, dragged his sleeve quickly across his eyes and rose, his great knees creaking beneath his bulk.

Sliding the deadbolt, he opened the door just far enough to peer out, and found himself suddenly nose to nose with a squinting, blinking, apparently myopic, strikingly birdlike young woman peering in.

“Mister… Freytag?” inquired the woman, reading the name off of a steno pad held so close to her high-crested head that she seemed to be trying to hear, rather than see it.

“I suppose you’ve come from the agency... to take dictation,” breathed Freytag, “thank the Good Lord in Heaven.”

“Yes, I… Why… Mister Freytag are you… Is that a… Yes, I’ve come to take dictation!”

(click on the image to check out more six-sentence flash)

College ho!

Friday Fictioneers asks for up to 100 words on this photo prompt:

Long about four am, a hard rain started up a cadence upon the Uhaul trailer’s roof.

Picking up the beat, Futon started humming along, a marching song.

“What are you so chipper about?” grumped tightly scrolled NASCAR Poster.

“College ho!” exclaimed Futon. “The big State U. No more Mom and Dad down the hall… Our boy becomes a man. What do you bet I see some serious action within the month?”

“Sure. And what do you bet I’m out with the trash, replaced by some damn pop art print.”

“Some serious action I tell you.”

“Oh, hush,” said Beanbag Chair.

An Early State Secret

In the most important room
In a newborn nation
A great man
Unlocked the most curious drawer
Of an enormous desk

From the depths of the drawer, gently he lifted
A slick black contraption

He placed it gingerly before him
Paused (perhaps to pray)
And then lifted an appendage of the gadget to his ear

A finger more accustomed to squeezing triggers
He poked into an alien groove

Slowly, carefully, he moved his hand in a circle
Activating the device

Disconcerting sounds filled his ear
He closed his eyes
Then came the voice - high pitched, brisk

"Operator."

"I need... help," said the man shakily.

"How may I direct your call?"

"It's... It's these teeth, you see. The wood..."

"How may I direct your call, sir?"

"I was thinking maybe if some teeth could be made of... whatever this... this infernal device... is made of... perhaps..."

"Sir... I need the number or the name of the party you wish to reach."

"It's these damned wooden teeth!"

The man jerked his red face to the door 
Whereupon a strident knocking
Had ensued 

In a frenzied moment, he swept the device
Back into its drawer

As he keyed the lock
His wig askew
The door burst open

"President Washington, are you... Do you need assistance?"

(for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads)

dVerse Poetics - carved in stone

View Bjorn's prompt post on dVerse and the other writings it has inspired here.

 

A few sleeps ago came a lone, forlorn creature in amongst our huts. It was unlike any other we had seen before, and we realized that it must have traveled very far to reach us. Its long, bulbous muzzle hung low with fatigue, and its parched tongue lolled out of its mouth. Its enormous belly was as empty as a ceremony drum, and great gurgles and growls of hunger punctuated its movements as it lurched snuffling for an ort of food, a drop of water.

We were afraid to approach it, lest it be diseased or cursed. Then the mad, wise woman of the cave arrived. She pooh-poohed our fears and strode right up to the beast.

"How now, my glorious curiosity!" cried the mad, wise woman, and thumped the animal familiarly on its side.

"Come, come!" she said, and, pitching herself forward to walk on all fours, led her fellow the way to the nearby stream.

"How tired you must be, not to be able to find our water. Poor dear, poor dear....

"Now tell me, do, do tell me, do..." she crooned after her friend had had a long drink, "Where oh where have you, have you, have you... left... your... tail?"

Water flew as with a shake of its head and a huge, gasping wheezing cough, the animal cleared its throat.

"My tail," he then said in a winsome baritone, "grew fatigued in the mountain pass, and it stopped there for a bit of a rest. I'm sure it will be along presently. If, that is, it has not been eaten by a goat!" And he laughed long and strong, he did.

The mad, wise woman clapped her hands with delight, and she and her friend went side-by-side up to her cave to dine, conversing as they went about fantastical things in far-flung lands.

I and a few others followed at a distance as far as the tree-line before the cave mouth. Spellbound, we were, by the animal's low, chuckling voice.

"And after we sup," we heard the mad, wise woman's voice reecho just as they passed within, "we shall pose you for a portrait!"

Now days and nights have come and gone and no sign of woman nor beast. Perhaps she has eaten him, or he her. Or maybe he has taken human form and they are making mad, wise babies.

More likely, they have much, much to discuss, and it is taking some time to get the portrait just right.

I declare. It is too bad that there can be only one mad, wise woman. And that I am a man.

Most days, I would trade her places in the wink of an eye.

55-word Flash for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

I sit with the therapist for the third or fourth time. “I feel like I’m wasting your time,” she says, “because you have figured so much out on your own already.” The therapy is required in order for me to receive my medication. “Not at all,” I say. “You’re doing an exceptional job,” I say.

First Impressions

Flash Fiction (up to 500 words) to the prompt "Suitably Warm":

His mother’s voice was suitably warm when she greeted them at the door, but in the arch of her brow he detected a chill appraisal of his dinner companion. He’d anticipated as much when he’d picked Gillian up. The coyly torn fishnets and plaid, schoolgirl skirt, the black choker that showed off the slenderness of her neck, these were fine and fetching for a night on the town, but for meeting his parents for the first time? Ah, well, he supposed she was just being herself.

Their arrival roughly a half an hour later than arranged had the desired effect of circumventing an awkward session in the sitting room. They went straight from the front door to the table, where his father already sat, that morning’s newspaper folded open to the crossword on his placemat, a stub of pencil in hand.

“This is my pop. Pop, this is Gillian.”

His father looked up and offered a hollow hello.

“I love crosswords,” chirped Gillian. “Give us a clue.”

“Tart!” blurted his father.

“Howard!” his mother exclaimed.

“Five letters, ends in ‘y’,” his father finished.

“Put the crossword away, Howard,” said his mother sharply, covering for her misunderstanding. “We’ll eat in five minutes. I’ll just fetch the kids.” She left the room and they heard her heels on the wooden staircase.

“She thought I meant you!” stage-whispered his father, giving Gillian a broad wink over his reading glasses.

“Tangy,” said Gillian, as she plopped pertly into the chair he held for her.

His father hitched up his spectacles and frowned at the crossword a moment.

“Brilliant!” he pronounced.

A tumble of footfalls preceded the twins’ headlong entrance into the dining room. Their elder sister came closely behind them, as if she were driving cattle. The three of them silently took their seats and stared shamelessly at Gillian.

   

 “One of them is Daniel, and the other one is Dennis,” he told Gillian, pretending as usual that he couldn’t tell his brothers apart. “And she’s Denice. Hi, Denice. This is Gillian.”

“Hi…” said Denice, as if about to ask a question but thinking better of it.

“Pleased to meet you all,” said Gillian. “Denice, I hear you’re driving now.”

“When anybody will let me,” said Denise with a pointed look in her father’s direction.

“You’ve got to let her practice, Pop,” he said.

“You take her,” his father suggested, stashing the crossword and pencil under his chair as his mother entered from the kitchen carrying three big bowls at once.

“Mom!” he exclaimed, lurching to his feet and going to her aid.

“I’ll get the plates,” said Denice. “You two make yourselves useful and bring everyone a glass.”

“Is milk alright, Gillian?” asked his mother.

“Sure, I like milk.”

“Howard, dear, will you bring in the ham?”

As the family bustled to get the meal underway, Gillian marveled at the grand production of it all. The only child of a workaholic widower, her usual dining experience was Kraft Macaroni and Cheese over the sink. 

The Maestro's Secret

The Five Sentence Fiction prompt is "Empty"...


The tabletop is crowded with wine glasses. Over them hovers a tall man in a tuxedo with tails. From their brims his long fingers draw the strains of a familiar tune: Ode To Joy. After the applause, a slip of a girl makes bold to ask him: "Maestro, what is your secret?"

"Dear child," responds the man in mellifluous tones, "the water in each glass is important, but more important is the emptiness - that's what does the singing."

Making Love Stay...

The Trifecta challenge this weekend: 33 words of first person narrative...

I feel her slipping away. And who could blame her? I see her only briefly a couple times a week. I have to stop trying to find time. I have to make time.

Overheard While Sitting on Their Bikes

Velvet Verbosity's 100-Word Challenge: Temples

"I could kill a man with a toothpick."

"You couldn't kill a man with nothin."

"I bet you I could."

"With a toothpick?"

"A little old toothpick."

"Alright - how? Get him in the juggler?"

"The what?"

“The juggler. In the neck.”

“You mean the jugular vein. Jug. U. Lar.”

“Yeah alright. So that’s it?”

“Nope.”

“Well how then? Eyeball?”

“Pokin somebody in the eyeball ain’t gonna kill em.”

“It could.”

“No it couldn’t. No way. He’d just be blind then.”

“Pop that eyeball and go right to the brain.”

“Now you’re close.”

“The brain?”

“Yup. Right through the temple.”

A Plot's Afoot

Trifecta Challenge 66: "Doctor"



Like the flickering torchlight, high-pitched muttering licked the shadowy corners of the stone-hewn room.

“He’ll never know the doctor’s in the batter, will he? No!” breathed the alchemist.

For months, he’d been adding the subtle agent to the breading that coated the king’s nightly snack of fried fish – just a few more grains of the powder each day – and his wandering eye, which all thought blind, had espied the signs of the poison in action. The sovereign had paled these last few weeks, and in his hair and beard, more grey had appeared.

“Before your time, before your time…” The alchemist worked the pestle slowly, rhythmically in the mortar.

He couldn’t stop the tyrant from claiming in marriage the young princess from the neighboring kingdom, but he could make sure no heir came from their union.

“Last of your line, last of your line…” The wizened man was singing now, crooning to his lethal preparations.

“Here now,” hissed the cook, arriving at the chamber’s half-open door. “Stop that infernal whining. Anyone could hear. Anyone. You’ll give us away, damn your bones!”

The cook was fat, and ever-flustered and cross. He flounced past the oval table in the center of the room, jostling its racks of flasks and pipettes into a tinkling little symphony, and pulled up behind the alchemist, peering over the frail old man’s hunched shoulders.

“You’ve ground it fine enough,” he growled. “Now shift it to the paper. There’s no time left. The fish is cut.”

The alchemist tipped the mortar over an envelope he’d made of a sheet of writing paper and, trading the pestle for a slim blade, carefully shifted the contents.

“The fish is cut, the fish is cut…” sang the alchemist simple-mindedly.

“Yes, yes, you daft old git. Now give us the paper.”

The cook snatched the envelope, and without another word, exited the chamber.

The alchemist stood and rinsed his hands at a small sideboard basin.

“Perhaps… But this daft old git will outlive the king!”

108 Words for Saturday Centus

We didn't snuggle right up to each other while sleeping together - spooning was too sweaty for us, under our heavy comforter. But I liked for our feet to be touching: my foot on bottom, the gentle pressure of yours pressing down from above. And sometimes, our hands would be touching too, above our heads, and I would imagine we made the shape of a Hallmark heart. Sappy, huh? But I did. Your muscles would flex a little just when you were letting go into full sleep. I miss that. Without you around, I sleep like a baby: fitfully and waking up every three hours grouchy and hungry.

Thornby Still Visits on Holidays

Five Sentence Fiction's Prompt is "Abandoned."

And here are my five:

The sons and daughters of the men who’d worked the mine had almost all packed up and left town as soon as they could get away. A few families remained, mostly working digging up and sorting and selling gravel. The old hotel still stood, and a few men rented rooms there by the month. Gangly, pimply Thornby, son of the town’s Postmistress and the foreman at the gravel plant, worked the cash register at the gas station by the highway offramp, and it was he who spray-painted the word Mordor on a beam at the mouth of the mine. Thornby was homeschooled and passably well-read and would attend the state university that coming fall, meet a quirky, mousy, bookish young woman, marry, take his Bachelor of Arts degree and teach middle school English in his new wife’s hometown upstate.

What Would You Have Said?

And the prompt from VelvetVerbosity for the 100 Word Challenge is: Surviving

Here's my hundred:

Sole Surviving Relative

The lawyers (one of the firm’s interns, actually, name of Thompson) found Arthur Wilkes’ great-nephew working in an auto repair shop. When Thompson arrived at the shop and approached, mindful of his loafers on the oil-stained concrete, the only heir of the until-most-recently well-to-do Wilkes was working a machine that spun a tire so that you could take the rubber off the rim with a huge screwdriver-like tool. Wilkes’ sister’s grandson: last fruit of a fantastically unlucky, short-lived family tree… Informed that he stood to inherit a cool million, the man had this to say: “Far out.” 

33 Words from the 33rd Page

Whoa, has Trifecta got an odd writing challenge this week.

"This weekend we are playing another type of word game with you.  Below are photos from the 33rd page of one of our very favorite books, Elizabeth Strout's Olive Kitteridge.  What we want you to do is to scour the page... choose 33 words, and reshape those words into a piece of your own.  Your piece does not have to tell an entire story.  We just want to see what you can do with this particular word bank.  Punctuation is up to you.  Use whatever you need, whether or not it appears in the photos."

Here's what I came up with:

Collected Signs Realize States of Mind

House: shouted umbrage - “Leave!”

Kitchen: child devour, mother abide.

Drove along, thought…

Water's edge: blankness blanket, spray, hidden ramp.

Wild open: hollow-boned wings took off up wind.