Category Archives: fiction

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Fiction: An Ever-Present Day in the Woods

“You have come at an excellent time, Mr. Geduld, as I am about to complete this painting.” He shook hands with the writer. “Please have a seat and you may observe. I trust that will be useful for your book.”

“Indeed it will, Mr. Truitt, and let me thank you again for this opportunity.”

Truitt smiled. “The opportunity is mine, Mr. Geduld. To be included in a book about the great painters of our day will be quite the honor.”

“I believe the chapter about the life and work of Peter Bascomb Truitt will be of the greatest interest, sir. Are you painting this still life with your particular method of merely glancing at the canvas?”

“I am, as I will now demonstrate.”

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Fiction: Fifty Percent

They were alone in his home after the usual friends had gone. She stood by the bedroom door, a little smile playing on her lips. He walked up to her and put his arms around her waist.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Sex,” he told her. After a pause to test his courage, he plunged onward. “And love.”

Her smile slipped a little. “How about one out of two?”

His head dipped slightly, and he went for broke. “We don’t have to have sex.”

Her smile returned, but it was blighted by the sweet sadness in her eyes. She drew him to her and hugged him. “Oh, Honey.” She held him quietly for a moment or two, acknowledging his need even as she denied it. She whispered in his ear. “Let’s go in here and make each other feel really good, huh?”

He nodded his head against hers. They went into the bedroom and did many gentle and energetic and passionate things together.

He awoke in the morning just as she was about to walk out the door.

“Hey,” his scratchy voice said.

“Oh, hey.” She smiled. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got to be in the office early today. See you later?”

“Hope so.”

She bent over the bed and gave him a quick, friendly peck. “Bye.”

“Bye.” And he heard the front door close and her car leave.

He smiled, remembering all they had done together. Then, remembering what she did not – apparently could not – give him, he embraced her pillow, tighter and tighter, trying to soothe the abraded, agonized place inside him that cried out for more.

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Fiction: A Glass of Water

A tall, shapely woman walked up the three flights of outdoor stairs and turned right, approaching the apartment she was looking for. She was reasonably well dressed and wore a matching set of 12-carat earrings, necklace, and bracelet. She made three sharp, short knocks on the door.

Another woman opened the door. She was a few years older than the one outside. She was not well dressed, she was not wearing jewelry, and her figure was settling.

“I’m Yolanda,” the younger woman said. “Mrs. Cates, I want you to let Horace go so he and I can be together.”

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Fiction: From This Valley

“Where’s Lornia?”

“Where she always is, Father,” Samm said. “Out on the boulder, staring off into space.”

“Still,” Mother said. “How long is she going to pine for that boy?”

Father shrugged. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

“Oh,” Mother said, “so your heart wanted me?”

Father smiled fondly at her. “I’ll go talk to her. Samm, round up your other brothers and sisters for dinner.”

“Yes, Father.”

Father walked out of the house and toward his heartsick eldest child. She reclined on the big red boulder and looked into the darkening sky. He stood next to her in silence for a while.

“Do you think he’s ever coming back, Father?”

He pretended to ponder the question. “You never know what might happen, Daughter. But … you know a place like this can’t hold him. Not even with your boundless love. He’s got to be off doing whatever it is he’s doing. And your place is here.”

Lornia’s heart broke again because she knew her father was right.

“I know it’s hard,” he said, “but the sooner you can accept the way things are, the sooner you quit looking for him to come back, the easier it will be on you.” He kissed her cheek. “Come in for dinner.”

“I’ll be in soon, Father.”

As he walked back toward the house, he heard her singing; it was the same song she had sung to the young man she loved on their last day together.

“From this valley they say you are leaving.

“We will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile.

“But remember the Mariner Valley,

“And the Martian who loved you so true.”

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Fiction: Gunsmoke in Mesa View Gulch

The lean, scruffy outlaw had plenty of space at the bar, and the conversations swirling around him in the saloon carefully omitted any reference to him.

He heard a feminine voice behind him, and the voice was saying his name: “Barker Krebs.” He swiveled on his barstool and caught a small fist with his nose. He bellowed briefly and began bleeding into his bushy moustache. He stared hatefully in the direction from which the offending hand had come.

There he saw a woman. She was built along the lines an Amazon if the designer had been instructed to bring the project in under budget. That made her five feet tall, counting the boots and hat.

“Barker Krebs,” she said, “you killed my daddy, burned our home…”

“I’ve never seen you before, girl!”

“And had unnatural relations with what would have been a prize-winning watermelon.”

Krebs’s eyes went wide, and he brought his hand down from his bleeding nostrils. “Sarah Jane Buonarroti. I thought…”

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Fiction: The Neighbor’s Pet

Viola stood on her back porch and watched her children play on the swing set. She turned her head to the left and looked into Mr. Frappingham’s yard. There, as always, was Rufus. The heavy log chain kept him securely fastened to his house.

Rufus was straining at the end of the chain and doing his best to watch the children play; he could mostly see around an oak tree. Frappingham had given his permission for the kids to visit Rufus occasionally, but the animal needed more attention than he was getting.

Frappingham himself probably did, too, but Viola considered that his problem. The old man could take care of himself; Rufus relied on the kindness and care of humans.

“Bobby!”

“What, Mom?”

“Get the leash from the closet and go ask Mr. Frappingham if you and Teresa can take Rufus to the park.”

“Okay!” The children ran past her to get the long leash. Soon, they were pounding on Mr. Frappingham’s back door.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure Rufus would enjoy that,” he said. “Go right ahead.” He looked over and waved cheerily at Viola. She waved back, but only to keep the neglectful old fart in a friendly frame of mind.

Bobby hooked the leash to Rufus’s collar and then unhooked the big chain. Rufus began to dance around the children and he almost took flight as they walked the two blocks to the park.

Viola remained outside until she did see Rufus sailing happily over the trees and doing the occasional loop.

She went inside, muttering to herself. “If you’re not going to take proper care of a dragon, you just shouldn’t get one.”

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Fiction: Hatchet Job

“I’ve got it all set up for you, if you really want to do it.”

“It’s not so much a matter of want as need,” Wes said. “This is something I need to do. I should do it.”

Sheryl shrugged. “Over there. I’ve got one in a little pen, and Warren sharpened the hatchet. He said to remind you to just hit the turkey, not yourself.”

Wes made a little smile. “So kind of him.”

“He was kidding around. But it is good advice.”

They reached the small pen, and Wes stared at the big turkey his cousin and her husband had set aside for him. Sheryl kicked at the pen to make the turkey move back a little. She opened the door and ushered Wes inside.

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Fiction: Sock Hop

Kevin swallowed a mouthful of potato and said, “So, Dad, how was work today?”

Hugh Nelson stopped scooping up his peas and sighed. “Y’know, Son, I don’t really want to talk about it tonight. It’s just the same old nonsense from the same people. Tell me about your day instead.”

“Well, Mr. Mackenzie told me that when Vernon Morgan retires next month, he’s moving Pete Cooper up to the number two spot.” He looked around the table at his family and grinned. “And I will be the new paint department manager.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Kevin’s mother, Betty, said.

“Good for you, Kevin,” said sister Karen.

Hugh nodded. “Now that’s the kind of office talk I want to hear around this dinner table. Congratulations, Kevin. That’s a quick promotion as young as you are, but I know you’ve earned it. You’ve proved your work ethic at the hardware store, and it’s paying off.”

“It sure is,” Kevin agreed. “With the raise I’m going to get, I can afford to buy a nice little house and start out on my own now.”

“Well, that’s just fine,” Hugh said. “Start living the American dream.”

Karen eyed her brother mischievously across the table. “And does that dream include Tina?”

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Fiction: Darkening Doors

The lady of the house opened the white front door to her modest bungalow-style home. On the doorstep stood a middle-aged man in a plain suit. She recognized him from his signs.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “I am Alfred Samiel. I am visiting every home in the district which I hope to serve in the legislature. I would like to take just a few moments to tell you where I stand on the important issues we face.”

She scowled at him.

“I know your stands on the issues. I don’t know how you can say any of that crap. You’re disgusting. You’ll never get my vote. I hope to God you don’t get elected.”

She slammed the door on him, and he heard something fall from a shelf inside.

Samiel stared hatefully at the closed door, silently fuming. None of the well-intentioned warnings had prepared him for the fact of rejection. He poured out his anger and stepped down from the porch, moving on to the next house.

He reminded himself that it didn’t matter if he was not loved. All that mattered was making a good effort. When election day came, he was certain he would be elected – despite the woman’s prayer to the contrary: God wasn’t running a candidate for office.

Behind him, the white door now bore Samiel’s silhouette. The homeowner would later discover that paint would not adhere to it.

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Fiction: ‘If You Really Want One’

“Isn’t this damn line ever going to move?”

“No, Erik, it isn’t,” Lee said. “This is hell, and we’ll be standing here for all eternity. Just to annoy you.”

“I believe it,” Erik said.

“Erik,” Bobby said, “I know we dragged you here against your will, but try to have just the tiniest bit of fun, huh?”

“Yeah, try not to make us wish we were dead, too,” Arthur pleaded.

“I’m told that the dead have very few problems.”

His friends sighed; Erik the Grim had spoken.

Through the tightly packed mass of people thronging the state fair, Erik brightened suddenly as he spotted an old man holding a fresh caramel apple by its stick.

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