Tag: fiction

Fiction: Staff Lounge

Posted on by bryon

Owner and publisher Fred Koelpe didn’t see that he had a choice. One more issue of the Amidaville Banner before Christmas and then everyone got an unpaid two weeks off. There wasn’t enough money in the account to buy newsprint and keep the office open, so Koelpe did neither. He didn’t mind putting his small staff on the streets without a paycheck — never mind a Christmas bonus — but he did worry that all too few in the dying town would miss the weekly newspaper.

Koelpe was the first one out the door. He told his office and circulation manager, Sharon, to turn the thermostat down to 45 degrees before she left. Then he got away from the dirty looks and the general lack of understanding.

“Consider it a Christmas miracle I’m not just closing the place permanently,” he barked over his shoulder.

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Fiction: The Snowman Enigma

Posted on by bryon

Leonard looked out the window to check on his children’s progress. Leila and her little brother, Leo, were working on a snowman in the front yard. They had made the bottom ball pretty big and had had some difficulty getting the next part of the snowman’s body on top of the base. Now they looked at the head and how high above their reach it needed to go.A moment later, Leonard walked out of the house.

“Need some help with that?”

“Yeah, Daddy. We can’t lift the head high enough,” Leila said.

“Well, I think I can manage that,” Leonard told them, and he knelt down for the snowman’s head. He hoisted it into place and patted some snow to secure it.

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Fiction: Souled Out

Posted on by bryon

Darlan, an agent of Hell on Earth, sighed into his coffee. A good, strong cup of coffee was one of the few things that made up for being trapped in human form to do his infernal majesty’s will.

You couldn’t get any in Hell.

Today, though, even coffee wasn’t perking Darlan up. He was waiting for today’s mark to come along. Another soul to speed on its way to Hell.

Big deal, Darlan thought. The place is overrun with souls as it is, cluttering things up, screaming, pleading, whining — oh, the whining.

Three hundred years earlier, when Darlan was first given the job of infernal shepherd, it was exciting. He always exceeded his quota and liked to take on the tougher jobs. But any job begins to pale after three centuries, and Darlan was doing little more now than putting in his time. Other agents were showing him up, but he didn’t care.

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Fiction: Stuck Lift

Posted on by bryon

Edward Vicquers was the youngest number three man in the bank’s history. That said, he was in his early fifties and his formerly raven-black hair now held a distinguished streak of gray. He was tall and lean and kept himself physically fit as well as impeccably dressed. Indeed, the suit of clothing he wore he had picked up from his Savile Row tailors only the day before. It was dark and as handsome as the gentleman who wore it.

Mr. Vicquers stepped into the lift to ride up to his office and pushed the button for the twenty-fifth floor.

Just before the doors closed, Emily Chardenne slipped between them.

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Fiction: Almanacs

Posted on by bryon

Roy saw the new Chaffinch’s Almanacs sitting near the cash register. He paid for the odds and ends he was getting at the hardware store and plucked two of the free almanacs from the displays.

Chaffinch’s was the only almanac sexist enough to publish his and hers editions, in blue and pink covers. The women’s edition contained all sorts of stuff about that time of the month and children and homemaking that the men in Chaffinch’s target audience were certain they didn’t need to know.

Roy picked up a pink almanac for Enid so that if she saw him with his blue-covered almanac she couldn’t complain about his not getting her an almanac. Married life was full of little preemptory strikes like that, he mused.

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Fiction: Bobblehead

Posted on by bryon

Harry sat alone in the little house. It seemed larger now that Juanita was gone, which Harry liked. When she had lived there, they had fought day in and day out, and the house felt more like clothing that had shrunk in the wash. Now there was room for Harry to swing his arms and breathe deeply.

A car drove by the house. The vibration from the road rattled the old windows just slightly and rocked a little end table. A folded index card under the back leg of the table would have kept it from moving, but Harry had never noticed that the table wobbled.

What Harry did notice was the circus clown bobblehead on the table. It had been Juanita’s, and Harry supposed she had left it as her final gift to him. He didn’t want a farewell gift from Juanita, but a farewell gift had to be treated with respect.

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Fiction: Final Encounter

Posted on by bryon

Private William E. Morency was always easy for Quân to find. Skill and training were key the first time; modern technology and the openness of a big city now came to his aid.

Quân had been in the city for three days, adjusting to a time zone halfway around the world and — following years of habit —ensuring he wasn’t being followed.

The cemetery was on the tour bus route; a number of persons prominent in regional and national history were buried there. Quân paid polite attention during the early part of the tour, waiting patiently for the garish bus to arrive at the cemetery.

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Fiction: The G-String Conspiracy

Posted on by bryon

“That’s looking a little tight, Richard,” Ann said.

Richard finished buttoning his shirt. “It feels tighter for some reason,” he agreed. “I’ve been working out every day. Haven’t been eating more. It must have shrunk in the closet.”

“Uh-huh,” Ann said.

There was a loud sneeze.

“Bless you,” Ann and Richard said to each other. They exchanged a funny look even as another sneeze rang out. They looked at the closet and Richard rushed over and yanked the door open. He shoved aside the shirts and trousers hanging from the rod.

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Fiction: The Fish Knife

Posted on by bryon

Hector Selrymple, Lord Broodinwood, bit the inside of his upper lip, just to the left of his canines. It was the fifth time in three days he had done so during a meal, and he was suddenly seized with the judgment that this was no sort of life to continue.

His grunt of pain was swiftly followed by action: his left hand swooped down to the place setting and snatched up the fish knife. It was, by the standards of the knowledgeable would-be suicide, a poor instrument for the purpose; the earl, in his anguish, was prepared to overlook any deficiency and make the best go of it he could.

He raised the knife toward his throat and was stopped only by his wife’s horrified gasp. Hector warred with himself and the pain in his mouth. He surrendered to yet another of the cruelties of mortal existence and gently placed the fish knife on the side of his plate. He took two sips of white wine and sighed, prepared once more to meet a world of misery and injustice as it came.

Beatrice, Lady Broodinwood, looked down at her plate and composed herself before continuing to dine. She shook her head just slightly, deeply unnerved by the scene.

How she longed for Shurlton, the butler, to return from his holiday. The biscuit-headed girl deputizing for him had no notion of consistency in setting the table. Anyone of sense knew the fish knife was correctly placed to the right of the plate and not the left, where the Earl had found it. Lady Broodinwood feared what fresh horrors lay ahead before Shurlton was back in harness. God had scarcely tested Job more harshly.

Fiction: One Low Payment

Posted on by bryon

“I’m going next door for just a little while,” Pastor Henniks told his wife.

“All right,” Sue said. “I’m going on to bed. Don’t be too long.”

He nodded at her and went out the front door of his parsonage and walked across the lawn to his church. He let himself in a side door and went directly to the sanctuary. The pews could hold about eight hundred people, and most Sundays they were filled. He turned on the chancel lights, leaving most of the room in darkness.

He knelt before the altar and stared at the gold-plated cross.

“Lord, I know I’ve done wrong. I’ve done more wrong than a man should, especially a man in my position. I’m sorry. I am so very sorry. Please, please help me. Don’t visit my sins on my poor family or on my congregation. They don’t deserve that. I know I’ve done wrong. But I’ll change, I’ll change. I’ll mend my ways if you’ll just take this cup from me.”

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