Showing posts with label Short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short story. Show all posts

Friday

Short Story -- Soldier Fights the Harshness of Mars to Reach His Lady Love (Happy Astronomy Day!)



By Denise Miller Holmes

I was dating this good, kind and gorgeous Earth girl for about six months when the military called me to duty. It was during that time when the government was building prisons on Mars because Earth citizens, who embraced the “not in my back yard” movement, had won over the prison system’s need for real estate.

Mars was as far away from Earth as you could get with the technology we had at the time. For the Earthers, it was good. For me, it was a quantum, soul-sucking mess.

I figured out immediately upon arriving that my colonel, the operating officer of the installation, had it out for me. At first, I rationalized that his hatred for me was because he was a Martian human—born and raised in the old Martian colony. It is as true now as it was in the old days, that because of the puny gravity of the planet, human males who are raised on Mars are at least twelve-feet tall by adulthood. Earth males, in contrast, rise to a mere six feet on average.

My muscles were robust compared to the colonel’s reed-thin frame, yet Col. Malfrom made me, a 26-year-old soldier, want to weep and wet myself when he stood over me and glowered. No matter how strong I was, I was always hyperaware that I would never be able to deliver a respectable punch in his face without first asking him to bend down so I could tell him a secret.

The only alternative would be to punch him in the groin, and I would never do that because I had a personal ethos against hitting below the belt.

The real reason that Malfrom hated me, I found out, was his love for the woman I’d left on Earth. We’d dated for about five months and she told me about all the terrible things her ex had done to her. Now I’d put five and five together, and wish I’d known her ex’s name before I’d said yes to this assignment.

They say that knowledge is power but knowledge of his motivations to torment me didn’t make a difference in this circumstance—he still had it out for me and I was still his subordinate.

I’d been there about six months when the colonel approached me and said, “Sean, come with me into my office.” Okay, perhaps my multiple requests for a phone call to Earth had been heard and approved.

I followed him into his office, then sat down obediently when he pointed at a hard, metal, office chair. He grabbed another chair, sat across from me and eyed me like a snake that was planning to strike.

Because I was nervous, my throat went dry and I kept trying to clear it. He offered not one drop of water. I tried to say something, but he spoke instead.

“I’ve green-lighted your phone call,” he said in a flat tone, never taking his eyes off me. “I haven’t been ignoring you. It took a long time because the communications array was nearly destroyed in that sand storm and it took a whole month to fix it.”

I’m sure I looked relieved. Then he smiled as if he’d trapped his prey. “You want to call Genevra, don’t you?”

“Word gets around.” I adjusted my collar. It felt tight.

“You want to propose to her, yeah? I mean, you’ve been gone so long, I bet you’re worried someone else will ask her. She’s getting on in age and maybe feeling tired of waiting for you to come home. Besides, I hear the eligible Earth bachelors are pounding down her door. Rumor is, she wants a family.”

“She’s going to be 29 in 2091. I don’t think her world is ending.”

I didn’t tell him I’d suffered a series of night sweats recently over that very thing—her clock, her impatience. But I stopped worrying when I remembered how much she loved me.

“Are you going to let me call her now, or not?” I asked, letting all the air out of my lungs. I waited to breathe.

“Okay, but there are some rules,” he said, wagging a finger at me.

Of course there are.

“We’re at perigee, which means we’ve settled into the closest distance to Earth. That makes it possible to say something and have Genevra hear it in about five minutes.”

My heart stopped for a couple seconds. “Okay, what else?”

“That means that she’ll answer, but you won’t hear it for five minutes. You’ll say a short spiel, then she’ll wait five minutes to hear that. When she responds, you’ll either hear a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ or, most likely, a detailed description of what she had for dinner last night. If it isn’t ‘yes,’ I click the off switch, ‘Got it?”

My angry stomach churned. “Can’t wait to hear.” My words gushed sarcasm.

“You are wondering why I won’t give you a second chance to convince her, or even to clarify her words, aren’t you?” he said, reading my mind.

When I said nothing, the colonel continued. “Because you are an arrogant Earther who flexes his fat Neanderthal muscles around me whenever he can, and because, for some stupid reason, she prefers you over me, I’m going to only give you one chance to get her to say yes to your proposal.”

“Is that all?” I asked in my best casual tone. “There is no other reason?”

He stood up, drawing himself to his full height, as if getting in touch with that extra ego pack he kept inside his heart for special emergencies. Then, he leaned down, close enough to spit in my eye. “I just want to see your face when she says, ‘No.’”

I waited a tick, then said, “Ok, it works for me.”

You probably think I’m crazy taking the deal but I knew my girl loved me. She would have said ‘yes’ a few months ago when I’d left. On the other hand, it had been six months without a phone call. Girls hate that. What would she say? I had to try.

He led me into the communications room, a room walled off completely by glass, with a steel table that held equipment and a huge microphone. Lights flashed as I sat down in front of the mic, and Malfrom worked the dials and levers as if using this technology were an art. When I heard her voice come over the speaker, I thought I’d die. But all she said was, “Malfrom, why are you calling me?”

Eventually, the colonel let me speak. “Genevra,” the words struggled to get out. “I love you. I might be here a while, so I have to ask it now, Will you marry me?”

That was it. What would she say? Could I convince Malfrom to have mercy and let her answer again if her words were garbled?

After a long five minutes, the speaker crackled. She was coming back on the array! I braced myself. Please God, let her say ‘yes’.

The crackle continued for a bit, then her sweet voice filled the room. “Sean? Is that you? What did you say?”

A sharp snap filled my ears as Col. Malfrom flipped the disconnect switch. He stood up, triumphant, his full height lording over me.

Rage poured into my lungs, and desperation filled my heart. The need to do something propelled my thoughts forward, and I quickly settled on what action to take. I truly had no choice.

“Colonel,” I said, putting on my most innocent face. “Come here.” I motioned him to bend toward me. “I have a secret to tell you.”

Saturday

Flash Fiction -- Man’s Command of Language Wins the Contest for a Beauty’s Heart

Hello! My name is Tigeronus, and I live on a planet called Cat’s Paw. That is an orb in our galaxy where cats rule. (Don’t be surprised. It was inevitable.)

I and my two friends, Split-Ear and Tubby, went to the Feral Museum to “sightsee.” “Sightseeing” is code for us to go watch pretty ladies.

In those days, we would position ourselves on the padded bench across from the most famous painting EVER—The Catarona Leeza.

While gazing at that awe-inspiring painting, we debated what Catarona’s expression meant. Was she acting coy? Was she flirting? Her expression was so enigmatic!

Right after Tubby commented on how green the Persian beauty’s eyes were and Split-Ear said that her white, silky fur was so beautiful he might consider taking a bath—I spied her. Strolling past the very painting she had modeled for was Catarona herself!

All of us saw her at once. We immediately drew ourselves up, onto our bottoms, with straight spines. Tubby sucked in his gut and was barely breathing. Split-Ear washed himself frenetically. I tried to keep my rabbiting heart from coming out of my Himalayan body.

I felt I might die when, instead of ignoring us, Ms. Leeza sauntered over to our bench. Then, she spoke!

“Gentlemen,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “I would love for one of you to take me out tonight for an elegant dinner.”

I could not see Split-Ear, the shabby Tabby with his dirty fur and alley-cat ways, ever measuring up to Catarona’s standards. And Tubby, that fat Marmalade, would just clash with her delicate pigment and fit figure. I was certain she would pick me, a breed so close to hers. What I did not know was that this was a contest based on merit.

She laid out her plan. “I love liver and cheese. Always have. And, the one who uses those two words in a sentence in the most creative way, is the one I will choose to be my date.”

Split-Ear and Tubby seemed to energize when she said this, as if suddenly gaining hope.

Split-Ear took his turn first with a brilliant, “I could have liver and cheese if I could afford them.” To this, Catarona Leeza rolled her eyes. You could tell she found the sentence subpar.

I could not imagine Tubby’s would be any better. He straightened his spine with pride and said, “I wish I didn’t have Metabolic Disorder so I could eat liver and cheese.”

I told you.

Catarona turned her head in complete rejection, but, just as my heart swelled in anticipation of the win, Tubby said, “Let me try again, please.” To this Catarona’s expression softened, and he began a new sentence.

My anger shot out before I could control it. I arched my back. I hissed. Pointing a threating claw at the orange menace, I yelled, “Liver alone! Cheese mine!”

That night’s liver-and-cheese date with Catarona, at the famous restaurant Chez Paw, changed my life. I soon changed my social media status to “married.”

What a wonderful day at the museum!

Friday

Flash Fiction -- Uncle Seamus Gets in Trouble on Saint Patty’s Day

As we know, on St. Patty’s Day, too many people get  woozy with the boozy. Cops in patrol cars roam the streets trolling for inebriated drivers. 

The last St. Patty’s Day, my neighbor’s, friend’s uncle, Seamus, celebrated at a local Boston pub. He was driving to his suburban home at 2:30 a.m. when a female cop came up behind him and flashed her lights, telling him to pull over.

He rolled down his window and reached for his wallet—knowing the drill. Seamus heard her ask him where he’d been and where he was going at this time of night. 

He had learned to slow down his speaking to control his drunken slur, and with precision he said, “I was coming from my friend’s house.” (The local bar was called “My Friend’s House.”)

She waited, flashing a light in his eyes. Blanching, he said, “And now I’m going to a lecture.”

An “I-gotcha” look crossed her face and she said, “What lecture are you going to at 2:30 a.m.?”

Seamus controlled his trembling and spoke as slowly as he could. “I am going to a lecture on self-discipline and the negative impact of alcohol on your body, and the importance of setting a good example for children.”

The cop, eyes widened in disbelief said, “And just where is this lecture taking place?”

Uncle Seamus felt smart. He knew the answer to this one. “In the entryway of my house as soon as my wife opens the door and sees my condition.”

After her long-winded, cackling laughter dissipated and she wiped a tear from her eye, the officer exclaimed, “Oh my gawd. I have got to see this. Move over, I’m driving!”