"An Afternoon in Autumn, When Johnny Had Nothing Better to Do"

Johnny sat at the desk, hands poised lightly on the keyboard. It was a child's desk. Small, brown wood stained with old cheap metal handles on each drawer, dangling like door knockers.

On the desk was a green folder labeled 2005 taxes, a nearly spent spindle of recordable discs, a plastic cup adordned with colorful letters spelling the names of two kids, he guessed, Brian and Ben, filled with some strange, be-ribboned poupourri. The desk was dominated by the laptop computer, large keyboard and screen fitting uncomfortably close to the cheap HP printer with the cables and wires crumpled about in a vain attempt to keep out of site.

To the right was the "in box" on top of the old black steel filing cabinet -- blanketed by a pile of unopened bills and unfiled papers arranged like a still life of a waterfall. The checkbook was balanced, open, in between like a bridge from the filing cabinet to the desk.

He stood, stretching like a calico cat in his orange and black Bengals sweatshirt, and decided he needed a snack. Paydirt -- an unopened box of Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookies. He quietly broke into the package, took three...and then three more, poured himself a glass of milk and shuffled back to the office.

"I sure wish they'd get home soon," he said out loud, to himself, just to hear a voice speak. The words came out in croak, like someone else's voice, and he was startled for a moment, but only a moment.

Johnny ate a cookie, gulped down a mouthful of milk, wiped the excess away with the back of his hand and reassumed the position, fingertips at the ready...asdf...jkl;

A click. A key turning, lock sliding back, like a turtle going into its shell. Door opening with a grunt. Coats rustling, children's footsteps drumming across the kitchen and up the stairs. Heavier footfalls. Her. Down the hall. Toward the office. Door opens. Gasp of surprise.

"Who the hell are you?" she says.

Johnny stood up quickly, dark brown cookie tumbling over his three-day beard.

"Johnny," he said.

"Get...out...of...my...house," she shouted with authority, but he could see she was trembling.

"I was just, you know. Working," Johnny said, trying to be helpful.

"Working? What do you mean, working? Who are you?" She had brown hair and brown eyes and wore a red sweater that stretched over her hips. She wore thin black leggings and New Balance running shoes.

"It's me. Johnny. Don't you remember?" Johnny thought he was going to cry, and was determined not to. She didn't speak.

"In the grocery store. I was right behind you. Told that little boy of yours that Reese's would rot his teeth. You thanked me and smiled. You have a nice smile."

"So?"

"So I thought you'd want to return the favor."

"Return the favor? We chatted in the grocery."

"I needed to borrow a computer."

"Get out. Now. I'm calling the police."

"Oh, now that wouldn't be very nice."

She turned and ran, heading for the kitchen. Johnny grabbed her arm. She spun and socked him on the head with her other forearm, then kicked him in the crotch. He fell to the floor. He heard the tell-tale "beep...beepbeepbeep" of a cordless phone dialing 911 and swore under his breath. The he saw a rainbow flash of light as something hard and resonant struck him in the temple. An old brass tea kettle or something... he'd seen it on the fireplace when he walked in.

"I'm really not very good at this," he thought as he lost consciousness.

* * *

"So ma'am, you really don't know what he was doing here?"

"I have no idea. He said we chatted in the grocery line. I sort of remember. I think it was like a month ago."

"And he was working on the computer?"

"I don't know. He was in the office. That's what it looked like."

"Hey sarge! Come over here," a voice from the office called. The sargeant and the woman entered the office, where a young detective was peering at the laptop screen.

"Did you write this, ma'am?" the sargeant asked.

"Are you kidding me?"

"I don't kid," the sargeant said.

"No, sargeant. I did not write that."

"Well, ma'am, this is one for the books," the sargeant said, and walked out of the office. "I gotta get some air."

"I'll join you," the woman said.

A young uniformed officer tapped the detective on the shoulder.

"What does it say?"

"Hmmph. Read it yourself."

The officer peered over the detectives shoulder and read:

I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...

# # #

--------------------
What do you think? Click the envelope below to comment, or email me.

"Cold Feet"

I'm sitting on the ground. Brown dirt, tree roots, grass. My feet are in the grass. The green shoots wriggle up between my toes. Cool, damp.

I lean back. Tree bark. Rough, thick, knotted, grooved, carved by gnarled fingers.

I look up at the sky. Branches, leaves. Seeds encased in tiny propellers. Blue sky, clouds. Wispy white faces, skeletal hands, grasping, clawing at...blue.

I breathe. Deep, full. Exhale. Dramatic pause. Just another day in paradise. This is supposed to be relaxing.

Crack, crackle, rustle above. Bird? Squirrel? Chipmunk. Red-brown, black and white. Arms outstrectched, leaping, running.

I look out, straight out. Wide green field. Park. Soccer net. Sunny day. Too sunny. Squint. Glad I'm in the shade. Seagulls, gliding. How did they get to Minnesota?

Tickle on my hand. Tick! No, ladybug. Smash! No, brush off, lands on a blade of grass. It's outside, her home, not mine.

Rumble, grumble, ramble, hiss. Truck. Driving, interrupting.

Time, ticking. Time to go. Time to pick up kids, make lunch, play, remember, remind, cajole, convince. Discipline.

What to do next? Plan ahead. What's next? Plan ahead. What's next? Plan ahead. What's next?

Decide later. Time to go.

Another day in paradise.

-----------------------
What do you think? Click the envelope below to comment, or email me.

"With Great Power..." - A Dom Parker Story

A Dom Parker Story

* * *

Dom had flown too far, too fast. Again.

At least I brought a shirt this time, he thought.

The last time he flew, he'd wanted to see how fast he could go. He'd spread his wings and circled high over the skinny part of the bay that the locals called The River. He built build up speed, then shot like a cannon. He'd flown miles before he splashed down in the ocean at the southern end of the island, cold, shirtless, with just enough pocket change to take a city bus back home.

This time, he came prepared. He was glad he'd told his Dad he'd go biking with him. His Dad immediately came through with gear useful to a kid with 16 foot-transparent wings that sprouted from his back on command. Skin-tight spandex pants and shirt, and a little pouch where he could fold up a matching windbreaker and stash his house keys, cash and a cell phone. He'd cut two slits in the back of the shirt, so thin you'd never notice them, but just right so he could slip his wings through without ripping the kind of gaping holes that had been baffling his mother of late. He looked like a superhero. A really, really skinny superhero.

But landings. In the comics, everyone lands so gracefully. I land like God's using me as a skipping stone.

He must have flown eight miles tonight. His back ached his arms and elbows were scraped red and raw. So he sat for awhile, on the beach, staring at the ocean, picking at the sand. He made a small pile: Two clam shells, no clam; a stick that once held a popsicle, or maybe a corn dog; four cigarette butts; six flat stones, two round ones; one penny, the most money he'd ever made at the beach. Michelle said she found three dollars once, but Dom found that hard to believe.

Where are you, Michelle?

A golden retriever ran by, splashing, chased by a couple in sweats. Dom waved. It was late, too late for the bus, so he'd have to fly back home, no matter how much his back hurt. He stood and started the climb the the hill, to the rocky cliffs on his right, where he could more easily get some air.

Funny that I land here, Michelle. It had been almost a month now, when they walked here and watched the sun set and talked about life and friends and what the stars might have to say. And then it was time to go and she said she'd be leaving for awhile, and she couldn't say where or why but she was and then she kissed him, briefly but so softly on the lips and walked back to her car and Dom's mother shouted, so he rejoined his family on the beach as they packed up the blankets and towels and cooler for the drive back home. She was gone ...

Then she screamed. Screamed? No, that's here, now. Where?

Another scream.

He looked around frantically. Two silhouettes, at the top of the cliff, the tourist overlook, the one with the binoculars for a quarter. One cringed, arms over her face, by the railing, fending off what, in the moonlight, looked like a swarm of bees. The other figure looked like a vampire -- guiding the swarm like a conductor.

Cyril. What's he doing here?

Without thinking, he ran. Up the cliff, clamboring over rocks.

Cyril turned to look at him, his face, even paler in the moonlight, framed by his long black hair.

"Dom. So nice you could join us," he called.

What's with the evil genius voice, Cyril? Dom kept his thoughts to himself. He was on the trail now, the one that led up to the vista point, so he could run.

Oh great, Dom thought. Cyril had turned to face him and the swarm turned on him, a pale cloud of rocks and dust and shells and bottle tops and popsicle sticks and whatever other garbage Cyril could find.

Dom kept running. He closed his eyes.

I can't do this.

His jaw clenched. He could feel tears welling. He was breathing hard.

I can't do this.

He opened his eyes and saw the girl, leaning on the railing, staring at him in horror.

Not Michelle. Dammit. Tracy...from Calculus.

The swarm had almost reached him, and he nearly froze. The last time, he'd felt it's sting -- death by a million cuts. There was pain, and it never stopped.

"I can't do this!" he shouted out loud. But inside he knew.

I will do this.

Dom leaped. The wings blossomed from his back, great and ghostly. They carried him over the swarm. From the top of his arc, he glimpsed Tracy, on her knees, eyes wide in awe. He stopped for a moment, as Cyril tried to redirect the swarm.

Then, Dom dove, and in a moment, his outstretched slammed into Cyril's chest, knocking him to the ground. Dom stood over him, not sure what to do. Cyril smiled his most ingratiating grin.

"Well played, Dominic. See you in school." A cloud of dust burst in Dom's face. When he finished coughing, Cyril was gone.

"Who...who are you?" Tracy called. She doesn't recognize me.

"I just wanted to help," Dom said. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I guess."

"Do you have a car?"

"Yes. Yes, I do." She was recovering, getting her bearings. Staring at him. Dom backed away and turned to the side. She walked toward him.

"Good. You can drive right? 'Cause I don't have a car here or anything."

"I'll be okay, now." She paused. "What are you?"

"I'm just a kid, you know? I just wanted to help."

They stared at each for a moment, Dom half in shadow, Tracy's pretty face cut and scraped from the swarm.

"You make a funny angel," she said, and smiled a little.

Angel? Angel?!

Dom had an overwhelming urge to run.

"I...I'm glad you're okay."

And he ran.

# # #

-------------------
What do you think? Click the envelope below to comment, or email me.

"Swing and a Miss"

I never saw it coming.

Here I am in this dank, mildewy basement, with the rotted wood frame, creaking under the weight of the old house above me. Here I am, leaning on a metal shelf filled with old paint cans and brushes and pans, my feet kicking a stack of cardboard boxes, each overflowing with yellowing newspapers and lined notebook pages, poking out the sides. Here I am in the dark, surrounded by concrete walls, down the shag-carpeted stairs from the locked and barricaded door.

What had I done to deserve this?

I check my hands. I've found that's the best place to start. Caked in white-gray powder. Thick patches of dirt under my finger nails. There's something dark on my arms...paint? Multiple shades, splashed lengthwise down my forearms, shaped like Bob Marley's hair.

Elbow scratched, bruised. My hands and arms are, too, I realize. I must have fallen down the stairs.

Sneakers? Caked in mud. Thick mud, dried. How long have I been down here?

I hear a creaking, the click of a latch. I look to the stairs, but the sound is coming from above. A door opens in the ceiling, and I squint in the bright light. I see a silhouette of a man.

"So," I call out. "It happened again?"

"Yeah," the voice said. Male, curt, all business.

"You OK?" I ask, because I should.

"Fine," he said. "But that's just me. What do you know."

"Dirt, mud cakes, paint and dust and dirt on my hands."

"Anything else."

"I'm cold and tired and would like to get the hell out of here."

"Unlikely,"the voice said. It must have been bad this time.

"When?" I figured I should sound intereested. I guess I was. The truth was, if I could get him to feed me, I could hang out here as long as I had to. Beats working.

"Don't know yet."

"What happened? Can you just tell me what happened?"

"You really don't know."

"I really don't know." I was starting to get angry. Not a good idea.

"What's the last thing you remember," the voice asked.

"Who are you?" I said, testily. Testing.

"It doesn't matter." Oh well. "What's the last thing you remember?

"I remember arriving at Greenwood. Am I still in Greenwood? Stopped in at this burger place. Sat in the booth by the window. Had a burger and a cup of coffee, a danish and some hash browns. The food was delicious."

"And then?"

"And then I ask for a glass of water. And the waitress comes back, but she's not wearing that little pink and white number she'd been wearing. She's grown four arms, out of her side, like a spider. And her face and body are all hairy. And she's got these sharp needles for teeth and these pincer things sticking out of her mouth. Her eyes are big black goggles, like a bug right? Only giant. And she starts walking toward me, and I realize that the cooks look like this too --just as beastly only wearing aprons and chef hats."

"So what did you do?"

"Well, first I asked for more coffee, but she didn't seem to have any. She said something I didn't understand. I remember I said it again and again, but she didn't seem to understand. The others started gathering around. There must have been dozens of them."

"Thirty-four."

"What?"

"There were 34 people. In the diner."

"Wow, that's a lot."

"Yes. It is a lot." He sounded very grim, kind of mean.

"So anyway, I kept yelling and they all started crowding me, you know? Getting closer and closer."

"Then what happened?"

"I don't know. That's the last thing I remember."

"Convenient."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"I think you can tell me. I think you can tell me now. NOW." I jump. It must be like 12 feet in the air, and I hook my hand around his leg, start scratching at the floor. My eyes are closed because the light is so bright now I can't see a thing, but I can tell this guy's wearing rough cotton-polyester pants and has on tall leather boots. Something hard hits my hand and its slips off his leg. My nails -- long, almost claw-like dig deep grooves in the wood floor. I growl, just to let him know I mean business. But the growl is met with a sharp blow to the jaw, and I fall back down to the floor, knocking over a cardboard box and sending papers scattering all over the floor.

I'm pissed. "Tell me now!" I scream again and again and again until the door until the ceiling slams shut and the latch clicks and I'm all alone again.

Thirty-four. At least I won't be hungry for awhile.

# # #

----------------------
What do you think? Click below to comment, or go to my profile to send me an email.

"Chicken Little"

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Jackie hung by the tips of her fingers from the edge of the six-story Randall Building, her long, lavender nails leaving a thin white trail on the concrete cornice.

"Me neither," Jackie said to the voice from the roof, straining to hold on a few moments longer. "But here I am. A little help please?"

"Let me get back to you on that," the voice said. Jackie stiffened, and her too-sweaty fingers slipped a couple millimeters.

"Don't take too long." Sonofabitch, she thought. I left the coffee pot on. I left the coffee pot on and my place is going to burn down. Shit.

"Oh, I'll take my time. I'll take all the time I need."

"I'm getting kind of hungry," Jackie said, trying to be funny, though she knew the woman on the roof was in no mood to laugh. Not with her, anyway. It had been self defense, of course, but the woman on the roof wouldn't take that into account when assessing who is to blame the mess in her apartment. The mess who'd been so...together...in bed with the woman just a few minutes ago.

The woman on the roof peered over the edge. She had short blonde hair, blue eyes, and thin lips hidden by thick red lipstick. Jackie noted that she was filing her nails. Great.

"I'll bet you are. I just have one thing to ask you. " She paused.

"What, already?" Jackie could feel her plams growing more wet and slick. She closed her eyes and whispered a short prayer.

"Testy, testy."

"Wouldn't you be? C'mon!" Her hands slid another inch. She opened her eyes and spied a ledge about 10 feet below. It looked too far the first time she saw it, but now, if she could angle her legs just right...no...impossible.

"What I want to know is, who..."

"Who? Who what?" Jackie shouted. There wasn't much time.

"Who is the one who ..."

Too late.

# # #

What's *Your* Story?

Hi, it's me, Chronic. The Author. Just thought I'd check in. How do you like the site so far? Good? Great.

From what I can tell, about 100 or so people have visited, and most have left quickly. That's good. That's the idea.

And they haven't come back. That's not so much the idea.

If you happen to drop by today, or perhaps tomorrow, or even another day, drop me a line. And if you're so willing, answer the following questions:

1) How do you like the stories? Delightful? Odd? Boring? Really boring? Make you want to throw myself through a plate glass window?

2) What's your favorite? Why?

3) What's your least favorite? Why?

4) Are you interested in writing a story for One Minute Stories? Would be happy to share the spotlight (more of a candlelight, or a matchlight, really, but you get the idea).

Thank you for your support.

PS -- My take is twofold, by the way: 1) some of the stories are pretty cool, some are kind of boring, and I've been in a kind of thematic rut that parallels a real-world rut. OK for me -- it's therapeutic. 2) People aren't looking for a daily dose of rip-roarin' really really short story action. They're looking for amusement. The blog needs more amusement.

"I didn't say that"

So, you say you want to be a cowboy.

I didn't say that.

Of course you did. Everyone wants to be a cowboy.

I don't.

Don't be silly. Why else would you be here?

The sign said, "Fulfill Your Dreams." I figured it was bullshit, but I'm lonely and pathetic. I'm walking around, it's late, I'm never going to sleep, I figure what they hell, has to be worth a laugh.

Yes. I understand. You want to be a cowboy.

Umm, OK, so this is a metaphor, right? Like, being a cowboy is a metaphor for fulfilling your dreams, for getting in touch with your inner child. So, being a "cowboy" is sort of like doing what you truly want to do, deep inside, right?

If you say so.

If I say so?

If you say so. You're the one who came in here. People come in here for all sorts of reasons. They have all sorts of dreams. You know, it's hard to fulfill dreams from a streetcorner shop.

I'll bet.

I mean, you don't usually get to pick up fulfillment at retail.

That's true.

Damn right it's true. And yet, here you are.

Here I am.

So. What can I do for you?

What do you mean? I came in here because the sign said you could fulfill my dreams. I get here, they take my 54 bucks and they send me back to this office with cheap wood paneling and shag carpet, and you telling me I want to be a cowboy. I don't want to be a goddam cowboy. I've never wanted to be a goddam cowboy.

No need to shout.

I'm not shouting!

I said there's no need to shout, but you can if you want. Shout all you want. Just tell me what you want.

I want my dreams fulfilled.

Yes, of course. But what dreams?

You don't know?

Did I say I did?

Kind of. You said I wanted to be a cowboy.

Well you do, don't you?

Now we're just talking in circles.

Look. Everyone has dreams. Everyone has the ideal life they wanted to lead, but somehow got off track, just like you. And they find themselves wandering around late at night wondering if the answer to all of their questions is in a little storefront on the street where the tourists come to shop. And you know what?

I guess I don't.

The answers are here.

Really...

Yeah, really. If you're willing to take the next step. To cross the line.

The line...?

The one that separates your reality from the dream. I have in my hands two pills...

Like in The Matrix, right?

Yes. Like in The Matrix. Christ, that movie screwed up this business. I have half a mind to sue those bastards. As I was saying .. I have two pills. The pill in my left hand will show you your dream. The pill on the right will transform you. You will be the man who embraces the dream...the man who embraces his destiny.

Right. How will it do that?

It changes your life.

How?

You take it.

I don't get it.

I imagined you wouldn't.

You're full of crap. I want my money back.

No refunds. You signed the form.

I'll call the police!

You do that. Look, I tried.

You tried? You sold me a load of bunk. You jabbered on and on about destiny. You call that trying?

You're right. I'm full of crap. I was just messing with you.

You were?

Depends.

Depends? On what?

Nothing. Just, go, OK?

Alright. I'm going. You're nuts, you know that?

I know. Take care of yourself.

* * *

"So, Boss. How'd it go? That guy looked pretty pissed."

Sorry, Jane. You took care of him, right?

"Yah. He'll be OK. But he'd have made a lousy cowboy."

You think so?

"Oh, yeah. Looked terrible in the hat."

# # #