Short, short story: seed

He used two short sentences he had written for Espresso Stories to conclude a novel that eventually earned him two million dollars.

Short, short story: no one thought about that

As the fleet of Project Genesis neared Mars, an asteroid smashed into the red planet. "How ironic," sighed the captain.

Short, short story: animal passion

We saw a girl from PETA wearing nothing but a sign today.
Tonight, we made love on a bearskin rug in front of the fireplace.

Short, short story: red sails

She disappeared like a ship with red sails over the horizon. I took my father’s rough, wet hand and pulled it to my cheek.

Short, short story: catch me if you can

Hobbled by his pants, he fell. Immediately the shot that ended the affair exploded in his ears.

Short, short story: just like the Bible says

I looked at her hard when she wasn't looking. I lusted for her in my loins just like the Bible says.

Short, short story: suck on this. . .then move on.

It was my mother. My brother was born a year after me. My older brother took care of me. How could I love you?

Short, short stories

I started writing short stories for Espresso Stories.

I don't remember how I found Stumble Upon, but it took me to Espresso Stories the day before yesterday. Writing is one of the topics I had selected for Stumble Upon to link to.

I started writing yesterday. So, none have been accepted yet.

A Riddle in the Old English Style

Old English riddles can be found in the Exeter Book. These riddles, as well as other Anglo Saxon writings, are divided into two half-lines. There are two beats to the half-line. Further, the style calls for alliterative verse characterized by consonants to create a staccato effect and "roughness" of a Germanic language. Many of the riddles were written by monks who took pleasure in creating suggestive pieces with a mundane solution.

The assignment in my British Literature class was to write a riddle in this style.


My quirky creation,          I’m dizzyingly dense,

now, living alone          in deepest darkness,

blackest black          of my own making,

I do dare          searchers who seek me

directly discover          my swarthy shape.

Find my effects,          proof of position,

look for my light          in hidden horizon,

blazingly bright,          but valueless vision.

Nearby my neighbors          rush to retreat,

but bringing them back,         I forge their futures.

Orbiting aught          they silently spin.

As pitch to the pooch,          so rays from my region,

disrobing the dying          clothing flung far.

Come close,          eternity’s inception.

Don’t be deceived          I own no honor.

Fascinating future          ends in extinction.

Expectant imagination,          dismal destruction.

Terrible tides          to pull you apart,

hope goes to hell          the closer you come.

We become one,          but you, left a loser.


© 2006 All rights reserved.

The Falls

     "Ugh!"

     I land on my shoulder.

     "Uhh!"

     I bounce onto my back.

     I try to keep my head from hitting on the rocks.

     My hat helps.

     We went biking before hiking.

     I should have worn my bike helmet.

     Should I try to put my hands behind my head?

     "Ahh!"

     Katie--Drew--Missy--they're watching.

     I worry about them watching me, their father, husband, tumbling down this mountain.

     I'm strong.

     I don't want them to see me hurt.

     Try to lie flat and increase friction.

     What did the park ranger say? An eighty degree incline?

     What's ahead?

     Roots.

     I can use the roots to stop--if I slow down.

     Don't go past the roots.

     Arms out.

     Roll.

     Arms out.

     Bounce and roll.

     I'm not slowing down.

     Arms out.

     This kind of thing can kill me.

     I finally get flat. My feet are pointed downhill or, rather, down-mountain. I'm sliding. I jam my boots into the roots. My legs hang off a big root while I lie on my back. I've stopped.

     How badly am I hurt?

     "Don't move! Wait 'til we get to you!" My wife, Missy, the R.N.

     I sit up. I check my parts, broken parts, punctured parts.

     I find scrapes.

     My hat stayed on.

     Pain.

     My left shin is bleeding. Blood flows down my leg. My sock is turning blood red.

     My glasses stayed on.

     Kaitlin, my daughter, fifteen, sits down on my left.

     "Mom said don't move."

     "I think I'm OK. I have a gash on my leg."

     She's wearing two t-shirts because it's cool today. She takes one off and I rip it to make a bandage.

     I feel tired.

     I feel confused.

     Missy comes up from behind and sits on the roots on my right.

     "I told you not to move."

     "I have a gash in my leg."

     She looks.

     "You'll probably need stitches."

     "Is Drew OK?" I say.

     She lifts my shirt and checks my chest and back.

     "He's sitting at the top. I told him to stay there. He was crying and really upset. You just have scrapes and scratches on your back."

     Imagine being a child and watching your father roll down a mountain.

     I'm so tired.

     I'm trying not to shake.

     A lady walks by going down the trail.

     "I'm sorry you fell."

     "Well, if I had had boots like yours I probably wouldn't have."

     That was dumb.

     Boots can't grab a rock face. I didn't slip. I lost my balance and I fell. There was nothing to hold on to. The cable was six feet away; six feet away from the best way down.

     Why didn't she stop? Doesn't she give a damn?

     "I think I can walk out."

     I rise.

     I sit.

     "Just wait a few minutes," Missy says.

     I wait.

     I'm exhausted.

     "I'm so tired. I'm trying not to shake."

     Missy: "Adrenaline. You've had a shock to your body."

     I'll say. I've had a shock to my mind, too. I've never been mortal before.

     I rise.

     Slowly I lift my foot up onto the big root. And then the other. I take a few steps to make sure I have the strength to climb. I start back up the eighty-degree incline. I step on and over the jagged rocks I recently bounced on. I look for blood but there's none. I look up at the cliff.

     I am weary.

     Missy walks behind me while Kaitlin goes in front. Missy is five feet two inches tall. She pushes with one hand on my butt. Making each step sure, I climb to the top.

     Drew, just ten years old, is sitting cross-legged on the ground sniffling. His lower lip quivers.

     "I'm OK. Are you OK?"

     "Yes."

     Silently we hold each other.

     We all rest a few minutes at the top. Then we start back down the path the way we came.

     The bushes form a corridor. Below the cliff it was shady. Out here, in the corridor, the sun is shining brightly. People walk by headed for the cable trail. I want to warn them. I want them to ee my gash. I want them to know I'm strong. I want sympathy. I want surprise and "Oh, my!" I want them to know I fell down a mountain and climbed back up. I want them to restore me to my immortal throne.

     Kaitlin: "Well, Dad, now you can say you fell down a mountain."

     I chuckle.

     "Yeah, this will make a good story," I say.

     We get to the trailhead and walk back up the road to a grassy area where there are bathrooms and vending machines. I lie in the grass while Missy checks for wounds again. She gives me Ibuprofen. We decide not to go to the ranger station to report my fall. They would want to keep me for observation. I want to go home. We make a plan to leave and go to the Emergency Room at the hospital near our home.

     "What happened? What did you see?" I ask.

     "I wasn't looking when you fell. I just saw you rolling down the hill," says Missy.

     "You looked at me, but you didn't say anything. You looked for something to grab. You looked like you knew. You just kept rolling. I thought, 'He's got to stop. He's got to stop,' " Kaitlin says.

     Drew doesn't say anything.

     A year later we return to camp there again. I am determined to go back to the trail and hike all the way down to the bottom of the waterfall. Kaitlin says she'll go with me. I don't feel afraid. I need to "get back up on that horse." I'm hell-bent for leather. But I know there is no way to really know until I go back. I want to see the cliff and the rocks I tumbled over. I want to know if I remember things like they actually were.

     I don't. The rock I fell from was eight feet off the ground. But it wasn't dirt ground. It was rock ground. There was nothing but jagged rocks. Only the last few feet where I slid into the roots was dirt and gravel. I had thought it was all dirt and gravel. I had thought the danger lay in the fall, breaking my neck, and then in tumbling, breaking an arm that got twisted under me or behind me; hitting my head too hard on the dirt ground; thudding on my side breaking ribs. It had been more dangerous than I remembered. Looking at those spiky protrusions, a metamorphic lithology of lances all set in place to defeat the careless or overconfident foot soldier of nature, I wondered how I survived, how I was able to stand up and walk away.

     I am only a little skittish about going down the cliff. I'm overly careful. I don't want Kaitlin to see any fear in me. I can feel a twinge of apprehension. I can feel a thread pulling me back.

     "Are you doing OK?" Kaitlin says.

     "You betcha, little missy!" say I.

     Kaitlin and I go all the way down to the pool below the falls. We spend a few minutes taking pictures, throwing rocks into the pool, and watching the water fall.

     Watching the top of the falls, I can see debris falling every now-and-then. A limb tumbles through the falling water and splashes into the pool at the waterfall's base. It gets caught in the eddies around the rumbling water that drives downward with such force the limb submerges and then bounces to the surface only to be sucked in again, pummelled under again, then popping to the surface, sucked in again. Finally, the chaotic currents free the limb to float downstream bumping into rocks and boulders strewn willy-nilly by years of melting snow, rain, and erosion. Off it goes, out of sight. The limb will eventually find quiet water off to the side of the faster running current, gently washed onto a sandbar to dry rot. Or it will be snagged by a fallen tree, jammed between branches constantly washed by the flow, drowned, becoming a host for moss and slime, the occasional resting place of an insect itself destined to be snatched by the cartilaginous mouth of a small bass.

     Not so with me.

     On the way back up I take pictures of those jagged rocks and the cliff. Maybe I'll post them on a website and tell the story. Maybe everyone will know I'm strong.

     Children aren't supposed to see their father roll down a mountain. Children aren't supposed to see their father lose control of life. They aren't supposed to know he can be taken by surprise. It is exactly the thing they dread when they lie in bed in the dark at night. "Dad could have died when he fell down the mountain." Squish your eyes shut. Shake your head. Shake that picture out of your head and scream. Shiver. Cover your ears and scream that horrible memory away.

* * *

     I knew it as it happened. The way down, the best way down, was to step on a rock about four feet below. Drew was barely over four feet tall. I lowered myself and then turned around to help him. Missy and Drew were above me and in front of me waiting for me to say, "OK. Let's try it." Kaitlin was sitting on a rock at head-level to me on my right. The rock I was standing on had a slight downward incline. Most people would be facing down hill at this point and leaning back, not turned around.

     The earth tilted forward. I knew. I looked at Kaitlin. I looked for something to grab. There was nothing but the rounded surface of the rocks in front of me. I calculated the fall to be eight to ten feet. I hoped to fall on my shoulder. I dreaded falling on my head. I thought of my neck breaking.

     "Ugh!"