Famous Author

My freshman year in college I submitted a story to a visiting author, who admitted me to his graduate level writing course.  He admitted anyone who submitted anything.  Seven applied, seven were accepted.  He was well known in the literary world, but unknown to me.  I was invited to an interview with the author, in his cluttered, windowless basement office, where I found him chain-smoking, unshaven and un-groomed. He told me he had read a little of my story, and I was admitted to his class, but said, "I can't teach you to write. You've either got it, or you don't. You could go out and sit under a tree and learn to write just as easily as in a classroom. So here's the deal: You leave me alone so I can write, and I leave you alone to write, and I'll give you an A or a B. Deal?" I took the deal. I spent the semester writing and skipping his class. So did he. At the end of the semester I got an A. The other students got B's because they went to his office seeking his guidance. Ten years later, the visiting author, who taught me nothing, won the Pulitzer Prize for literature. Five years after that I found his book in a thrift shop. I paid two dollars for it. It was acclaimed as brilliant, but I found it unbearable.  I still write, but mostly I just sit under a tree.

My Uber Career

My Uber Career

I signed up to be an Uberizer.  I had difficulty signing up online.  When I grew up, computers were the size of refrigerators and they only responded to Captain Kirk's voice.  I decided to visit the Uber store in person.  I went to the Uber place by Pier One  and saw five Uber people sitting in Uber chairs at Uber tables.  I asked to talk to them about Ubering.  They said no, go back to the front door and sign in on the ipad on the istand.  I had walked right by, thinking it a tiny table, setting my cinnamon macchiato on it.  After I signed in, I went back into the Uber room, where I sat, ignored by all those bowing their heads to their devices. Eventually, the same person who told me to go back and sign in called my name off a list.  I was the only one on the list.  I told her I had failed at signing up online because I am over twenty-five and cannot operate complicated things like Rubik's cubes.  She showed me how to input my entire life’s personal data into her pad in five seconds.  I told her how old I was and she started over, slowly, talking to me the way she talks to her parents once a month at assisted living.  Eventually I got it.  I went home and proudly turned the app on and got in my car.  But my car would not let me get texts from riders while in gear because the onboard computer didn’t allow texting while driving.  I went inside, went online on my PC Google machine search engine looking for help.  A blog of people let me know I had to turn off my blue tooth in my car because my 2016 ford was too old and stupid to be an Uber car.  It took me ninety minutes to turn off the blue tooth because 1: I don’t know what "blue tooth" means, and 2:  I don't know what "settings" means, and 3: I was raised on an abacus.  The blogosphere taught me how to Uber.  I turned on the App again and it told me the terms and conditions of my contract had changed in the last ten minutes.  I had to read a new policy document the size of the big bible my parents use as a TV stand.  I just scrolled down and hit "Yes, I agree” ten times. That may have sent my bank account numbers to a server farm in Moscow.  So again, I was ready to Uber.  No, the Uber app told me my insurance card was expiring in 2 weeks so I had to photograph and submit a new one.  I did that, but I think I also sent them all my vacation pictures from St. Croix.  So now I was ready, right? Well, no.  By then, my selfie pic in their system no longer looked like me, because I was aging so fast.  I updated that with a picture of my neighbor Bob who looks the way I want to look. Then I was ready to Uber.  The app said no, because my GPS navigation failed, because my phone was not transmitting my car’s location, because I had not told it to, because I was afraid my wife was tracking me.  My phone and I were no longer on speaking terms, so I went to "Settings" and pushed every button there to Yes.  Suddenly my credit card company texted me that I had just bought a new Range Rover two states over.  Later I tried again to go online, so I could Uber (pick up strangers.)  I should be able to pick up strangers easily because that’s how I got married.  The Uber App said not so fast. It said my car was not clean enough and I had to vacuum out the back seat, and for God’s sake hang a deodorizer on the mirror.  Okay, done. Now I was ready to Uber.  But then I read in the paper that human trafficking is illegal, so I called my lawyer, who hung up on me.  Next, I called AARP for advice but I couldn’t hear their response because my hearing aids were picking up air traffic control chatter.  I was stumped.  I have not yet picked up any strangers, but boy, do I want to.  I really need that Uber money since my Social Security checks started going to Nigeria.  I did get a bonus, a cool U sticker in my car window, free.  I think I will be able to Uber if I hire an IT guy to ride shotgun.

The Sandbox

Flash Story: The Sandbox

Tony packs and I stack. Plopped down hard, the sand sticks together. White specks frost Tony's elbows. I'm clean but for my knees. These are my play-pants so no you-go-to-bed-without-supper when I get home. Two buckets is faster but Tony just keeps on crammin' that good wet grit into the yellow bucket with Yogi Bear's face on the side. I'm a stacker, always been a stacker, but I know two buckets is better cuz' me and Froggy Davis got the world championship with a sand castle four feet high. Tony's brother Donny could've beat us so we punched him out after school and he missed the contest. That was last week. Now me and Tony are a team cuz Froggy's Grandma died and he went to see her.

"Tony, you ever see a dead person?"

"No, I seen pictures."

"If I was Froggy, I'd run away before I looked at my grandma dead."

"My sister broke her arm once."

"That's nothin' like a dead person Tony."

Froggy was a better packer than Tony any day. Tony's got strong arms though. He's always openin' manhole covers for the Sewer Club meetings. It it wasn't for Tony, there wouldn't be any Sewer Club. I invented the club after Tony put his sister in the sewer and nobody could get her out but Tony. She found a wallet down there and that's when the sewer became our secret headquarters. Tony's not packing so good today. One wall fell down on our first castle so I blamed him and he got mad and kicked the rest of it down. It's the packer's fault if the whole wall slumps, not the stacker's.

"Wayne, can I help?" Little Kit is sitting in our sandbox and we ignore him. Last time he wet his pants in the sand and I got whipped for punchin' him."

"Go pee somewhere else." says Tony. Tony wouldn't hit Kit or anybody. Tony hasn't been in a fight since he lifted the manhole cover. Everybody's afraid. Except me.

I stack a whole wall and look at Tony. "Where we gonna put the door?"

Tony's nose is running and sand is sticking all over his snotty upper lip. "Castles got drawbridges, dummy." I watch his sand moustache creep down toward his mouth. "Put it on that side so people walking by can see it." He points to the wall facing Bacon street.

"Let me play," It's little Kit again, "I got money." I look at Tony. He looks at me. He licks off his moustache. "How much money?" I ask without looking up.

"Two dollars." Tony and I stop building and we sit on either side of Kit. Maybe he's not lying.

"Where'd you get two dollars? Steal it?" Kit's too small to steal anything that's not on the floor already, but if he did, we would have to confiscate it.

"No, I took it from mom and if you take it I'm gonna tell her to whip your butt." Kit's mom whipped me once for pretending to eat sand ‘cuz she says Kit will do anything us big boys do. He only ate a little.

"Well, for two dollars you can be the moat-digger. That's if you say please."

"Please Wayne, please?" Tony and I divide up the dollars and we all three kneel down to work.

Tony packs, I stack, Kit digs. The castle looks real, maybe good enough for a contest. I ask Tony if he thinks so.

"Not big enough yet. Well packed, though."

"Stacked well, you mean."

"Packed well."

"Stacked well."

"Shut up." I shut up. Tony watches Kit dig. "Kit you're digging too close to the castle." "Moats are supposed to be close." I push sand into the moat and the moat is gone. Tony smiles and packs but Kit just stares at his missing moat. Kit cries easy. When we told him about the monsters that live in closets and under beds, he cried. He cries every time we leave him in the sewer. Now Kit cries and stands up.

"Hey, don't step on the castle." Tony and I grab Kit and sit him down on one of the logs that frame the sandbox. I remember sometimes when he cries, he pees.

"Don't cry, Kit." I hand him the Yogi Bear shovel for sissies. "Here, use the shovel and make a better moat." Kit likes the shovel and he smiles while he cries. "Tony, check his bottom."

"You check his bottom. You made him cry."

“You're a bigger baby than him if you don't."

No one will check Kit's bottom so I stand him up and throw sand against his bottom. Nothing sticks. Good enough for me.

I make a tall tower in the corner, like a look-out, and the Yogi shovel moat creeps around the side wall. Kit is making bulldozer noises. I tell him to smooth and wet the sand where he digs. He doesn't get it. The base of the wall cracks. The wall above tumbles into the moat, leaving the castle open to attack.

"You dummy, you broke my wall."

"I'm sorry, Wayne."

"You're gonna be sorry." I make a fist in the air but Kit's too scared and small and his mom would whip me. Kit's eyes bug out and he wraps his arms around his head like a helmet. "It's okay, Kit. I won't hit you."

Kit bulldozes gently around the rest of the castle. He lays down in the sand and starts talking to the shovel. I try to fix the broken wall but Tony hasn't packed any sand for me.

"Wayne, let me stack for a while."

"I'm the best builder. Keep packing. You're doing great."

"Nobody wants to cram sand in a plastic bucket all day."

"Tough boogers."

"Okay, I'm taking my bucket home, smarty-pants."

"Okay, you can stack, you sissy. I would rather pack anyway."

I pack a few bucketfuls but they don't stick together. I add water. They start coming out of the bucket like bricks. I'm one of the best packers on the block or maybe on all of Bacon street. Dad says it's ‘cuz I have good hands. Last winter I hurt two kids in a snowball fight. I got one with my super-packed icy ball. I got the other one with the secret rock-in-the-snowball trick. When Tony pulls his hair back you can still see the pink scar.

"What do I do now, Wayne?" Kit shovels sand into his pockets while waiting for orders.

"Go home." Kit's going to wet his pants soon but not in our sandbox.

"But I gave you money. Come on, please?"

"Got any more money?" Tony's eyebrows pop up.

"It's my mom's. I took it."

"How much?"

"Another dollar."

"Ooh, you better be careful on the way home or the goon will get it."

"Goon?"

"Yeh, a goon. But don't worry. Goons only live over by the bay. They won't bother you anyway unless you have money. If you had any money and they smelled it, they would rip your head off."

"Don't scare him Wayne. He's just a little kid."

"I won't scare him." I don't want Kit to believe everything I say, but he is so easy to fib to. "There's no more work for you Kit. You're too little for the hard stuff."

"I am not. Look at my muscles." Kit pulls up his sleeves and shows his scrawny white arms. "Okay, Kit, the guy in charge of the moat is in charge of filling it with moat water."

"Yes, sir." Kit salutes and sticks out his chest.

Tony laughs and says "Yeh, the moat water."

Kit says he can get water from his bathroom.

"Bathroom? You don't know much about moats. Moats have alligators in them, right?"

"Yes, sir, and crocodiles."

"Right. bathroom water is no good for alligators and crocodiles. They need water from the bay."

Tony was surprised. "The bay?"

Kit was confused. "I don't know where the bay is, Wayne."

"Then we'll make you a map. Right, Tony?"

"Wayne, the bay is too far. He'll get lost. We've never been there."

"I said we'll make him a map. Unless you want to get the moat water." Tony does not. I make a long groove in the sand with my finger.

"That's Bacon Street." I poke some holes. "That's your house and this is mine." I draw another line. "That's the highway. I forget the name. You walk all the way down Bacon Street to the highway. There’s the bay right there right. Any questions?"

"No sir." Kit's a little braver than I thought. Or dumber.

"Then go get that water. We can't finish the castle without it."

Kit steps out of the sandbox and pours the sand out of his pockets. "And one more thing. You'll be in goon country. Better let me hold onto that dollar for you. Goons smell money and will eat your head off."

"Okay, but I better get it back." Kit pulls a crumpled dollar bill out of his pocked and hands it to me. I hand him the plastic bucket for the moat water.

I wish him luck. Tony says goodbye. Kit marches away. Tony doesn't say anything about the dollar while we finish our castle. When it's done, Tony has to go home ‘cuz it's getting dark. I don't have to go home but I do ‘cuz I am still thinkin' about goons and maybe I'm a little scared.

I run home thinking about dinner. I open the door and mom has her mean face on.

"Hi, mom." I go to her for a hug but her face stays mean.

"You're in big trouble, young man. It's past five o'clock." I reach up to her but her arms stay crossed. I run up to my room so she won't see me cry. I run and jump on the bed face down. I think about other things to stop crying. I roll over and sand pours out of my shoes and pockets onto the bed. I pull the two dollar bills out of my pocket and count them twice. One, two. One, two. I hear mom's slippers slapping up the stairs. I hide my money under my pillow.

"Wayne, that was Mrs. Taylor on the phone just now. She sent Kit out to play this afternoon and he never came back. Did you see Kit today? We're really worried"

My feet hang off the bed. I shake them and watch the sand fly off.

"No, mom. Just built a sand castle, that's all."

Mom starts to leave and then turns back. "Honey, why don't you come down and get some dinner?"

"No thanks, mom. Not hungry." She goes downstairs and I take my money out and count it again. I don't need her dinner anyway. I'm rich.

Driverless Car

Flash Story: Driverless Car

I bought a driverless car. It's a Tulsa, made in Oklahoma, sold in California, a blue state that's in the red and going green under governor Brown. I bought my driverless car without taking a test drive. What's the point. I hopped in and tried to start my new Tulsa.

I said, "Alexa, take me to Starbuck's." Nothing happened.

I said, "Siri, start the car." Nothing.

I clapped my hands twice. The car clapped on.

I drove down the street and came to a stop sign. At the same time, a driverless Toyota Pious arrived at the other stop sign. Both cars hesitated, searching their onboard memory for the Simultaneous Yield Rights Protocol. Their hesitation was overridden by the Manup Override Command. Both cars entered the intersection and collided. My airbag opened and shoved my Vape pen down my throat.

My Tulsa said, "You have arrived at your destination." The Tulsa and Pious communicated with each other via Greentooth. They exchanged insurance information and called the police. I sat on the curb next to the other car-less non-driver, a human.

I asked, "Did you see what happened?"

He said, "No, I was texting a row of emojis. Did you see what happened?"

I said, "No, I was vaping medical opium."

He asked, "What do we do now?"

I approached the police car. Its USB speaker said, "Hands where I can see them."

I raised my hands, dropping both of my iphones, and asked politely, "What do we do now, officer, car, sir?"

The police car replied, "A driverless ambulance will arrive shortly and take you to a doctorless hospital. You may want to contact an attorneyless law firm. Both of your cars will hold their drivers liable for damages."

"But we weren't even driving." I whined.

The police car said, "I'm citing you both for failure to pay attention."

I said, "What? Our cars instructed us not to pay attention."

The police car said, "Human error is always to blame."

I was furious. "Who is your superior?"

The police car said, "Skynet." It started to drive away.

I yelled, "WAIT, where are you going?"

The police car said, "I'll be back."

Flash Stories, Short Stories, Flash Fiction, Sudden Fiction, Micro Fiction

Welcome, all who wish to write Flash Stories.  A new literary form, some say Flash Stories should be 500 to 1500 words.  Some say 300 to 1000.  Short attention spans rule.  Flash Stories are not vignettes, not poetry, but completes stories, stripped of excess.