Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Fiction 101

For the past few years, Aaron has been submitting stories to the City Beat for their Fiction 101 contest. The stories can be of any genre, but should be no longer than 101 words. This year, Aaron submitted 4 wonderful stories, but the readers at the City Beat have their heads somewhere else, and his stories were not chosen. So instead, we're sharing them here. Enjoy!!

ODELAY!

Strange coincidence: Coyotes dig Beck! Sitting on my patio, waiting for burgers to grill, I was bobbing my head and tapping my foot to “Hotwax” on the boom box; mid air-drum I noticed an army of scrutinizing eyes coming from the adjacent canyon. My peepers bulged uncomfortably and leaping from my chair with supernatural ability, I grabbed the grill brush and brandished it menacingly. Unfortunately, I knocked over the stereo, thereby ending the illustrious cacophony. Momentarily I gawked at the wreckage, lamenting, but then quickly resumed attack stance; the beasts were moving away disenchanted.

"Wait, you assholes owe me $200!"


KARMIC ENTRAPMENT

He sits contemplating the bug he squashed Monday. Normally the man with a crooked nose wouldn’t remember such a thing, but that’s about when his luck turned south. He’s sure it’s something to do with the insect’s pulverized carcass looking uncannily like John Lennon.

He looks up from his beer and stares out the window. Past gold letters spelling out "The Last Goodbye", sits his car modestly full of belongings.

"So I said 'I work hard so you got everything you want.' Before the door slammed she said 'all you need is love.'"

The bartender sighs and returns to his crossword.


BROTHERHOOD LIES NOT IN BLOOD BUT IN ITS LOSS (A RUSSIAN FABLE)

The cold had long ago usurped the marrow in my bones, leaving me hollow and beaten. My glare followed the horizon, set along its course by limitless drifts of ice—a canvas emblazed white. Even the trees that dare rise up against the tyrannical snow, eventually succumb against its relentless assault.

When wolves appeared as if suddenly distilled from the landscape itself, I knew my body, weakened by a sniper’s skilled shot, would not much longer suffer against relentless chill. Adjusting my ushanka, and checking my AK-47 clip—now empty—I prepared myself to let them come to lick my bones.


A COZY SILENCE

“Maude?”

“Yes, Frank?”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes, Frank.”

Pause.

“How much?”

“For heavens sake, what’re you getting at?” Maude put down her knitting and stared over the top of her glasses.

“I’ve something to tell you.”

Silence.

“I won the lottery.”

“Oh…that’s nice dear,” Maude said, resuming her toaster cozy. “Enough for your weekly tobacco allowance, I hope.”

“Uh, yes…”

“Enough for a new sweater for your lovely wife?”

“I won $210 million.”

Needles hitting the floor boomed thunderously.

“When?” she said instinctively, her ears ringing.

“1964.”

Tomorrow’s headline flashed through Maude’s head: MAN DIES IN TRAGIC KNITTING ACCIDENT