The Confabulator Cafe

Category: Confabulation

  • Eight Hours

    Commander Alexander Towncroft couldn’t sleep. And he hadn’t slept in several days. Earth’s first intergalactic embassy had the unfortunate luck to be positioned right next door to what must be the most unlikeable race on the planet, the Napli delegation. For days now, he’d heard nothing but their drums. Big drums, small drums, drums banging and bashing away outside of his walls. For three days he’d gone to work to their rhythm. And for three nights, just as he felt himself falling into sleep, they seemed to get louder just to jar him awake again. He could only be glad that they hadn’t developed a fondness for the cymbals, yet.

    He laid down for what he was sure would be another fitful night, knowing that he would toss and turn and hear the drums. Even a few hours would be better than nothing. He needed to be bright and shiny for tomorrow’s big welcome ceremony with the neighbors. It was an eight hour ceremony and he needed his strength. He could muffle the sounds, but even with a dozen pillows over his head he would never be able to block out the vibrations that were coming through the walls. His head felt like someone had inflated a bouncy castle inside of it and invited the neighborhood over for a sugar-fueled jumping contest. He could almost see the primary colors of it all invading the darkness of his room, but that was probably just the hallucinations setting in.

    “Bugger this,” he grumbled as he got up.

    (more…)

  • Unlickable

    “Ma’am?” She turned around to face a sheepishly grinning man. “I’m afraid you have—ah…” He cleared his throat delicately while tugging on his earlobe. “There’s something attached to your… skirt.”

    Warmth rushed to her cheeks as she twisted about, trying to spot the object in question. Something white flashed at the corner of the eye, sticking out from under her butt. She grabbed for it, coming into contact with a sticky, paper stick. She tugged on it, feeling the skirt shift away from her rear, but a few tugs could not pry it free.

    She drew in a breath, counting to three before returning the man’s smile. “Thank you for pointing it out, that could have been embarrassing.” Her daughter must have left something on one of the chairs. Something she had licked, and by the feel of it licked quite thoroughly. This was why she kept a spare change of clothes in her office, clothes she never took home. Her assistant took them to the dry cleaner once a week and returned them straight to the office. She had enough suit separates to last her an entire week. (more…)

  • Mischief After Midnight

    They had always told her not to use the shortcut after dark. But she was running late—practice had run long, and her parents had told her under no uncertain terms she was to be home in time for them to leave for a very important dinner meeting with her father’s boss.

    So she ran as fast as she could, and when the overgrown community garden came into view, she cast a nervous look over her shoulder and the sun that had vanished behind the skyline.

    It was either cut through the garden and make it home in time, or go a mile out of her way to the end of the block and risk being late.

    So she cut through.

    (more…)

  • Burning Bones

    Steven’s finger hovered over the “Accept” button, the soft green light of the ATM lighting his face. He hesitated and looked at his watch, as if the time wasn’t displayed prominently on every wall and every television. 6:52. He checked the nearest wall. Yep, it still had the right time. He looked behind him, stalling. If someone was standing behind him, waiting to use the ATM, then he would have to make a decision right there. He could hit cancel, take his empty wallet and mostly empty bank account home, and even get there in time to tuck his kid into bed. But there was no one behind him, no one waiting.

    His finger pressed the button. “Thank You For Allowing Us To Serve You,” the machine flashed, as his money started spitting out. Twenty dollar bill after twenty dollar bill, three hundred and forty dollars total. “Would You Like A Recipt?” The machine asked him in glowing green print. He stabbed at the “No” button. He didn’t need a piece of paper to remind him of the two dollars and fifty seven cents that were in his bank account. Besides, first thing tomorrow morning, it would all be back before anyone knew it was gone. All of it, and all the rest, and more. A big one was coming. He knew it. Not just a big one, but The Big One. His bones were burning, as his dad used to say whenever he felt a hot streak coming on. His bones were burning, and he was ready to walk out of this dingy place a winner.

    (more…)

  • Midnight and the Boogieman

    You think you have seen some strange shit? Honey, please–I’ve written this paranormal blog since before blogs were a thing. I’ve reported on exorcisms, poltergeists, vampires, stigmata, and every other clichéd piece of the supernatural that you can name. You can’t shake me. In every case, I found the strings that made the puppets dance and cut them with my pen. I get more letters from frauds before breakfast than the IRS does in the entire month of April. I am a well-dressed, skeptical, devastatingly handsome man, and I see 20/20 with these Oliver Peoples glasses, so don’t try to blind me with your bullshit. That is who I am, and that image defined my existence until midnight. (more…)

  • The Midnight Star

    Unlikeable. It was the same word in every rejection from a woman, on each evaluation at work, at the bottom of all my report cards in school. No matter how well I performed, my social skills were—in a word—non-existent.

    God knows I tried. I read self-help books. I attended seminars. I even found a woman in New England who still taught an old-fashioned charm school, aimed at instilling budding young debutants with the social graces. And yet, though I understood how to be likable, my mind could never grasp why.

    It seemed an unnecessary show—something one did to garner the approval of others. I never needed external validation. I didn’t see the need to placate those precious flowers whose feelings were hurt because I refused to coddle them. Why couldn’t they just accept facts as facts?

    “Yes, Mrs. Robinson, your car is a complete piece of shit has had some engine trouble. In the past six years, you never changed the oil on time your car has had a lot of miles on it. It’s your fault. These things happen. Now you’re going to pay through the nose. We’ll see what we can do.”

    I guess that’s why I like cars. They don’t get pissed when you bleed the lines. They don’t hold a grudge when you pound out a dent in the fender. They don’t take it personal when you give up on fixing them and send them to the junkyard.

    (more…)

  • No Regrets

    The machine let out a mellow chirp- a light-hearted sound that betrayed the gravity of the situation.  Officer Julius W. Young raised a frail, quivering hand over the large transparent button, the light inside now glowing a soft green to let the user know that the chamber was primed and ready.

    It was such a simple sight, yet it still brought tears to his eyes.  To think of how much time and effort he had devoted to this moment!  It had taken him seventeen years simply to be promoted into the Chronoguard, and another five before upper management would let him go solo.  They had to be convinced that he didn’t have any ulterior motives for wanting to police time and space.

    (more…)

  • My SAD Valentine

    Valentine’s Day is the absolute best and worse for people like me.

    I work for a singing telegram agency. I won’t tell you which one. Are you kidding me? After telling you this story, I would most definitely get fired if they knew.

    So, for the last several years, in addition to singing telegrams, I’ve also been a member of the sad group of people who call Valentine’s Day for what it really is: Singles Awareness Day. Is anyone else aware of the irony that the acronym for that actually spells out the word SAD?

    Yeah.

    (more…)

  • Everything Changes

    She looked out at the building from the backseat and scowled. “It didn’t look like this last year.”

    Her husband killed the engine in their little car. Without the mechanical whining the vehicle, the lack of life in the outside neighborhood seemed that much more stark. “It looks fine. We’ll only be here for a few minutes.”

    Abby looked up and down the street at the neighborhood surrounding. The homes were all in disrepair – but it had been that way during college college, hadn’t it? The upstairs apartment they’d rented through her undergrad had always been falling apart. At the time it had seemed charming. They’d made do with what they had.

    It was different, though. Having the baby made it different.

    “It’s a tradition, Abby.”

    She swallowed her uneasiness. “Sure. Of course.” She unbuckled Maisy while Bart retrieved the camera and tripod from the car.

    The first Valentine’s Day they had taken this photo – their first Valentine’s Day, four years ago – it had been a selfie against the cement wall. A whim, nothing more. Someone had spray-painted hearts on the smooth surface, all different shapes and sizes to create the perfect romantic backdrop. When they eventually married, Abby featured it on their save-the-date card.

    When they were still together the next year, they did it again. That year Bart had the tripod and remote. The next year, the picture had announced her pregnancy. Abby supposed, if she looked back, she remembered the other graffiti too near the hearts that second year. The cracks in the wall when she was pregnant with Maisy. Abby had loved the neighborhood dearly, but the crumbling houses had always had feeling paint, it had always lacked the life and verve she’d invented in her nostalgia.

    She pulled her baby close to her chest, carefully adjusting the little flowered headband covering Maisy’s downy hair. By the time she climbed out of the car Bart was already setting up his tripod, muttering to himself.

    “Go on, hon – I need to frame the shot.”

    She did so.

    Maisy nestled her little head against Abby’s chest, rooting for the breast and yawning. They’d tried to plan the picture around her nap time, but the car always lulled her right to sleep.

    “Hey, baby – it’s time to take your picture.” She tickled the baby’s cheeks and nose, smiling as Maisy giggled and stretched her whole body in Abby’s arms. Bart joined them, the remote trigger nestled against his palm. He ruffled Maisy’s hair. For a moment, it was calm.

    Not far enough in the distance, a dog began to yap and growl – quickly joined by another. Abby startled and looked up at the camera, then down at the baby. “I don’t think this was a good idea,” she said quietly.

    He kissed her forehead and squeezed her around the waist. “Don’t worry. In the photo it’ll all look perfect.”

  • A Time to Love

    I.

    Valentine’s Day is always the same problem for Cupid.

    “Why do you always have to work on Valentine’s Day?” Mrs. Cupid asks.

    Cupid liked to trace it back to Santa Clause. For a long time, people were content to celebrate their love and devotion on Valentine’s Day without a mascot. They celebrated their love every day and Cupid only needed to be present for a few special events throughout a person’s life. But then that fat old man got his own holiday and everyone started to think about why Valentine’s Day didn’t have a human personification of its own. And now they expected him to work every single Valentine’s Day. Visiting every couple. For eternity.

    But this isn’t what she’s asking and he knows it.

    (more…)