The Confabulator Cafe

Category: Confabulation

  • Dawn’s Curse (Flash Fiction)

    Sibylline Academy was a school for the cursed. Or at least, that’s what every student who attended the private high school thought. Most of the time, they were complaining about the strict rules and archaic practices. Some of us, however, actually were cursed. Okay, well, maybe just me. Or at least, that’s what I’d always been told growing up. That I was cursed.

    My mom had two older sisters. I know, I know, what do my mom’s older sisters have to do with my supposed curse? Well, I’m getting to that.

    My mom had two older sisters. Her oldest sister was smart, kind, and did absolutely everything perfectly on the first try. My mom was always considered to be funny, charming, and absolutely gorgeous. Then there was my Aunt Mallory, who had the unfortunate luck to be the middle sister. Her teachers always compared her to Aunt Camille, who effortlessly achieved straight A’s and the boys always favored my mom over her. Apparently Aunt Mal had a huge crush on my dad, but he fell in love with my mom and not her.

    So she cursed me when I was born. Yeah. My aunt’s a witch. Supposedly. (more…)

  • The Curse of the Elves

    Jenna frowned as her husband, Frank, shook his head. No, they would not have enough money to pay the rent. Again. It was their last warning. Eviction would follow, so they’d lose not only the butcher shop, but their apartment above, as well.

    What was a poor couple in the midst of a recession supposed to do?

    What she did not expect for him to do was to give away a still good – well, maybe not good, maybe more like questionable but still sellable – hunk of cured meat to one of the homeless guys begging out behind the shop.

    “Goddamn it, Frank. We could have at least used that to feed ourselves. What are we supposed to eat for dinner?”

    Frank sighed. “It’s better this way. I ate some of that same batch for lunch yesterday and it gave me the runs.”

    They took stock of their empty larder, and went to bed with only a cup of ramen between them.

    “We’ll have to close up shop tomorrow,” Frank sighed as they drifted off to sleep. Jenna bit back bitter tears. This is not what she had in mind when she’d left her first husband for Frank four years ago.

    (more…)

  • Cindy

    Charles woke up tangled in his blankets, head pounding. It was January 1st, the start of a New Year, and the previous night was mostly a blur. There was an office party, a bar brimming with booze, and a band whose bass was throbbing between his eyes as he sat up. One thing stood out in his wakening memories though: a girl, blonde and beautiful, wearing a pale blue shirt and tight jeans. Her smile drew Charles across the room, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her the rest of the night.

    He squeezed his temples, trying to pressure the throbbing pain into submission. He hadn’t paid any attention to how much drinking he did before midnight, enchanted by this girl, and after the ball dropped, well… he drank even more. He wasn’t sure how he even got home. He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom where the Tylenol, glorious Tylenol, waited. Sitting on the toilet for several minutes, head in his hands, he tried to not think. He failed.

    (more…)

  • Clowning Around (Flash Fiction)

    Sometimes, when it’s quiet, I can remember what my life was like before the circus came to town.

    Don’t get me wrong. It sucked then too, but nobody had died yet, so there were advantages.

    Now I know you’re probably thinking, “Oh, God. Not another spooky carnival story.”

    Well it’s not. So shut up.

    I’m sick of that crap too. If this was one of those tales, I would’ve rolled over and died already rather than face the idea that I might have to write about it one day.

    I promise you, no carnivals.

    This is more of a creeper clown kind of thing.

    (more…)

  • Piper

    From Are You Afraid of the Dark
    From Are You Afraid of the Dark

    The first time Eddie told the piper to fuck off it was about a quarter to ten. We parked the car down the street. Eddie said there was a government conspiracy to wait outside of Mickey’s Bar for drunks, and he needed to throw off the cops. That meant a brisk walk through the biting January air. I didn’t want to carry my coat around all night, so I left it in the car. The north wind tore through me within a half a block. I hate the cold. I’ve been cursing my dad ever since he moved us here from southern California when I was ten. What sort of asshole moves his family from paradise to Kansas? My dad was that sort of asshole.

    Loads of panhandlers hung out on the street on Saturday nights. Drunk college kids with money in their pockets were easy marks. Eddie hated beggars even more than he hates people, in general.

    “Jesus Christ,” Eddie said. “The city is pulling a shelter out of my ass and these bastards have the nerve to ask for money?” (more…)

  • Upgrading the Grimms (Week of 20 January 2013)

    The Brothers Grimm spent a lot of time gathering tales from Europe during their lives and then publishing what they collected. Others did, too. These stories were told around fireplaces or to children at bedtime and were passed from one generation to the next. Traditional stories are lots of fun because they’re familiar. They can also become tired. We aim to solve that problem this week at the Cafe.

    Universally acknowledged by the regulars here a few weeks ago as one of the fun parts of the Cafe, our monthly confabulations this time take a classic turn. On special this week is each author’s take on a fairytale. Some may be obscure (there might even be a new one in there somewhere) and others will have that creeping sense of being cautionary. There will be sex, food, death, and certainly a villain or two.

    So we present our versions of fairytales for you to enjoy. Don’t get hung up on which tale it is, but see if you can spot what we’re saying about the times we live in.

    We take no responsibility, however, for last minute kisses from princes. And if you take a bite from that apple the witch is offering you, you’re on your own.

  • Saint Nick o’ Time

    Living Room — Christmas Eve, 1980

    I sweep my flashlight across the bounty of gift-wrapped packages, searching for one particular box. I’m careful not to step on the squeaky floor boards next to the tree. I know each of them by heart. I pick up boxes, checking labels, gauging weight and size. I’m careful to put each box back in the exact same spot it occupied before. Leave no evidence.

    This isn’t my first rodeo. Pre-Christmas snooping is an art form, and I’m a virtuoso.

    I don’t see it.

    I start my second search, but my heart is sinking. Could I be missing it, somehow? I know the dimensions of the box by heart. I’ve picked it up and stared at the box art more times than I can count. I’d recognize it if I saw it, even beneath gaudy Christmas wrapping paper. (more…)

  • Four Shots

    Dining Room, Storm Shelter – 2000

    Cellar Door by Michael Chan
    Cellar Door by Michael Chan

    At midnight I head down to the dining room for a cup of tea. My textbooks are still piled in the corner of the dining room table, my notebook open. I tighten my robe around my waist before I sit down and curl my legs up under me.

    I read the same line about DNA four times before I slam the book shut and stand with my tea, pacing in front of the doors. Mother’s car isn’t in the driveway — odd, considering the hour. Pacing gives way to exhaustion, though I still feel too keyed up to sleep. Every time I started to fall asleep, I heard Uncle Al in my head.

    I’m dozing off in front of my biology textbook when the sound rips me out of it — the bang that feels like it’s stopped my heart and forced the breath from my lungs. I blink rapidly. I’m almost convinced that the noise came out of my dreams when I hear a second and third gunshot in rapid succession. (more…)

  • A Delicate Man

    Upstairs Guest Bedroom 2037

     

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    Loyal Barstow chewed his fingernails and looked around. “Panic room,” he said. “Panic room. But I’m not panicked.” He patted his nonexistent pockets.

    His bathrobe was open and he wore a tee shirt and sweats, both stained with red and brown. He hadn’t showered in several days, he wondered if there was any water. For two weeks now he’d been locked in a room originally provisioned for three or four days.

    “They can’t get in,” he said and sprung across the bed, grabbed for a plastic bag and turned it inside out. Nothing in there. Loyal flung it away and sighed. “No one can get in. And I don’t want to get out.” He huffed and puffed and rolled onto his back. “I don’t want to get out.”

    The guest bedroom had been converted during The Scare of ‘17, not to be confused with the Panic of ‘22. No, it wouldn’t do to confuse the two. The year after The Scare, there had even been a militarized assault with fourteen black-uniformed men wearing night vision goggles. Loyal’s father told the story with gusto, especially the end. (more…)

  • The Graveyard, 1869

    The Graveyard — 1869

    Penelope Worthington walked, solitary, up the windswept hill to take refuge under the spreading branches of a chestnut tree. She wore the dove grey of half-mourning, and carried a basket, from which she took out a warm woolen shawl. She spread the shawl carefully on the grass and sat down, arranging her full skirts just so. From the basket she took bread, cheese, an apple, and slices of cold turkey and ham, and arranged them just as carefully in front of her. Finally a glass and a small bottle of wine. She filled the glass, and admired the way the light shone through the ruby depths.

    “It’s from your father, of course,” she remarked to her companion. “He’s been teaching me about wines.” She sipped. “Of course, he would tell me that red wine should be paired with beef or mutton, not chicken, but I think it will complement this cheese nicely.”

    She gazed over the rolling hills as the breeze tugged tendrils from her carefully arranged hair, as a lover might. Her eyes held an old grief, faded with time and as comfortable as a favorite dress.

    “I had a letter from Father yesterday. He wishes me to return to Hartford, to keep house for him, and perhaps look for a husband. I must consider carefully how to respond.”

    (more…)