The Confabulator Cafe

Category: Confabulation

  • Neighborhood Watch (Flash Fiction)

    I’ve always liked watching my neighbors.

    Not in a pervy kind of way. I mean, I know how that sounds. You’re immediately like, “Oh, he’s the guy who defiles himself behind the half-drawn curtain while the single mom next door sunbathes in her backyard.”

    I’m not some kind of deviant. I just like to know what’s going on along my block. It’s always been a nice, quiet kind of place. It didn’t really start to go to hell until the clown moved in across the street.

    Now I’m not prejudice against clowns as a whole, other than the fact that they’re evil incarnate and largely devoid of souls. In the pantheon of creepy-ass shit, clowns rank right up there with ice cream truck drivers, because you know something shady is always going on in the back of those things.

    (more…)

  • A Burial (Flash Fiction)

    Tanner placed the shotgun in his little red wagon. Its weight surprised him. He couldn’t imagine carrying it through miles of snow-covered fields like Daddy. But Daddy was really strong. Tanner trusted Otis, his teddy bear, with making sure the gun stayed safe. He sat Otis near the stock. Otis watched the shotgun though one black button eye. Tanner felt bad about not having Mommy fix his other eye, but he was afraid.

    Daddy had made Mommy angry. Daddy worked at the dog food plant for a long time. He got fired when they caught him taking tools home to fix Tanner’s swing set. He fixed it, but Tanner didn’t feel like swinging anymore.

    “I can’t believe how stupid—“ (more…)

  • Inspired Stories (Week Ending September 1)

    This month, the Cafe is challenging our writers to create a flash fiction short story inspired by an image. This is a bit different than the “Worth 1,000 Words” challenge we had back in March. Instead of everyone having a different image to work with, this month each writer will get his or her inspiration from the same painting.

    Becky by Dave DeHetre
    “Becky” by Dave DeHetre. Used with permission of the artist.

    This painting, titled “Becky,” is the work of Lawrence-based artist Dave DeHetre. It should be noted that because of the powerful image presented here — and in light of recent events in Aurora, Colorado — we gave our writers the option to opt-out of using the painting for this month’s stories.

    In the past Dave DeHetre has been an integral part of the local writers group. But lately, he has poured his creative passion into painting and photography. You can see more examples of his work on his Flickr photostream.

    We are very happy to have Dave’s painting as a starting point for this month’s fiction.

    Until Next Week,

    The Cafe Management

  • The Dead Will Walk

    Butler’s Pantry — 1918

    The house was finally dark and quiet. The machine-gun-rat-a-tat of the clerk’s typewriter was at long last stilled. Captain Blackwell stared at the sheet of paper before him.

    “18 August, 1918

    “My dear Mrs. Culbertson,

    “It is with heavy heart that I must inform you of the death of Private John William Culbertson today of the influenza. Pvt. Culbertson was….”

    Was what? Blackwell had barely known the lad.

    There was a brisk rap on the door. Blackwell turned to espy Mrs. Lowell, the manor’s housekeeper, holding a tray with tea and a few sandwiches.

    “I thought you might want some refreshment, Captain, seeing how you’re working so hard and so late.”

    (more…)

  • Freedom Is Not So Easily Bought

    Straeon Manor - Kitchen 1967Kitchen — 1967

    “William, is this really necessary?” Barbara watches the movers heft the thing up onto her counter and frowns, one arm over her chest and the other over her mouth. Damn, but William is like a child on Christmas: leaning too close to the movers, examining the little knobs. Of course, that was William. He finally hit on an idea that paid off, and he began to bleed money.

    It started with moving in to this creepy old house — just because the neighbors were a certain kind of wealthy, a class of people who had been too good to hire Barbara to clean their homes. Now he was obsessed with filling it with things, silly and frivolous, to make life easy. She was getting smaller and smaller every day, with every new ‘freedom’ that William’s newly won fortune provided. She cleared her throat to pull herself out of that frame of thought. “It’s such an eye sore.”

    He stepped back from the counter and wrapped an arm around her waist. “It’s the future, Barb! Look at it. In ten years no one will use an oven at all. Do you have any idea how much less time you’ll spend cooking?” He kissed her cheek and nuzzled her close, as though they were sixteen again. “You shouldn’t be on your feet so much, once you’re pregnant.”

    Mutely, she nodded as the men handed some paperwork to William and left. The microwave, unfortunately, remained behind. Light reflected off the metallic surfaces — her reflection, distorted in the frame of the door. (more…)

  • QED

    The Upstairs Library 1955. Image from Beautiful Libraries.

    Upstairs Library — 1955

    “Pardon me,” the ghost said, “Always I am mistaken for Professor Einstein.”

    Electricity surges through the air and wraps me in a current of excitement. The papers on my desk flutter though the window to the library is closed. “But you are Professor Einstein, aren’t you?”

    The old man shrugs. “Professor Einstein passed away.”

    “Yes, I understand,” I say. I stand up. My fingertips hold the papers down, keep them from drifting to the floor. “But you’re him. You’re Albert Einstein.”

    “Whatever makes you think that?” That white shock of hair is distinct. Who else could this be?

    “Hold it.”

    A woman wearing a black suit is pointing a ray gun at Professor Einstein. I wish I hadn’t seen all those science fiction B-movies now, they didn’t mix well with the whisky. She’s almost as tall as me and her suit was tailored, her shirt open to show some cleavage. She had bracelets on her left wrist that clattered against one another and she was wearing two-inch heels. “Who are you?” (more…)

  • Kerjigger

    1950s bedroom, courtesy of the Library of Congress

    Master Bedroom — 1950

    Jonathan took two faltering steps into his parent’s master bedroom and stopped. His hand still rested on the door jamb, lingering outside the room for one final moment. Under the pads of his fingers he could feel the empty nail holes embedded in the wood. Remnants from the last time he’d done this.

    “It’s strange, what lingers,” he said, bitter amusement trickling past the dread leaching into his bones.

    “Is everything alright, sir?”

    Startled, Jonathan released his grip on the door jamb. He stepped properly into the room and turned to face the man behind him. “Yes, Jeeves, everything’s fine.”

    “Jeeves?”

    Jonathan cursed himself. Such a simple mistake, but potentially costly. Still, at this stage in his planning, did it matter? Throwing caution to the wind, he said “It’s not Jeeves, then?”

    “No, sir,” the butler said, his moustache failing to hide a frown of concern. “It’s Bob.”

    “Bob? That’s not a proper butler name. Have I missed something?” Then, seeing Bob’s quizzical look, he waved his hands dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. If it’s Bob, it’s Bob. It’s too late to change, anyway. Ignore me, and pardon my mistake. I’m not feeling quite myself today, I’m afraid.”

    “I understand, sir.” Bob, chewing his moustache, clearly did not understand. But his training forbid him from even professing anything but a positive demeanor.

    (more…)

  • Growin’ in the Garden

    Photo Credit: Biltmore House & Gardens Conservatory

    Conservatory — 1986

    Megan knew people talked about her. Whenever she came into a room, adults stopped talking in their low, earnest voices, and their grim faces would stretch into fake, painted-on smiles meant to make her feel wanted and welcome. She saw through it to the pity underneath. And she hated it.

    At school, she heard whispers around her as she walked to class, felt eyes boring into the back of her head. No pity there, at least. Only questions no one dared ask her directly. Poor little orphan girl. Tragic. How did her parents die, again? Curiosity colored by distrust.

    But it didn’t keep them from buying what she had to sell.

    As if prompted by the thought, a tap on the greenhouse door startled her. A pale face pressed against the glass. Quick breaths clouded the thick pane.

    Megan wiped her hands on her jeans and opened the door.

    David Spencer fell across the threshold, catching himself before spilling across the floor. “It worked,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “She said yes. But I need more before I pick her up tonight. This can’t go wrong.” (more…)

  • Bloody Wine

    Wine Cellar — 1855

    There was no way anyone would actually confuse blood for wine, or wine for blood. Not in real life. Not if they really knew anything about either.

    Wine rarely dried the crusty rust red that blood did. He’d seen a deep ruby red wine dried on a cork before, as if it had been stamped into a puddle of wet blood, but once blood was dry, it no longer looked like that.

    Besides, it was too thin.

    He held up his wine glass and admired the burgundy color of his port. It did seem to ignite bloodlust, however. The deep, liquid red. The biting flavor. The way it stained clothing. It was very much like blood in many ways.

    He had sometimes been accused of having wine in his veins instead of blood. His wine ratings were respected near and far. He was rarely seen without a bulbous wine glass clutched in his fist in those days.

    He took in a deep breath, savoring the scent of the wine, but also the scent of freshly dug earth. They said a wine connoisseur had finely honed senses of smell, not just for smelling wine. Every scent was more potent and more distinct when you made your living by your nose.

    The wine cellar, his pride and joy, was newly dug and furnished. Centuries worth of wine lay nestled in wooden racks, tilted at just the right angles to keep the corks moist but not oversaturated and just the right temperature so the flavor would be perfect when poured.

    Not everyone understood his obsession, however. His wife tended to be resentful of how much time he spent drinking, or drinking and spitting, or drinking and talking with his fellow wine connoisseurs.

    (more…)

  • Trophies

    Trophy Room — November, 1928

    I walked into the room expecting to see some sign of my host. Instead, a horde of dead eyes stared back at me. The firelight played off mounted heads: buffalo, deer, bear, and wolf. In the upper corner, an owl looked down with wings and talons outstretched. Above the mantle, an eight-foot long swordfish had been mounted, frozen in mid-leap. In the corner by the door stood a large cat, one of the mountain lions so prevalent in the Americas.

    Straeon Manor - Trophy Room
    Teddy Roosevelt’s Trophy Room at Sagamore Hill, circa 1910. From the Library of Congress.

    Outside, a cold November wind blew, howling around the mansion. The taxi ride from the station had been fraught with peril as we plunged along on icy roads packed with snow. Upon my arrival at Straeon Manor, the butler took my bags and showed me to my room. Dinner, he said, would be at eight o’clock, but my host wished to meet for drinks beforehand. I had taken time to clean up and rest from my travels. Then I dressed for dinner and arrived as instructed at the appointed hour.

    I moved among the trophies and soft leather furniture toward the fireplace. The warmth was welcome and made me feel more at ease. A wireless set stood on a table beside one of the chairs. From the RCA Radiola came the happy strains of a ragtime melody I had not heard in years. The music warmed my heart as the fire warmed my bones.

    (more…)