The Confabulator Cafe

Tag: short story

  • A Sticky Exchange

    Hot pink post-it, found on fridge, 7am: Stop drinking my blood

    Light blue post-it, found on fridge, 9pm: Gross, I would never!

    Hot pink post-it, found on fridge, 10pm: I know it was you

    Light blue post-it, found on fridge, 11pm: I don’t even drink blood

    Hot pink post-it, found on bedroom door, 2am: Did you invite another one in? We talked about this!!

    Light blue post-it, found on bedroom door, just before dawn: I’m not stupid. Maybe you invited them in.

    Slightly singed hot pink post-it, found on bedroom door, 6:45am: You know I can’t do that (more…)

  • Apple Heart

    When I was born, I did not have a heart, so the Doctor fashioned one for me out of an apple. In return, every day for the rest of my life, I was to bring him an apple.

    Until I was old enough to walk, mama delivered the apple to the Doctor, carrying me swaddled to her back so I received the credit. After I could walk, the burden fell on me. Every day, I would go into town, take a left at the dead tree, climb over the crumbling wall, and place an apple in his hand.

    When it rained, I waded through mud. Every day, the mud grew thicker until the water began to pool on top of it. The standing water went from kissing my toes to tugging at my ankles, deeper and deeper each day. The rain would not let up. When it reached my waist and the only way out of the house was through a window, I begged mama to let me miss this one day, what could it hurt? My backside was on fire as I sat in the rowboat and paddled through the town, the roads hidden beneath the standing water.

    I hated the Doctor. (more…)

  • Motorcycle Jack

    Her name was Motorcycle Jack and I didn’t know whether I wanted to be her or to fuck her when we met.

    “Motorcycles aren’t just machines. Motorcycles have a soul. They’re better than people.” That was her motto and I adopted it like the eleventh commandment the summer I worked the round-up, sitting beneath the stars on the dry plains listening to her wisdom. I was a hired hand, helping to bring in the car herds on an old paint they’d given me. That bike was a rust bucket, prone to problems no matter how I nursed the throttle. No faster than the cars we were bringing in, but I rode her with pride and a sore ass until we reached the plant.

    2,000 hood of cars on their way to Detroit. Dumb beasts, on their way to be stripped for parts at the end of the line.

    The days were long and the nights were short and uncomfortable. I would stare at the sky and wonder what the hell I was doing there. But there was money. There was the open road. And there was Jack.

    We were deep into the trail when we spotted the Harley. Every head in the camp went up. Her engine thrummed as we strained for the sound of a road bell on her, but none came. A road bell meant she was lost and probably registered. Without one she was a wild Harley and she was beautiful.

    Quick as a snake, I grabbed my rope and rushed my old jalopy to life. If I could rope myself a Harley I would be a true cowboy, destined for a life on the plains. Six other engines roared their full-throttled agreement beside me as everyone mounted up. The other hands weren’t riding borrowed rust buckets. Their engines didn’t backfire as they crested the hill. These were seasoned pros in pursuit.

    Motorcycle Jack was in the lead, whooping and hollering as the wind picked up against us.

    I was outclassed. As my tires slid in the muddy ruts the other bikes left behind, the Harley climbed the next hill like it was nothing but flat ground, unbothered by pedestrian worries like gravity and torque. She took the downhill like a river over a waterfall. She was grace incarnate. A creature born not to the plains, but placed here by some deity to show us all what freedom could be. In that moment, she was the only creature I loved more than Jack.

    I pulled my bike up and watched Jack give chase. We cheered her on as each hand pulled up. It was clear she was the only one who had any chance of catching the Harley. I screamed until my throat was raw. I don’t even remember what the words were. My spirit soared with the Harley as Jack gave chase. (more…)

  • Until Death Do Us Part

    Her hand was soft in mine, delicate and smooth as the day I met her. Not a trace of the spots beginning to darken and form on my own hands. I prayed that she did not look down and notice them. She hadn’t last time, but they were more noticeable now. When she gazed upon the fine lines around my eyes, I noticed a hint of confusion. My makeup no longer hid them, but rather settled into the creases and cracked with every smile.

    I tried not to smile, but how could I? Today I was marrying the woman I loved. It was the happiest day of our lives and I need it to be perfect.

    The words of the ceremony were like crumbling paper in my mouth. Once the vows and promises held meaning. Now they were a rote recitation without passion or inflection.

    Her frown deepened and I could feel her begin to withdraw. I squeezed her fingers and made a harsh, fierce whisper of my love for her. Her smile was soft and hesitant and she searched my face for the woman she’d fallen in love with. I wondered if she saw a stranger.

    After the ceremony came the photos. I longed to be at the cocktail hour rather than forcing a smile to my lips and posing as part of a happy couple. Today everything felt false and wrong. This was not the memory of our wedding that I wanted to hold onto forever. I could barely smile in the photos and I knew it would not matter. Tomorrow, today, I would try again.

    At the end of the night, I kissed her and feigned a drunken stupor. We slept together, but apart. She did not gravitate toward me in her sleep the way she had the first nights. Why would she? This was not the body she knew. (more…)

  • The Museum of Claire

    The Museum of Claire is 32 dollars to get in but it’s well worth the price of admission if you’re interested in our time traveler. The numbers vary, but there are currently seven Claires in residence, ranging in age from 24 to 53-years-old.

    I would recommend making the trip soon.

    #

    Claire has three rules if she stays with us and they’ve never broken them.

    1. She must never have any contact with any of the other Claires in residence. Claire is carefully scheduled and managed to keep her away from her other selves.

    2. She must not interfere with herself in any other way. The museum is a place of rest and recuperation. Neutral ground.

    3. Claire must stay sober while in residence here. (more…)

  • Faithless Helen

    Mourning and war had turned Helen into a light sleeper. After the almost-full moon set and the city had gone to bed, she changed quickly into a heavy wool garment. It was fine, dark wool the color of night. She tied a heavy ribbon under her breasts to hold it in place and pulled the skirt of the dress up and tucked it in. She put on the heavy sandals she had worn to travel to Mount Ida just a few weeks before.

    She added a heavy rope and a small bag of possessions, testing the weight to be sure it wouldn’t be too much. She had brought crates of items from the palace of Sparta when she left and now she would be returning with just this small bag. Sparta would have to do with just this small bit of her dowry returned, she thought. On top of it all she placed a dark veil, hiding the rope and the pack on her back underneath its length. She arranged it carefully to hide her skin, still as pale as the moonlight itself.

    The night air was crisp as Helen clung to the shadows. She made a silent prayer to her father Zeus above that she would go unnoticed tonight, guiding herself by starlight and memory. The great ribbons of heaven’s stars strung out above her, lighting the way. If she closed her eyes, she could have made it without so much as stubbing her toe on a crossing stone.

    The weight of the pack grew as she traveled. With each movement, she jumped at the sound of her dowry jostling and she watched for the light of an oil lamp in the window or a flash of hearth-light in the doorway that would betray her. (more…)

  • Psychic Call

    Ann-Marie felt a disturbance in her psychic aura. A moment later, the phone rang. She let it ring through to voicemail as she waited for the electrical waves to clear so that she could continue her reading uninterrupted.

    “I did warn you that now was not the best time for your reading,” the psychic told her patron. “I foresaw this disturbance.”

    She cleared her throat, trying to regain the raspy voice she used when doing tarot readings. She turned over the next card, reading the meaning out to her rapt audience. It was the usual reading full of promises of small losses that opened the way for greater gains. She pocketed the girl’s tip after she left.

    She checked her calendar, she had a quarter of an hour until her next appointment barring any unforeseen walk-ins. She dialed into her voicemail. “We need you again.” The line went dead. (more…)

  • Leaving the Nest

    Every nerve tingled down her spine, sending her tail swishing back and forth in uncontrollable excitement. This was the day she’d spent the past months preparing for.

    “She’s carrying a mirrored decorative pot. It’s enormous and looks incredibly fragile, I’m amazed it’s survived so far.” Her father’s human relayed the details of the girl climbing up the side of the mountain. He’d first spied her at the base of the mountain a few days earlier and had been reporting back on her painstakingly slow progression up the mountain.

    The mirrored pot was one of Iris’s favorite pieces she’d collected for her treasure garden. When she started cultivating her treasure garden years ago, her father warned her away from anything that would be difficult to carry, but when she’d first set eyes on that pot, she knew that it was destined to be hers. It would be devastating if her human shattered or lost it, almost as bad as if it stayed in the garden forever. It was fitting that it would be the first piece of her hoard.

    This was her first human. This object would be the first piece that she would use to start her own hoard… or if she failed, the human would be the first piece of her hoard. (more…)

  • Prison of the Mind

    I remember being set free dozens of times. I’ve run, limped, and crawled out of this cell every day for weeks. Sometimes alone and sometimes leading others to safety. In victory and defeat. None of it is real.

    I’m in a recovery room, surrounded by doctors, by family and friends. All of them ask questions. They ask questions about me, but mostly they ask questions about what I know. About what the aliens wanted from me so desperately. They ask what the aliens asked and I refuse to answer. It’s a trap, of course. If I ignore the people long enough my captors will get bored and prep the next scenario.

    Their hallucinations are getting better, less nonsensical. Once, I could tell reality from fiction by the gaps in time. When I couldn’t remember leaving my cell, or walking into the room, when I couldn’t remember how I’d escaped or been set free, then I could jar my mind out of the illusion. Then I could remember not to give anything away. But this scenario, this is a good one, a happy one, and I don’t wish to endure it any longer.

    I look for the seams in this reality. (more…)

  • Bubblegum and Mud

    My porch lights were off. A sure sign that I wasn’t handing out candy. That I wasn’t participating in the candy shop propaganda sponsored by parents who were too cheap to buy treats for their own kids. Though with the prices of costumes these days, they could have skipped the costume and bought the candy themselves.

    But apparently, the car in my drive partnered with the dining room light shining through the blinds was enough of a sign to signify that someone was home. The upbeat trill of the doorbell sat at jarring odds with my mood. “I don’t have candy,” I yelled. The doorbell sounded again and my teacup clattered as I slammed it down onto the saucer. It was more whiskey than tea.

    By the time I made it to the door, they’d rung the bell twice more. I flipped the deadbolt as it sounded off yet again. “What do you want?” The words began as a snarl and faltered, dying on my lips. “You.”

    He didn’t say anything, simply stared at me from beneath his hood. His bony fingers wrapped around a scythe. (more…)