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  • To Simplify Sadly

    I believe in the fugue.  Even though the fugue is not what I think it is.  But most things aren’t what we think they are.  That might be why they are things, but I digress into philosophy now and I fear to go there.  My thoughts are coming to me, fast but jumbled, the best way to get them.
    “Girls should be fearless.”  I hear the voice but I ignore it again.  Fear keeps us alive.  I heard that somewhere too.  When we cease to fear we die, even if only in metaphor.  Not sure if I heard that anywhere.
    “Girls should be fearless.”  I laughed at the voice, and marveled how the voice was my own and had a brief thought of how I can ignore myself.  But the thought tumbled away.

    (more…)

  • The Sea and the Sky

    “She’s ready for takeoff,” said Germaine, Tony’s flight instructor. He motioned toward the waiting Cessna.

    “What, already?” Tony’s voice cracked a little. Apparently some of Martha’s fear of flying had rubbed off on him over the years.

    Germaine laughed at him. “I’ll be right next to you you at the controls. It’s okay to be nervous.”

    That cinched it. Tony was not going to be timid in front of Germaine. He liked Germaine; Germaine was a nice person, an honest person and with a great confidence about him, for such a pup. Tony was more than twice his instructor’s age and that fact shamed him into action.

    “Let’s go,” he said, barely stopping himself from adding, “young man.”

    This was such a lot of work to do to simply cheat on his wife. But it was important to Tony’s ego that he take an equally astonishing and magnificent lover as Martha had already found for herself. Fair was fair. (more…)

  • The Tithe for Broken Dreams

    The witches brewed the cauldron of dreams only twice a year—once at each solstice. People came from all over the world to add their spit to the powerful potion in hopes that their dreams would come true by the next solstice.

    My wealthy father made the pilgrimage every time. He never shared with us what his dreams were, but clearly they never came true, since he kept going back.

    Or maybe they did, and that’s why we always went back? Because one wish was never enough? (more…)

  • March Stories at the Confabulator Cafe

    The Confabulator Cafe has been generating fiction in some capacity or another since its inception in 2012. In that time, the Confabulators have produced over 200 original short stories.

    We have quite the impressive body of work, if we do say so ourselves. If you ever feel like perusing past work, head on over to the Fiction page. Just be careful. You could get lost down the rabbit hole once you get started.

    For March, we decided to use that list of stories as prompts. We challenged ourselves to choose a title from the 200+ stories that have been written, write the story we felt went with that title, and then give the story a new title. All without reading the original tale until all of those steps were complete.

    It is fascinating to see how our own creativity has sparked additional creativity. We have all linked the original story that prompted the new story (at the end of the story, though, to avoid any potential spoilers).

    We hope you’ll enjoy a double dose of Cafe stories this month, and delve into our (sometimes shady) past as we forage ahead into the future.

    Here’s the March schedule:

    Friday, March 4: “The Tithe for Broken Dreams” by Sara Lundberg
    Wednesday, March 9: “The Sea and the Sky” by Emily Mosher
    Monday, March 14: “To Simplify Sadly ” by Rob Conway
    Friday, March 18: “The Last Sunny Day” by Dianne Williams
    Wednesday, March 23: “Missing Days” by Eliza Jaquays
    Monday, March 28: “A House with Many Doors” by Jack Campbell, Jr.

  • The Shadow Thief

    Their feet came down on creaking floorboards. Broken glass, from their clumsy break-in, scattered across the floor and crunched under foot. Screeches echoed through the corridor and pierced through Philippa’s body until her blood ran cold.

    “Here! In here,” Jensen shouted above the noise and grabbed her arm and yanked her into a room with a large, heavy wooden door and thick, patterned carpet. Whitney stumbled in behind them and slid down the wall.

    It wasn’t total reprieve from the noise, but almost.

    “So, banshees?” Jensen asked, turning away from the door and looking to Philippa with one eyebrow raised.

    Banshees had been her first guess as well, but now that she could gather her wits, hear her own thoughts through the unnatural screaming coming from somewhere inside the house, she wasn’t so sure. “Where’s the stench? The roost,” She asked, sweeping her arm across the room. “Where are the victims? No, it’s something else.”

    “Specters are known to howl. Some tribes and gypsy colonies have described it as a kind of singing,” Whitney chimed in, standing and walking over to the other two.

    “Sound like singing to you?” Jensen asked, then let out a breath. His exasperation was clear in his expression.”What are we dealing with here?” He wiped his sleeve across his forehead and knelt to the carpet, setting his bag in front of him. He dug out a small, leather-bound journal and flipped through it.

    “Look for a history of specters here. Or maybe it’s just a ghost. A really vocal ghost.”

    “There’s nothing on this area at all,” Whitney chimed in.

    “If it’s a ghost, there’s one way to tell for sure,” Jensen said, stuffing the journal back into his bag and standing.

    “We need salt,” Philippa said. (more…)

  • Morning Girl

    “Hey, did you see where – never mind, found it.”  He continued the bustle of the morning, each morning was the same.  Wake up just a bit later than he should and live in shame of her sad look down at him.  She was always awake in the mornings and reminded him too often that he should be up and doing more.

    “You sleep through the morning you miss half the day.”  She said that the very first time they had ever spent the night together.

    “Come on, the day is upon us.”  He wiped sleep from his eyes and jumped from the bed, eager to follow this glorious soul into the morning.  She was vibrant and alive, and she drew him in like the proverbial moth to the flame.  Sometimes people click together, and though he may not have put it to words, looking back, even now in the beginnings of middle age he could not help but to feel the same burst of love he felt even on that first morning. (more…)

  • Maybe While I’m Asleep

    Once upon a time, the story of Sleeping Beauty ruined my life.

    I get that the fairy was just trying to do a good thing, making the entire kingdom fall asleep while the princess was cursed so she wouldn’t have to wake up alone, but leave it to royalty to never consider the little guy. You think the scullery maid was pleased to find that a century had passed her by, while the stable boy she loved was out in the country on an errand when the spell came down? He was long dead by the time the spell was broken.

    Not to mention, when it became known that such a spell was possible, there was an explosion of copycats. Again, I’m sure some of those sprung from noble intentions. Maybe in some cases, it was for the best, and ended up fine for everyone.

    Not so much for me.

    The spell has been cast, and pretty soon, there will be no staying awake in this house. This isn’t going to end well for me. (more…)

  • The Promise of Running Water

    The aged wood creaked beneath Tasha’s feet as she peered through the dusty windowpane into the dark interior. Nothing. This was the last window she could check and she hadn’t seen even the slightest sign of life. Either it really was abandoned or they were hiding out upstairs. She retreated to the steps of the porch and beckoned. A dusky skinned woman appeared from the woods and moments later a boy’s head peeked out around her waist. Their clothes were filthy and most of their skin was caked in dirt. Tasha knew she looked no better.

    “Looks clear. We’ll need to complete a room by room search when we enter, but it should be safe for the night. If we’re lucky, there will be running water.”

    “If we’re lucky, there will be food stores,” Leesha said. She drew a pistol from her waistband. “Is the door unlocked?”

    “In a moment.” Tasha knelt at the door and slid two thin wires into the lock. “Give me a hand, Rupe?” At her signal, the boy twisted the knob and she shouldered open the door. The wires disappeared into her wristband and she drew her own pistol. “Stay close.”

    Staircase, closet, three rooms to choose from. She started with the closet. Nothing in there. “Get inside. The usual knock. If you hear any other pattern or if somebody opens the door—”

    “I’ll shoot them.” (more…)

  • February Stories at the Confabulator Cafe

    We hope you enjoyed leftover month at the Cafe. Now that we’re firmly into 2016, we’re all back in action and ready to write new fiction based on brand-new prompts.

    This month, our prompt was a fill-in-the-blank line. The line was: “There’s no ___ in this house. This probably won’t end well.” Some chose to use the line in the actual story, some just let it inspire the story, but, as always, we have a wide range of genres and tones spring from this prompt.

    We also have a brand new guest author, Rob Conway, so please make him feel welcome for his first story debut with us!

    The February schedule is below. We hope you enjoy!

    Monday, February 1: “The Promise of Running Water” by Eliza Jaquays
    Monday, February 8: “Maybe While I’m Asleep” by Sara Lundberg
    Monday, February 15: “Invisible Dad” by Emily Mosher
    Monday, February 22: “Morning Girl” by Rob Conway
    Monday, February 29: “The Shadow Thief” by Sarah Bredeman

  • The Workers’ Tower

    İlkay kept watch long after the workers had retreated to their bed pods for the night. At fifteen, she could afford to stay up all night without it affecting her domestic work in the tower. The men and women needed their strength to survive their work assignments.

    She sat on the threadbare cushion her mama had made years ago, the yellow fabric faded to a dingy brown; it didn’t lessen the ache in her spine, but it brought her some comfort to have it with her. Her papa’s quilt protected her body from the icy wind, but keeping her hands out to hold the gun made her fingertips numb.

    Her papa had set the gun in her lap and whispered, “There are no bullets, little bird, but don’t let anyone know that.”

    * * *

    The moon was bright and high that night, and the wind blew brutal, whistling a high tune through the rafters. The netting that the workers had placed over the metal bones of their tower had blown away less than hour after İlkay’s watch began.

    The moonlight highlighted the man’s figure against the rafters, his clothing dark and his face obscured by a hood. He fiddled at the joints of the metal, pulling items from a sack slung over one shoulder.

    Practicing the movements like her papa taught her, İlkay shifted up onto one knee and braced the butt of the rifle against her shoulder. The blanket fell open around her as she pointed it at the man, the wind cutting through her clothes. “Stop.”

    (more…)