The Confabulator Cafe

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  • 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…)

  • Return to Sender

    Jungle Room — 2010

    I’ve never been much of an Elvis fan.

    I had an uncle growing up, you can call him Dick because … well, that’s what he was. So Dick was coo coo for Cocoa Puffs when it came to all things Elvis. He collected figurines and costumes and those stupid little porcelain plates that only idiots and old ladies buy from shopping channels. He even bought a mantle-sized Velvet Elvis and had some local artist paint him into the picture with his arm around The King.

    I’m telling you, Dick was not a well man. I’m pretty sure I caught him beating off to “Blue Christmas” one time, and he was referring to his little man as a “hunk of, hunk of burnin’ love.”

    So, yeah, that’s a little piece of my innocence I’m never getting back.

    (more…)

  • Scratched

    Credit to mrheinzelnisse at deviantart.com

    Game Room — May 7, 1970

    I racked the balls tight, just like I taught him; just like my father taught me. I pointed the number on the black 8-ball straight up, for luck. The varnish on the rack had worn away, leaving light circular thumbprints. He always wanted to rack the balls. I always let him. I felt the place his fingers always touched as I put the rack away.

    I circled the table, examining the rack of balls. I traced my fingers around the felt bumpers as I walked. They grazed the spot where we engraved our names. We built the table together. Billiards had always been a family game. Building a billiards table is a major undertaking. It requires so much precision, so much commitment. If the slightest measurement is off — the level, the square — the game suffers. The slightest mistake changes the game.

    I positioned the cue ball at the first mark, lined up to the right. I set myself, exhaled, and then struck. I pocketed a stripe. I always took stripes. He wanted solids. He had loved the bright colors ever since I had to hold him up at the table. He had been so excited to build this. All he could talk about was the game. The game excited him. Everything excited him. When I was with him, everything excited me. (more…)

  • Whispers from Straeon Manor (Week Ending August 4)

    This week, we’re trying something new at the Cafe for our monthly confabulation. Instead of merely giving our writers a prompt for their usual flash fiction of 1,000 words, we decided to really challenge them to do something grand.

    Straeon Manor at the Confabulator CafeWelcome to Straeon Manor. Together, our writers are building this house room by room.

    Each writer has selected a room in Straeon Manor, as well as a time period for their setting. The only rule is that the story must exist completely within the confines of one room.

    In the coming week, you may read a story set in a wine cellar in 1880s, a trophy room during the Roaring Twenties, or a kitchen during the Lyndon Johnson administration. Regardless of where and when the story takes place, they all take place here, in Straeon Manor.

    And because of the special nature of these stories, we’re removing our 1,000-word limit on stories. Our writers can write as little or as much as necessary to tell their tales.

    If our experiment is a success, our writers will be revisiting Straeon Manor with new stories every few months. And when we do, there will be more surprises.

    Until next week,

    The Cafe Management

  • What’s the most blatant lie you’ve ever told?

    We chose the name “Confabulator Cafe” for our group because in one definition, confabulation is described as the spontaneous narrative of events that never happened. As writers, we are notorious for making things up, so lying is something that comes to us somewhat naturally. Many of us have told some whoppers in our day, and below you will find the most blatent lies the Confabulators have told. If you can believe them.

    Christie Holland

    I’m a writer. I make up things for a living. I don’t understand this question. What? That isn’t a good enough answer? FIne. I will quote Doctor Who then. “I think you’ll find that I’m universally recognized as a mature and responsible adult.” Yeah. That’s it. No one in their right mind would consider me to be an adult.

    Jason Arnett

    This is an interesting question. If I ever admit to the most blatant lie I’ve ever told then I will admit to being a liar. It suits me to sidestep this question and deny ever having lied in any way about anything. That, in fact, may be the biggest lie I’ve ever told. Or it may not. You’ll have to decide for yourself. I will say that lying is an essential part of being human. Every story I’ve written is a lie, in fact. None of them ever happened. Or if they did, they didn’t happen in the way I described them or the places I indicated. Or at the time I wrote it. So now you can decide for yourself if I’m a liar, or lying about not being one. Which do you think?

    Amanda Jaquays

    I don’t lie. No. Seriously. I don’t. Okay, not usually at any rate. Okay, okay, you’ve caught me. Amusingly, that isn’t even the most blatant lie I’ve told (because, come on, we all knew I was lying, right?) No, I usually lie about my productivity. As in, “I’ll get right on that!” or “I won’t procrastinate this time!” It probably says something about me that my worst lies are almost always directed at myself… either that or I just hate letting people down.

    Sara Lundberg

    Sometimes things will come out of my mouth and after I say them I think, “Jesus, that’s not even remotely true, why did I just say that? Where did that even come from?” It’s not quite a compulsion, and it’s never about anything that matters, but sometimes I am amazed by what I say to people. That being said, I think the most blatant lie that I’ve ever told, and tell repeatedly, is “yeah, I totally have this under control. I know exactly what I’m doing.” If I ever say that to you, laugh at me, because it is a boldface lie.

    Paul Swearingen

    The most blatant lie was also pretty much the last one I ever told. I was about 8. My folks had gone into town for a Farmers’ Union meeting, leaving my brother (age 5) and me in charge of the place, so we proceeded to bounce on the bed. “Craaack!” One of the side rails split, leaving the mattress and box springs tilted to one side. I tried to fib up some story about dropping a hairbrush on the bed and falling when I tried to pick it up, but of course that didn’t fly, so I got my fanny dusted. From that point, I decided that if telling lies resulted in painful endings for me, I might as well tell the truth, even if they result in painful endings, too.

    Ashley M. Poland

    I had a lying phase. I lied a lot. I am a lying liar who lies. But probably the most memorabe was the time my brother and I broke our parent’s brand new kitchen table. We were… 11 and 12, I think. They bought it as a wedding gift; it wasn’t more than two weeks old. Jeff & I discovered that if we sat on opposite ends, it balanced right out. The story varies — of course it does — but as I recall it, in a moment of horrible communication, I hopped off just as he jumped on. One foot snapped clean off. We got caught trying to use wood glue to fix it, at which point we tried to blame it on the cat and the dog. We were totally caught. I like to think I’m a slightly better liar storyteller now.

    Jack Campbell, Jr.

    I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I don’t lie in ways that hurt people, but I have never let the truth get in the way of a good story, or even a bad one for that matter. As long as you are entertained, does it really matter if I actually did what I said I did? Besides, there are many types of lying. Most people even lie to themselves. They lie when they really think they are telling the truth. At least I know when I am making stuff up.

    Kevin Wohler

    When I was dining at a secluded restaurant in Savannah, there was a guy at the next table who looked remarkably like Ted Turner. So I nudged my friend and said, “Don’t look now, but I think that’s Ted Turner.” She didn’t believe me for one second. This backfired on me, though. The following day, I saw Michael Jordan at our hotel. (Seriously, it looked just like him. And he said hi to me in that way celebrities do when they know they’ve been recognized.) But because of the Ted Turner lie, she never believed me.

  • Why I Write

    Because I’m paid for it. In a career that has spanned multiple mighty professions, writing has always turned out to be my most salable skill.

    I work in a space that librarians and search algorithm authors call the Long Tail of Information. Think of it this way— a little bit of information is important to vast quantities of people. How to eat properly. The date of the next general election. The price of tickets to The Dark Knight Rises. After that the graph tapers off pretty sharply. The vast majority of information out there has a very small, but very enthusiastic, audience.

    When I write a report, I’m pulling together data from various sources, online and offline, and repackaging it into a product that is of vital personal importance to anywhere from, say, five to thirty-five people. It may be of casual interest to a couple of dozen or a couple of hundred more. And it will have absolutely no impact on the lives of the other seven and a half billion people on the planet.

    None of this means that this information isn’t valuable! People will use it to make important decisions. Somebody could end up spending a million dollars. Somebody else might or might not get sick. The collective IQ of the planet will increase by an infinitesimal amount. Work will get done. People will get paid.

    And I’m one of them.

  • Writing: It’s Just This Thing, You Know?

    Ha. Um… Oh dear.

    Why do I write?

    It took a while, but I remember why I started writing: I wanted to tell the story better. I was reading something (Star Wars novels. Babysitter’s Club and Trixie Belden books. Fanfiction on a dial-up connection in 1998.) and I would think, “Hey, that’s cool and all, but…”

    In the beginning, it was just about having an idea and wanting to tell you all about it.

    It’s not a bad beginning, but it doesn’t sum up why I keep doing it. I’m afraid the overall answer isn’t really awesome or deep. It’s just — I do. I imagine that being a writer is something so built into me that I can’t really be anything else. I’m not really good at anything else.

    (more…)