The Confabulator Cafe

Tag: fiction

  • The Stork’s Feather

    The fortune teller studied the side of my palm. Her slender fingers traced the lines of my calloused hand, turning it this way and that to catch the light. I kept my eyes off of her, concentrating on the colorful tapestries on the wall. I knew what she was looking for. And I already knew what she would find.

    “You’ll never have any children,” she said.

    “I know,” I replied.

    Those lines had been scraped off of the side of my hand years ago. She must have seen the half line. The faint, broken line that signified my unborn child. She was tactful not to mention it. Most practitioners loved to bring it up. They liked to play it up to prove that they knew their business. But she sounded like she was giving me the specials. ‘You’ll never have kids, oh and the soup of the day is broccoli cheese.’ She didn’t even sound sad about it.

    “It doesn’t have to be this way if you don’t want it,” the woman said. (more…)

  • Party at Pinehurst

    For the first time in three generations, Pinehurst Mansion felt vibrant and alive. The annual interfraternity council Halloween party packed the place with more students than a Psych 101 lecture hall. Sexy police officers danced with black and white striped prisoners. Vampires necked with mobsters, their plastic tommy guns forgotten in dark corners. A neon green liquid flowed liberally from a punch bowl bigger than a laundry basket.

    I swam drunkeningly through the ballroom floor, tripping over my own feet, hoping to find a bathroom or at the very least a rough equivalent. I had hoped that tonight I would finally profess my infatuation to Keri Wilson.  Elegantly, of course, with poetry, song, or one of the other sickenly sweet romantic devices that I had concocted. Instead, I got drunk and put it off for another day–the right day–I told myself. Some day when I didn’t need to find a place to puke. (more…)

  • Death by Inches

    Jack was sitting at his coffee table stripping down his double-action revolver. Gin was lounging on his couch behind him, a tablet in her hands and a leg flopped over an armrest. Apart from the blank TV set into the front wall and a small nightstand next to the door, the apartment was barren.

    Gin glanced down from her screen. “Why do you carry that old thing?” She asked. “Do they even make guns like that anymore?”

    (more…)

  • Being Real

    I have nothing to say.

    Inaccurate: I have a lot to say about how I feel about fiction writing, the goals I have for next year, or even the mild bitterness about my ex-husband’s support of those goals. But my immediate urge is to self-censor all that:

    This is a community blog; no one needs your bullshit. You’ve already used that “writing is hard” meme a dozen times. Making goals is a recipe for failure; just go with the flow. Stop thinking in thoughts separated by a semi-colon.

    I’m willing to bet if I pull up the Google Machine right now and search “writing self-censoring,” I’ll already find a dozen topics on the ways that writers shy away from opening themselves up on the page. I’m not going to do that, because it would be another reason not to write about it.

    (more…)

  • Life and Limb

    My brother Tommy had always been twitchy. He was born wound tight, and growing up in our house hadn’t done the kid any favors.

    But when Tommy stumbled into Momma’s kitchen that day, pale faced and clutching the crumbled paper bag under one arm, the look in his eyes told me something was seriously wrong this time.

    Tommy hesitated in the doorway when he saw me. His eyes darted from me to Momma, but the old woman wasn’t going to be any help. I’d been sitting in her kitchen for going on half an hour now, and she’d only said a handful of words to me. Even now she kept her back to us, washing dishes in the sink, the scalding water turning her arms a bright, angry red.

    “Hey, bro,” Tommy finally said. His voice had a slight tremble in it, like he was fighting to keep it under control.

    “You coming in or not?” I asked.

    Tommy looked toward Momma again, but she was still deep in her own world of crazy. With a look of resignation, he closed the door and joined me at the table.

    (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…)

  • 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…)

  • Bells

    Rocking Horse Room — 1943

    Straeon Manor - Rocking Horse RoomFrom the attic to the wine cellar, their voices whispered my name, “Eliza. Eliza. Eliza.” I had come home for Christmas. I had returned to Straeon Manor.

    The rocking horse wallpaper had been replaced by utilitarian white paint. The child’s bed gone, replaced by a single adult bed. The nightstand – where I kept my mother’s bible to comfort me during the long, dark nights – had been replaced by a small dresser where sat a small tray of food.

    A rocking horse sat in the corner of the room. Had it been mine once upon a time? Perhaps I had left it behind when we moved. I couldn’t remember. This was no longer my bedroom, just as this was no longer our house.

    (more…)

  • Dearest Mama

    Ballroom — 1815

    Dearest Mama,

    It snowed again last night, and this morning I awoke to gardens dusted with a fine white powder. Hopefully the snow will not impede the travel of any of the party guests. Aunt Millie has assured me that it will not. I do wish that little Lizzie was in better spirits. I should dearly have liked to have you here for my first ball.

    My first ball, Mama, can you imagine that? It seems just yesterday I was dashing about in pinafores with my hair in plaits sticking out from under my bonnet. My aunt promises me that I shall look every inch the lady tonight. I do so hope the evening goes well.

    Has papa returned from France? I had hoped that, by now, all the soldiers would have returned home. Surely with Bonaparte’s defeat this past summer, they can have no reason to keep papa abroad. I am sure his return home would be just what Lizzie needs to cure her cough. My aunt agrees with my statement, though assures me that by the time you receive my letter, Lizzie’s health will be much improved.

    I shall return to my letter momentarily, my aunt is calling me away. (more…)

  • Santa Claus is Coming

    black-christmas-house

    Bathroom – 1988

    I lay in the empty bathtub, beside the bloody knife, the porcelain chilling my shivering skin. My hands cover my face, catching warm tears from one eye and hot blood from the other’s vacant socket. I wish that Santa Claus would stop singing.

    You’d better watch out. You’d better not cry…

    The blood on my skin congeals, sticky like a thin layer of strawberry jam. Mine? Mark’s? Probably both. I want to turn on the water, to retrieve the soap from the wire basket screwed into the wall. Why are the screws different? One Phillips head, one flat. One rounded, one smooth. One old, one new. Old, new, round, smooth…

    Santa Claus is coming to town… (more…)