Before we know it, at least a dozen authors want in on this. We decide that everyone has a few days to write the longest, most interesting one sentence story they can. The above story was my entry.
At 243 words it’s tiny, compared to some of the epic sentences composed by others. However, my story is a loop. Which means it’s, in fact, infinite words long. And that makes me the winner, right?
Originally I posted this story on my blog. Then Matt Bennardo put together an anthology One Sentence Stories inspired by our friendly contest, and reprinted this mini-tale.
MANNA FROM HEAVEN
They buried Moses in the desert, far from the shores of river Jordan.
“His life’s work is left unfulfilled,” Joshua told Caleb after the last stone had been placed atop the prophet’s grave. “Moses said our people would wander in the wilderness for forty years, so that a generation that never knew slavery could enter the Promised Land.”
Caleb nodded. His chins jiggled softly, glistening with sweat.
“It’s been nearly sixty years since we left Egypt.” Joshua panted. The long walk back to camp under the scorching sun proved challenging for his portly frame. “We are old men and Moses has passed on, yet the Israelites are no closer to the gardens of Canaan than we were on the day he climbed Mount Sinai.”
“The Lord’s plan must have changed,” said Caleb. “If He wanted us to wander, to struggle again, why would He provide so generously for us here? What reason can we offer our people to fight the Canaanites when their bellies are full? Why should they labor to grow the crops in the North when they can stay and feed themselves and their flocks effortlessly, as though they already live in Paradise?”
A light drizzle of manna came down from the sky, as if to support Caleb’s words. The two elders rested. From where they sat they could see the outskirts of the camp. They watched women unhurriedly collect some of the falling manna into clay bowls, to be used in preparation of an evening’s meal.
“Perhaps you are right,” said Joshua. “The Lord continues to offer us His blessings. He must want us to remain here.”
He absent-mindedly caught a flake of manna and popped it into his mouth.
A five-dimensional being chided its younger broodmate.
“You are in so much trouble,” it said. “Just wait until the adults return.”
“I did nothing wrong,” protested the younger being. “I didn’t break anything, I swear.”
“You were told many times; do not ever meddle with the environments.”
The older being pointed at a sign posted above one of the three-dimensional worlds they were monitoring. It read: Do Not Feed.
Speaking of vert short stories, this tiny flash published in Bards & Sages Quarterly is among many of my stories inspired by the Bible. The Good Book is so rich with great material for the crafty writer to steal! I started out with the premise of "what if the manna never stopped falling while the Jews wandered in the desert?" and then just had to come up with a blasphemous explanation for why they were being fed like goldfish in an aquarium.
ON THE LAST AFTERNOON
“So what do we do now?” she asked after they had been sitting silently in front of the TV for a long time, trying to process what they had just heard. On the screen, the president’s speech kept running in a loop.
The President kept it brief. He explained about the huge solar flare that was building up within the sun even as he spoke. How the sun was going to microwave the Earth. How there was no bunker or cave deep enough for anybody to hide. How all life on the planet was estimated to end at 5:47 PM, Eastern Time. He urged the citizens to accept their fate with dignity, and come to peace with whatever higher power they believed in.
Neither of them said anything as they watched the recording play over and over again. At some point her hand found his and held on tight. Finally she broke the silence and asked her question.
What do you do with your last few hours on Earth? Which friends and family do you reach out to—waste precious minutes to connect with them one last time? Paul had no good answer. Finally he told her what he wanted to do, and it triggered the fight.
She accused him of being selfish. How dare he squander the time they had left like this? He shouted back. Old arguments and past sins rehashed, the fight escalated. In the middle of the argument Paul realized that he was very certain of what his next action would be, and no amount of further bickering was going to change it. He slammed the door shut behind him. As he waited for the elevator, he could still hear her screaming.
Paul got into his car and drove toward the bridge. There were surprisingly few vehicles on the road, and fewer pedestrians. Most people seemed to have chosen to spend their last few hours at home. A handful of stores were open – some employees or proprietors found enough comfort in their routine to come to work. They had hardly any patrons. As Paul drove down Brooklyn streets he saw only two kinds of establishments packed and spilling crowds onto the sidewalks: churches and bars.
Near the Verrazano Bridge the traffic increased significantly. Paul got within just a few blocks of the onramp before the traffic came to a dead stop. He pulled up to the curb, managing a small pang of pleasure at so blatantly disregarding the parking regulations. He got out and walked.
Paul thought back to last year, when the two of them attempted to run in the NYC Marathon. The run started at the Staten Island end of the bridge. Like so many other amateurs they made it across into Brooklyn, but not very much further than that. He vaguely remembered that the bridge was nearly three miles long.
He did not run this time, but walked briskly past the now-abandoned cars blocking off all lanes. It took almost an hour to get across, then a bit longer to reach the edge of the city-bound jam. He looked around and settled on the black Honda with a tall red-headed man in his forties chewing his lip and squeezing the steering wheel impatiently, as though he believed the cars in front of him would begin moving again any moment now. Paul tapped lightly on the driver side.
“There is no way to drive across,” Paul said. “You will have to walk.”
“My family is in Queens,” replied the man. “I can’t walk all the way there.” The redhead was squeezing the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white.
“We can trade cars,” Paul said offering up his keys. “My silver Ford XLT is parked just off the corner of 4th Avenue and Shore Road. You have to really hurry if you hope to make it all the way to Queens.”
The redhead looked at him for a few moments, got out of the car and accepted the keys. He nodded thanks and without another word sprinted toward the bridge. Paul turned the Honda around and drove in the opposite direction. Twenty minutes later he pulled up to the gates of the Silver Mount Cemetery.
Paul stood in front of a pair of humble markers. His parents weren’t much for fanfare, in life or in death. He imagined the cemetery would be as packed as the churches he passed on the way, but there were only a handful of solitary figures about. He saw mostly older people, probably mourning their significant others who already passed on. He stood there for a long time, but in his thoughts he kept returning to Brooklyn, and to his girlfriend. He never did find out what she wanted to do with this afternoon.
He and his parents were very close, but they were long gone now. He should have been there for the one person alive who loved him. Paul looked at his watch and saw that there were just a few minutes left. He thought back to the Honda owner running across the bridge. He desperately wanted to believe that the man had made it, even though he knew that wasn’t possible given the time left.
Paul tried calling his girlfriend, but all circuits were busy. Many others were probably trying to reconnect with their loved ones by phone. Just like New Year’s Eve, he thought. The trick was to text. Usually texts could make it through the clogged networks. He typed and sent out a brief message.
“I love you. Please forgive me.”
Just about a minute left. Perhaps enough time for her to respond. Phone in
hand, he sat down on the grass by the grave markers, and waited.
This story originally appeared in Every Day Fiction.
Not much to say about this one, other than it depresses the hell out of me to re-read it, which means I probably did an okay job writing it.
TIME AWAY
I am interrupted by the incessant buzzing of the alarm clock. Two thirty in the afternoon on a Tuesday means it’s time to go outside. I lock the apartment door behind me and walk toward the stairs. I walk faster as I pass the apartment at the end of the hall. The lady there keeps cats. They yowl and bellow from behind the door as I pass by. I can still hear them from the staircase. Instinctively, animals seem to know what I am.
Outside it is bitterly cold. I forgot to put on a coat again. I don’t really care. The sooner I can take care of this chore, the sooner I can go back to what I was doing. It was not easy at first, but I have a pretty good grasp of the concept of time now. Where I come from, there is no time, as such.
Back home my brothers and I were created first, so that we could love Him, and admire His works. He took equal joy in forming a universe as he did in creating a blade of grass. He tinkered away, unleashing a multitude of physical life forms to populate his worlds. Did it take eons or moments? We did not think about that. Our existence was timeless bliss, until He created Man.
He was so very proud of His latest invention. He gathered all of us and ordered us to bow down before Man, to love and worship Man as we worship Him. I looked upon Man, and for the first time ever saw imperfection. At that moment something snapped inside me, changed me forever, made me question myself, and even question Him. Could He himself be perfect if he loves this flawed creature and places it above us, his true and loyal children?
As I make my way down the street, people scurry past me going about their short, meaningless lives. My face betrays no emotion as I look upon them. A mother with a little girl in tow catches up to me at an intersection. We wait for the light to change. The girl grins at me and I flash back a small, humorless smile. Blend in, always blend in, and call no attention to myself. This is the best way. The fewer interactions I am forced into, the sooner I can get back to my room.
When I refused to obey Him, it was out of pure devotion. I loved Him too much and simply could not bring myself to bow down to an inferior being. To compare this man creature to Him was unthinkable to me. I tried to convince others, even to plead with Him directly, but it only angered Him. I was punished. I was cast down to live among the humans I so loathed. Forever.
I walk inside a supermarket and go to the canned foods section. Methodically I fill up a basket with cans. It does not matter which ones. This body requires sustenance regularly or I will be too weak to go about my business. Any food will do. Gluttony is a human sin.
I pay and walk out, loaded down with plastic bags. Money has never been a problem. Hang on to anything long enough and it becomes valuable. Whenever I run low, I sell an old book or a handful of coins. It’s not much, but greed is another human sin by which I am not afflicted.
There are all these stories about me, our there. I am depicted as some mastermind, always looking to corrupt and derail Man. In fact, I only want to be left alone. Even if I understood human psyche well enough to manipulate it, I find it far beneath my dignity to bother. This is the sin of pride—an emotion I feel and understand perfectly. Besides, I am too busy.
Over the years I’ve watched in fascination as some nomad from Mongolia or a painter from Vienna would come to power and unleash unimaginable evil upon humankind. Even in peace time they hunt other species to extinction, cut down the forests, and pollute the air and water. If His plan for me was to come to love humans after living among them, it is not working.
Finally, I make my way back to the apartment. Almost half an hour has passed. The limitations of this physical body force me into constant interruptions. I must feed it and I must sleep regularly. For now, none of that matters because I have completed my chore and should be able to continue unhindered for the rest of the day, at least.
I prostrate myself on the ground, and I pray. I praise His name and I beg Him to forgive me, to take me back home. Every day, every waking moment I do this one and only thing that matters. In His infinite wisdom and compassion, He will surely relent. I pray.
This story originally appeared in White Cat Magazine.
I was intrigued by the idea of writing a different type of the Lucifer’s fall story. And while the sympathetic Devil has been done to death, an indifferent Devil who just wants the Lord’s forgiveness and has no desire to meddle in human affairs felt like a fresh take.
THE GETAWAY
“So, you’ll be heading abroad then?”
The fixer was not what I expected. He was an aging, slightly overweight guy behind a desk, nursing a “World’s Best Dad” coffee mug. He made our transaction feel mundane somehow, as though he was there to do my taxes.
“I’m leaving Friday,” I said. “It’s very important that no one figures out that I’ve gone. Especially at work.”
The fixer simply nodded. He was a professional. Victor vouched for him.
We all have that one friend—the guy who knows the right people on the wrong side of the law. The guy you think of first when you need anything… unorthodox. For me, that was Victor. He set up this meeting, and came along for support.
“How long can you keep my absence covered up?” I asked.
“I’ve been doing this a long time,” said the fixer. “Back when I started out, the job used to be difficult. I could keep folks off a client’s scent for a few days. Maybe a week, if I caught a lucky break.” He took a sip from the mug. “Nowadays, I can maintain the charade almost indefinitely. I’ll guarantee a month, easy.”
“That’s more time than I’m going to need,” I said. I visualized the small village in Mexico I was heading to. A place with white beaches and no Internet access, only a couple of days in my future. Totally off the grid. “A month, huh? No one ever gets suspicious?”
“That’s why you hired an expert,” said the fixer. “I will read your old e-mails and blog posts; so that when I respond to any incoming mail I can best mimic your writing style. I will post an occasional Facebook update, and tweet about your team’s score. I’ll use your phone to check in to your favorite haunts on FourSquare. I will even,” the fixer winced slightly, “tend to your crops in Farmville. No one is going to suspect that you are missing.”
“What if someone actually calls?” I wondered.
“He’ll let it go to voicemail, and then text them back,” Victor said. “That’s what you do most of the time, anyhow. You are just lucky that you telecommute. This scheme could never work for us nine-to-five drones.”
After we went over all the details, I forked over the cash. It’s not like I was going to change my mind now. The plane ticket was already booked.
“Thanks for helping,” I told Victor once we were outside. “I knew I could count on you.”
“Sure,” said Victor. “I still can’t believe you of all people had the gall to do this, but I’m happy to help.”
I hugged Victor goodbye. As I walked away, he called out:
“Have a great vacation! See you in two weeks.”
I enjoy messing with readers’ expectations. In “Good Advice” a time traveler story turns out not to be science fiction, and in “The Getaway” the only tension is built by the readers expectation, since the characters involved all know the stakes are much lower than they seem from the outside.
This story was published, improbably, in the Sparks fantasy anthology. I submitted it to an associated magazine, but the editors liked it for the anthology instead, and while I’m uncertain as to how this qualifies as fantasy, I wasn’t about to turn down a sale over a little thing like that.
THOSE WHO CAN’T DO
“What is art?” The teacher’s holographic image hung in front of a small group of kids gathered in a semicircle.
The Detroit Academy for Gif
ted Beings was a traditionally-minded institution. Parents who wished their offspring to partake of its excellent educational program understood that certain antiquated notions such as classrooms, graded tests, and art history instruction were part of the bargain.
“Artists share something of themselves through their creations—be it a painting, a poem, a dance, or a graffiti tag. Once humans made contact with other intelligent species the new concepts and ideas they learned from each other stretched the definition of what art could be even further.” The teacher noted that the students were beginning to fidget, and changed pace. “Who wants to tell me what forms of art are dominant in your culture?”
An Atrellian student raised its appendage. “On my world we modify flowers. Individuals who create the most exciting, unusual flower beds are very popular.”
“Flowers are boring,” said a Ghelogian cub. “On my planet the hunt is the highest form of art. There’s nothing more exhilarating or beautiful than chasing after prey. Maybe sometime I can show you.” The cub grinned at the plump little Atrellian, showing several rows of razor sharp teeth.
Others took turns to talk about the art from their worlds. The teacher nodded, satisfied to have regained the class’s full attention.
Inspired by the discussion, the goldfish that lived in the aquarium at the back of the classroom had composed an epic philosophical poem about the meaning of art. Translated, the poem could have rivaled the greatest works of Homer, Shakespeare, and Bieber. But it was just a goldfish, so to the rest of the world the entire affair looked like a small air bubble escaping its mouth.
“People often wondered,” the teacher went on to say, “whether it might be possible for an artificial intelligence to create art. Some claimed that it couldn’t be done. Others suggested that an AI could match a living being in creativity, if given enough processing power. A group of curious researches decided to find out.
Explaining Cthulhu to Grandma and Other Stories Page 36