Stories on the Go: 101 Very Short Stories by 101 Authors

by Hugh Howey

  "I’ll walk you home," said this woman I’d never seen before, though I’d served her every morning for months. "He’s going nowhere, but I’m outta here."

  The humanity in her gaze fled like the north wind. She clapped once, sharply. Karski bounded to her side.

  That awful dog. That cute little thang.

  Carol Kean

  writes fiction when she isn’t planting prairie natives, pulling weeds, line-drying laundry even in the snow, or reviewing books for Perihelion Science Fiction, NetGalley, Amazon Vine and Goodreads. She earned her English degree and journalism minor from University of Northern Iowa.

  Carol Kean’s Website

  Table of Contents — Author Register — Genre Register

  Women’s Fiction

  Anywhere Else

  Kristy Tate

  With a pocket full of shrimp tails, Madeleine dashed across the quiet, tree-lined street where she had once lived. Skirting past the front walk, she headed for the back door. Her fingers shook as she slipped the key into the lock, and her breath escaped in a quick sigh when the knob turned.

  The kitchen, her kitchen, still wore the cheery floral curtains over the windows, but the withering herbs on the sill told the real story. She moved past the temptation to save the rosemary and thyme and hurried up the backstairs to the master bedroom.

  She paused in the doorway. Her breath caught at the sight of a purple bra lounging on the rumpled sheets of the unmade bed. The bed she had once shared with Calvin. They had found the headboard at an antique mall in Maine. After wrapping it up in a sleeping bag, they tied it on top of their Jeep, and drove it home to Connecticut. Despite the rain and passing years, it still looked beautiful. It hurt to leave it behind.

  Madeleine fingered the baggie of shrimp tails in her pocket. She needed to stay focused.

  Gravel crunched as a car turned into the drive. Outside, doors slammed. Madeleine cast a wild glance around the room, searching for a hiding place. Beneath the bed? In the shower? She dashed into the closet and pulled the doors closed. Slits of light from the louvered doors penetrated the darkness, revealing the stark emptiness of what had once been her side. Last week, she could have easily hid behind coats and dresses, but now with only suit jackets and Oxford cotton shirts to offer protection, she hunkered in a dark corner and prayed that Calvin wouldn’t need a change of clothes.

  The kitchen door creaked open.

  Pressing against the wall, Madeleine wished to disappear, that heaven or hell, she didn’t care which, would open a portal and suck her into another realm, a place of peace, void of tears, threats, and broken promises.

  Footsteps climbed the stairs. Madeleine sucked in a deep breath as she recognized the voices.

  “But I don’t want to bring a dessert!” Carly whined. “I don’t even eat desserts. You know that.”

  “Yeah, but my mom does eat desserts.” Calvin sounded tired.

  Madeleine thought of the bed and the bra. What if they…

  Oh, please, no.

  She shimmied behind the shirts and suits, inhaling Calvin’s familiar scent.

  “I want to bring my signature salad.” Carly’s voice turned from wheedling to annoying. “I know your mom will love it.”

  “My mom doesn’t love salad. She loves brownies, bowling and bulldogs—in that order.”

  Keys jangled as someone, probably Calvin, dropped them onto the dresser. In her mind, Madeleine could see him emptying out his pockets, a ritual he had practiced every day of their twenty-two-year marriage.

  But it wasn’t the end of the day—it was two o’clock in the afternoon. What was he doing here? She thought again of the bed.

  Oh, please, no.

  She fingered the baggie of shrimp tails. It felt cold and slightly wet. Maybe if Calvin and Carly got…preoccupied, she could slip out unnoticed. Not likely.

  And what about the shrimp?

  She had planned to leave them in the drapery rods. Calvin would never look there. Since she had hung the curtains herself, he probably didn’t even know the rods were hollow and could be disassembled. But now, here she was, skulking in the closet, yards away from the rods.

  “I can’t serve up bulldogs or bowling balls,” Carly said.

  “My mom won’t care what you bring.”

  “Then I should bring my signature salad.”

  In a beat of silence, Madeleine imagined Calvin rolling his eyes as he said, “We’ll pick up a pie at a bakery.”

  “A store-bought pie?”

  “From a bak-er-y.” Calvin enunciated all three syllables—a sure sign of annoyance.

  Madeleine shifted her feet and paper crackled beneath her shoe. She caught her breath, expecting exposure, closet doors flung open, daylight illuminating all the dark corners, shrimp popping from her pockets, but the argument continued as if she didn’t exist.

  “I am not going to meet your family carrying a pie from the Stop and Shop!” Carly took a deep breath. “Especially since I don’t even eat sweets!”

  Madeleine focused on the paper beneath her shoe. A drawing of a horse. Her knees buckled as she recognized the childish scrawl. For Daddy.

  Her knees gave way, and Madeleine silently sunk to the floor. Sitting crisscross-applesauce, Madeleine picked up her daughter’s drawing. In the soupy half-light, her vision blurred with tears as she remembered Lily showering Calvin with her art. He had to have received thousands. How many had he kept?

  Lily had been gone for more than ten years and the carpet had been shampooed and vacuumed dozens of times since her death. In fact, Madeleine didn’t remember seeing the drawing when she cleaned out her things…which meant what?

  She smoothed out the drawing, trying to press out the wrinkles caused by her own shoe. A tear fell, smudging the pencil lines. She shook the paper, and the voices on the other side of the door hushed.

  Madeleine froze.

  Someone scooped up the keys. They jangled for a moment before sliding into a pocket. A door creaked. Footsteps padded down the stairs.

  Madeleine stayed in the closet until the back door slammed closed, the car engine roared and the gravel in the drive crunched. Holding the drawing as if it was fragile and capable of shattering, she slipped from the closet. Silently, she crept down the stairs. In the kitchen, she paused to water the dying herbs before passing through the back door. She double checked the lock and said a silent goodbye to the cheery drapery she had made.

  Somewhere, on her way to anywhere else, she found a dumpster for the shrimp tails.

  Kristy Tate

  writes women’s fiction with a dash of romance, mystery and humor. Her debut novel, Stealing Mercy, was on Amazon’s top 100 list of historical romance for more than fifteen weeks and spent two weeks as number one. Her participation in the Christmas on Main Street Anthology, an Amazon #1 bestseller in inspirational romance, made her an Amazon top 100 author for more than a month. Her novel, The Rhyme’s Library, was a 2013 Kindle Review semi-finalist.

  Kristy studied English literature at Brigham Young University and at BYU’s International Center in London. Although a longtime resident of Orange County California where she lives with her family, Kristy’s heart belongs in her hometown of Arlington, Washington, AKA Rose Arbor — the fictional setting of her popular Rose Arbor series.

  For updates on Kristy’s upcoming novels, please visit her blog.

  Kristy Tate’s Website

  Table of Contents — Author Register — Genre Register

  Romance

  Love Salutation

  Jos Van Brussel

  Yoga class was halfway through when Marjorie whispered to her neighbor Jackie, “What’s with Jessie today? She seems completely out of it.”

  Jessie, the perky yoga instructor, normally the image of poise and serenity, had not been her usual self today. Jittery as a June bug, she’d even forgotten half of their usual warm-up exercises.

  “May 23 today,” Jackie whispered back.

  “What’s so special about May 23?�
� said Marjorie, panting and wiping the sweat from her brow. Sun salutation always had her huffing and puffing like a stevedore on a hot summer day.

  Jackie smiled. “Ah, of course. This is your first year. Well, you’re in for a surprise. Although…” She checked the big wall clock and frowned. “He’s late.”

  “Who’s late?” said Marjorie.

  “You’ll see,” said Jackie mysteriously. “Or not, of course. Depending.” She creased her brow again. “Weird. He’s never been this late before.”

  Just then the door to the gym creaked open and all heads turned to the back. Marjorie gasped at the sight of the newcomer. The man was a giant! Dressed in a khaki-colored tank top and stretchy pants, he was all muscle, head to toe. Bulging shoulders, chest, arms… Dang, the guy even had bulges on his neck!

  “Um, hi?” Mister Universe said a little hesitantly, fifteen pairs of eyes drinking him in. “Sorry I’m late.” His voice trailed off.

  “Is this your first time?” said Jessie.

  “Yes,” said the man mountain in his deep, rumbling voice.

  “Come forward,” said Jessie, tapping her foot in annoyance. “Just follow my lead.”

  “Oh, all right,” said the guy, relieved, and made his way to the front of the class. “I’m here on doctor’s orders,” he explained to no-one in particular. He pointed to his lower back. “Hernia. Doc said yoga would help.”

  “Please don’t talk,” said Jessie. There was an edge to her voice Marjorie had never heard there before. Usually the young instructor was all joyfulness, warmth and patience. In fact, that was one of the reasons Marjorie kept coming back. Though she still failed to master even the simplest position, Jessie never made her feel like a failure, always putting her at ease.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the guy said, and got down on all fours on one of the brightly-colored yoga mats.

  “Sun salutation is about welcoming the sun,” Jessie resumed. “It’s about greeting a new day and allowing the energy of the sun to flow through your life.”

  “Um, ma’am?” a voice boomed out.

  Jessie turned around, annoyed. “Yes?”

  “Do you think this is safe for someone in my condition?” He rubbed his back.

  “Just do what feels comfortable. If any of this gives you discomfort, stop immediately, all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said obediently. Planting his massive hands down on the mat, raising his cute butt up into the air like a mountain, his feet pressed down firmly, he assumed the position of downward-facing dog quite well for a first-timer. Marjorie was fascinated to see the muscles along his arms move like thick cords beneath the tan skin, holding up that impressive body, while the muscles in his legs flexed and twisted like steel cables.

  Jessie, who’d been staring at those impressive glutes along with the rest of the class, gave herself a little shake, then said in a husky voice, “Very good, Mister, um…”

  “Bruce,” said the man, twisting his head. “Bruce Jackson, ma’am.”

  “Well, Bruce, carry on,” said Jessie. Then turning to the rest of the class, she clapped her hands. “That goes for you too, ladies. Carry on. Let’s not get distracted.”

  “What a cute butt,” whispered Marjorie, but Jackie merely grinned, her eyes raking across Bruce’s prime real estate, still prominently on display.

  Bruce mimicked Jessie’s posture perfectly, sliding from his downward facing stance into a movement called plank: body stiff as a board, arms planted beneath the shoulders, legs long. Then Jessie brought one foot between her hands for a lunge, easily brought up the other foot and swung her arms and upper body up so she was standing straight, arms raised to the sky in a salutation to the sun.

  Suddenly Bruce’s voice rang out, “Ouch!”

  Jessie instantly hopped down from the dais and ran up to the man, now writhing on the floor, holding onto his back, his face contorted into a grimace of pain.

  “What’s wrong?” said Jessie, kneeling down next to him.

  Then suddenly, to Marjorie’s surprise, Bruce slung his arms around Jessie, pulled her into his massive chest, and planted a big, wet kiss on her lips.

  “What the hell?” cried Marjorie, but most of the others in the class merely whooped and hollered and clapped their hands.

  “Happy anniversary, honey,” said Bruce, releasing Jessie from his grip.

  She pounded his chest with her small fists, but her smile was undeniable. “You were late, you big lug.”

  He grimaced. “Sorry about that, hon. Mom had trouble getting the little one to sleep.”

  Jessie’s expression instantly changed to one of concern. “Colicky again?”

  “Afraid so. He’ll be all right, though. When I left he was feeling better already.”

  Jessie’s eyes lit up, and she leaned in, her hands cupping Bruce’s face, and they kissed again.

  “Happy anniversary, honey,” she whispered, and the class erupted into applause.

  “Bruce is Jessie’s husband,” whispered Jackie to a dumbfounded Marjorie. “They met in this yoga class three years ago today, and by the end of the first lesson they’d fallen in love. He returns each year to play out the scene. Isn’t it lovely?”

  “That’s so sweet!” exclaimed Marjorie, clasping her hands to her heart.

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  “So what happened? Did he really hurt his back?”

  “He did. Lucky for him, Jessie’s a trained chiropractor. Fifteen minutes later and his back was as good as new. As was his heart. They got married one month later.”

  They both gazed at the scene, eyes moist. Finally, Marjorie said, a catch in her voice, “Love salutation.”

  Jackie smiled. “Love and yoga. Who knew?”

  Jos Van Brussel

  I love to write what I love to read, which are (in no particular order): funny, romantic, adventurous, suspenseful, kooky, heartwarming, uplifting and inspiring/inspired tales of love, life and laughter, featuring heroes and heroines breaking down the obstacles that divide them with zip and zest, pluck and wit, and above all, an unabashed yearning for the happy end. In other words, I write humorous romantic adventure stories.

  When I’m not writing, I’m traveling the world with my partner, or spending time at home playing with our big, fat, red cat, Tom.

  Jos Van Brussel’s Website

  Table of Contents — Author Register — Genre Register

  Fantasy

  The Spirit Talker

  John March

  Uksila’s warg lies on furs in a narrow space near the whelping pits. His breath comes hard, and foam bubbles like frog spawn between his fangs. I should not think of frog spawn. My guts are empty, rumbling. A frog would be better. I remember the crunch of bones, the slippery body popping between my teeth.

  He named his warg Rustimak. If the eater spirit comes the warg will die and I will get a paw, or a tail if I choose. If the mother spirit comes Rustimak will be healed and live, and later I will have the whole head. I want the head. The tongue is good to eat, and the insides of the skull. Many things can be done with the teeth and eyes.

  Blood and breath, and spit have been given to the earth. Now I shake the bone rattle to guide the spirit.

  Uksila rode close to the red trees. His band lost three to elven watchers there, and Rustimak was stuck with a dart – a wickedly-barbed venomous thing. Terrible deadly, the elves, but they stick to their places. Uksila says it is the only place to hunt wild animals now. Our riders returned with no meat.

  Hunting was good before the short-armed ones, called men, came to the flatlands. Men are tall and pale like elves, but a clan of dwarves came with them, so we knew they must not be of that kind, as there is a great hatred between the tree people and the dwarves. The dwarves drove the black rock clan from their deep caves, to the warrens we warg kin share with the bat clan, mining deep to find soft yellow metal, poisoning all the fresh water.

  The pale men have many animals with them, yet they chase our hunters away with terrible we
apons the dwarves give them. We are many now and there is little food under the ground. Worms are good to eat. When there are no worms we chew the roots of trees. Dwarves are like hard roots to chew. I wonder how the pale men will taste.

  Yurtik, our clan leader, says we will kill the men soon. Kill them and drive them away from our lands. We are changed by the pale men. Before they came here the clans shared the flatlands. The tusk clan will join with the warg clan, the bat clan and the black rock tribe.

  Hill trolls will join us. Yurtik shows the troll chieftain animals the men keep and tells him half will be theirs. I know Yurtik will cheat them – trolls are stupid, they cannot count. Yurtik is cunning, as a good leader of the clan must be.

  The eater spirit has come. I put my hand on my mouth and watch his shadow from the corner of my eye. If you see the eater spirit your eyes will curdle like sour milk; you must not let him take more than you have given.

  The warg’s breath leaves him, white like winter frost, and Uksila howls.

  Black rock youngsters gather in shadows, watching, licking their lips. They are thinking warg must taste good. When Rustimak is dead one reaches with a knife to cut a piece of paw. Uksila slashes him, spills his insides on the floor faster than blinking. The black rock tribe will not eat their own so Uksila and his brothers will feast well this morning.

  Calling spirits is hungry work. Uksila sees me looking at the youngling, I am drooling now at the smell of wet flesh so he lifts the youngling’s head in one clawed hand, a warg paw in the other. He wants to keep all the warg for himself. A whole warg pelt is a powerful thing, the spirit of his warg will stay with him when he wears it to make him stronger and faster.

  So I take the youngling head. Warg is tastier, but any head has good eating.