View Full Version : Fictional Short Stories

6th May 2007, 14:23
Post natin dito mga Fictional Short Stories na nabasa natin, either sa internet, sa email, original compositions nyo para sa creative writing subjects, or kahit saan nyo pa nakuha at nabasa. Comedy, Inspiring, Drama, Horror, Fantasy, Action etc. Kung alam nyo yung author nung story, lagay nyo na din para na rin acknowledgement and respect. :)

Define muna natin yung "Fictional Short Story" na ibig sabihin ko.

Fictional, meaning happenings, events na hindi talaga nangyari sa totoong buhay, gawa-gawa lang.

Short Story kasi ay defined as story na nageevolve around one character lang, regardless of its length. Pero dito sa thread na to, lets be literal. "Short" lang talaga, mga maximum of 1500 words pwede na siguro. clear? :)

Long-Distance Calls
by Lee C., New York, NY

Mother puts blankets over our ugly furniture when guests visit, and Father drapes words over the past when Uncle Bryan calls. There is no need, my father believes, to confront a painful history when small talk will so neatly conceal it.

The dynamic between my father and my uncle is cinematic: A big brotherís need to protect a little brother, one man trying to save another. My uncle has been diagnosed with schizophrenia, and my father has been diagnosed with saving him.

Uncle Bryan calls three times a day because itís easier to talk to family than to yourself. I remember learning that Bryan was crazy, that heíd tried to kill himself, that heíd been put away, released, put away, and released again. I could never connect these facts with the person who made our phone ring so many times every day. I was able to understand that his phone calls made my father act like a stranger.

I hear my father on the phone with his little 45-year-old brother every night, and every night I hear my fatherís voice transform.

When (for it is never a matter of if) Bryan calls from his cramped apartment in San Francisco, my father adopts the persona of a California surfer: carefree, living the easy life, eating lobster for dinner and surfing until dawn. He does not talk about the toilet he had to fix that day, the tenant who whined about the heat, or the elevator that stopped working. I think he ignores these things as much to protect himself as to protect Bryan. Itís easier to put on the smooth voice of a made-up character than it is to wear the deep, responsible voice of an older brother who is working too hard.

Itís six oíclock on a Tuesday night. The phone rings. Itís Bryan. I hold out the phone, and my dad, watching television, takes the phone without looking at it. Answering the phone has become a reflex, like breathing. My father puts the phone to his ear, his eyes still intent on some primetime drama.

ďBryan!Ē he booms. ďWhatís the what?Ē

They speak to one another but donít talk. They exchange catch phrases, and that is enough. This is not a conversation, this is a confirmation. Verification that the person on the other side of the phone continues to exist, to breathe, to think and eat and pee and sleep, to love and live and, most importantly, to answer the phone.

My father hangs up, and 20 minutes later, Bryan calls again. Bryan calls again and again; in the middle of my conversation with a friend from school, he calls, fragmenting our speech with the beep of call waiting. He calls while I am curled up in an armchair reading. When I am eating dinner, fork poised in midair, he calls. He calls when my dad is out and when winter moves in.

My dad complains. When we leave the house for vacation or to visit out-of-town friends, we return to an answering machine bombarded with messages. ďAre you there? Itís Bryan. Are you there?Ē Sometimes the phone will ring and, immersed in a book, my father will say offhandedly, ďIíll catch the next one.Ē It is as if the phone calls are a bus you can never be late for, and our house is the station. We say jokingly that Bryan is more reliable than public transportation.

One day, he does not call.

He doesnít call the day after that.

Or the day after that.

The silence is loud; even the static from the television doesnít fill it. We wait on the edge of our seats. When the doorbell rings, we answer the phone. We go out for dinner on the night of the second day that Bryan has not called, and when we get home my dad rushes for the answering machine. He is hoping the red light will blink, like the eye of a living thing. There is no blinking. There is only the blind stare of the red dot, and no calls. I feel like the answering machine has turned into a dead animal.

On the fourth day, my fatherís sister calls. Bryan forgot to take his medication a few days before, she tells my father. He was wandering the streets at night, got hit by a car. Alive? Alive.

The red light on the answering machine begins to blink.

But paralyzed.

Bryan calls the next day. He mentions physical therapy and then goes off on a tirade about what he had for dinner. My father is gripping the phone, his knuckles white. His eyes are filled with tears. His voice, however, is jovial and booming. He will not tell Bryan about how he has felt the last few days, how worried he has been about his little brother. That would be a conversation, and that is not what this phone call is about. This phone call is for Bryan, not for my father. This phone call is to say: You exist and I remember.

Bryan calls all the time from the hospital, and sometimes I get annoyed when the phone wakes me up at night. The conversations between my father and his brother average 15 seconds, barely enough for a greeting and a farewell. Why pick up the phone at all, if you donít plan to converse? When I have insomnia and am staring at the ceiling, I think about that. Then I will step into Bryanís shoes, imagining I am him, before I even realize what I am doing. When I find Iím in Uncle Bryanís shoes, alone and waiting for a call, I want to jump right out again, slip on my own worn sneakers, and forget that other footwear exists. My father feels responsible for Bryanís shoes, I realize one night. I fall asleep with the image of my dad guarding a pair of worn brown loafers from an angry mob. The image is burned into my mind, filed away in some folder of subconscious images that pop up in my dreams again and again.

That summer my father and I fly out to visit Bryan that summer. Seeing him in person is different from what I expected. My father talks softly, and Bryan is quiet. We wander around San Francisco, Bryan in his wheelchair, my father beside him. They bump into each other every now and then, to make sure the other one is still there. You exist, says my fatherís hand as it rests on his brotherís shoulder.

I watch the wordless interaction between the two and feel as though I am listening in on a silent, private conversation. I turn away and intently examine the flow of people on the street, trying to catch my breath.

6th May 2007, 14:23
Spaghetti Dreams
by Cara S., Setauket, NY

I do not remember much. Of what I recall, I see spaghetti. My father calls me a fool and says I made it up some time during that silence when time is turned into a memory. But I know it is true. She would take the thin noodles between her forefinger and thumb, her other fingers splayed. Her head would tilt back, the same angle as when she laughed, and she would hold the spaghetti above her head, her mouth open as though to engulf the entire ceiling and she would let the noodle coil down into her mouth. My small chair was placed directly under her right elbow and there I would sit, watching each noodle disappear from her plate. Then she would turn to me and give me a secret smile.

He says it is ridiculous, that my mother was more sensible than to eat like that. He claims I never saw my mother because she passed away as I was born. He lies, because I know. I remember the spaghetti. I have powers he does not realize. I can go wherever I want. I can even leave here. I do not need a suitcase, because where I go there is no need for anything from home. I close my eyes and I am gone.

My father takes me to the zoo on Fridays. I like to watch the elephants. Sometimes they like to watch me too. We stare at each other until one throws his trunk high in the air and screams. Just for me. And for that elephant, I would close my eyes and go to Africa and bring him back to his home and his family. There, his father and his mother would wrap their trunks together with his in one tangled mess. They would let me climb onto their backs and see the world. I would sleep on their leathery skin and think about how I don't miss home. Not one bit.

I have two brothers. No sisters. I know why. I remember it. My sisters were so beautiful that they are now princesses in the Far East. They were granted beauty, I was given my power. Sometimes I even visit my sisters. They show me around their palaces and treat me as if I were a princess too. And when I get tired of being a princess I go anywhere else I want to go.

My father does not believe me. He does not notice when I am gone. I don't mind because these journeys are for me alone. Maybe one day I will bring him to the table where my mother ate spaghetti with her hands, or to an African safari or even to see my sisters in their palaces. When I do, he will thank me and we will sit and eat spaghetti with our fingers and our heads tilted back. And I will realize that home is the best place to go. And I will give him a secret smile.

6th May 2007, 14:27
Family Reunion
by Jeff C.

Ring around the Rosie ...

We left the house moments ago, leaving five smoking candles on my cake. Now we stand in a bright room, my parents and I. I can see the backs of my uncles and aunts; they surround something I can't see. They hear us and turn around. Stony faces stare at us. I look up at my parents, and their news-hungry faces fall. Everyone is silent; all that can be heard are the clicks and beeps of machines. The silence of my relatives is frightening. I have never seen them so quiet before. Curiosity and alarm surge through my mind. Curiosity quashes the shock of seeing my silent relatives.

"Why are we here?" I question my parents. They don't answer, and keep walking forward. I tug on the sleeve of Mom's jacket. She looks down at me and pats my head.

"In a minute," she whispers.

Uncles and aunts separate, like the Red Sea parting for Moses, and the three of us fill the gap. A bed smelling of chemicals fills my field of vision. I tiptoe, and strain to glance over the edge. I see a frail, old man lying there under a sea of blankets and looking like a withered leaf. His face is under a mask and bandages, but I finally recognize the man.

"Why is Grandpa in bed?" I ask.

A pocket full of posies ...

Hands dart to pockets and handkerchiefs appear in the hands of the grown-ups. They look at me with tears in their eyes. I don't understand what is going on.

"Grandpa is just sleeping, isn't he?" I look questioningly at Dad. He just shakes his head and turns back toward the bed. His eyes search Grandpa's wrinkled face.

Footsteps echo down the hallway outside, and everyone tenses. A white-coated doctor enters the room. Worried faces turn toward him, and everything suddenly becomes still. Then, all the grown-ups explode with questions. The jumbled noise produced from many voices increases, until the doctor holds up his hands. Silence fills the room.

Mom takes my hand and squeezes it.

Ashes, ashes ...

The doctor looks at Grandpa, then shakes his head. Worried faces suddenly change to faces of horror and shock. But nothing happened! I did not see anything change in the room. A dry, choking sound rends the air as Uncle Ted turns and sinks into one of the chairs by the window. Red lights from a white van speeding by suddenly flash through, turning his face red. Rivulets of water stream from his eyes, soaking his beard. Another relative walks out of the room as though she can't see where she is going. Dad stares dumbly at the doctor, not twitching a muscle. Confusion reigns in my mind. What is going on?

"What happened to Grandpa?" I ask my mom.

She looks at me through tear-filled eyes. There is pity in her eyes as she studies my face.

"He is going to sleep. For a very long time. You might never see him again."

"Why not?" I look at her, still not understanding.

She suddenly kneels and hugs me, crying on my shoulder. I stand there, not knowing what to do. Something scary must have just happened. A prickling sensation spreads up my arms. I have never seen Mom cry before. I take a closer look around the small room, searching for the source of her troubles. All I see are white walls and the many machines near my grandpa's bed. One machine catches my attention. It has a green screen with wires coming from it. The wires connect to disks that are attached to Grandpa's arm. Some disappear under the colored gown he is wearing. I study the gown. It is something that doesn't belong. That gown isn't something Grandpa usually wears.

I glance back at the green screen attached to Grandpa. There is a line that jumps every few seconds. Each time it does, a blipping sound comes from the machine. I watch the line with great interest. It has a hypnotizing quality that keeps me riveted, unable to tear my gaze away. Blip ... blip ... blip ... blip ... the blipping stops.

We all fall down.

18th May 2007, 16:58

Many parents are hard pressed to explain to their youth why some music, movies, books, and magazines are not acceptable material for them to bring into the home or to listen to or see.

One parent came up with an original idea that is hard to refute. The father listened to all the reasons his children gave for wanting to see a particular "R" Rated movie. It had their favorite actors. Everyone else was seeing it. Even church members said it was great. It was only rated "R" because of the suggestion of sex...they never really showed it. The language was pretty good...the Lord's name was only used in vain three times in the whole movie. The teens did admit there was a scene where a building and a bunch of people were blown up, but the violence was just the normal stuff. It wasn't too bad.

Even if there were a few minor things, the special effects were fabulous and the plot was action packed. However, even with all the justifications the teens made for the "R" rating, the father still wouldn't give in. He didn't even give his children a satisfactory explanation for saying, "No." He just said, "No!"

A little later on that evening the father asked his teens if they would like some brownies he had baked. He explained that he'd taken the family's favorite recipe and added a little something new. The children asked what it was. The father calmly replied that he had added dog poop.

However, he quickly assured them, it was only a little bit. All other ingredients were gourmet quality and he had taken great care to bake the brownies at the precise temperature for the exact time. He was sure the brownies would be superb.

Even with their father's promise that the brownies were of almost perfect quality, the teens would not take any. The father acted surprised. After all, it was only one small part that was causing them to be so stubborn. He was certain they would hardly notice it. Still the teens held firm and would not try the brownies.

The father then told his children how the movie they wanted to see was just like the brownies. Our minds are tricking us into believing that just a little bit of evil won't matter. But, the truth is even a little bit of poop makes the difference between a great treat and something disgusting and totally unacceptable. The father went on to explain that even though the movie industry would have us believe that most of today's movies are acceptable fare for adults and youth, they are not.

Now when this father's children want to do something or see something they should not, the father merely asks them if they would like some of his special brownies . . . and they never ask about that activity again.