micro story

A Post for The Drabble

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“The Drabble” is a popular blog and many people take part in it. Recently, they liked one of my posts/stories as they have, before (“The Story of Mathias Wizandar”). The seemingly most important rule behind a Drabble is to write  a story in one hundred words or less. For us lovers of poetry and flash fiction, it is one of those exciting ways/places we can express ourselves efficiently as writers, and prove that it is not so difficult, after all, to write a story that meets literary qualifications in so few words.

I have never submitted a Drabble until now (send one here 🙂 ). I sent the last one-hundred word story I crafted to “Reader’s Digest”. It was not accepted for publication, yet I thought others might find it humorous. It was about a time when I accidentally felt the leg of a woman who I thought was my girlfriend; it was her sister. At any rate, here is a photo of a candle (please, pardon my amateur photography) and a kind of summary of “The Story of Mathias Wizandar” in the form of a semi-poetic Drabble.

To Light A Candle

As a Christian, Mathias endured thoughts of the use of magic for decades. Dedicated to his work, he stayed single yet happened upon a young woman in a bookstore while dreaming of fantastic, goldenly magical, shadowed forest glades. He read a spell book she sold to him and considered its prose, held his hands above a candle while speaking a spell to watch the heat of its light dissipate surrounding shadows.

The rhyming may have seemed cheesy, yet I think the summary was there, and it was fun to do something spur-of-the-whim. “Goldenly” was a quick neologism, I cannot imagine how many words may have been better, yet I sometimes dream of dark forests with trees that drip glowing gold from their leaves and attribute those ideas largely to H. P. Lovecraft, especially if there is a big tomb there with a man reading about fantastic worlds besides a casket.

I usually like to craft a good plot with an outline and re-think it to a more valuable idea, write out a draft and revise it, then polish it until I think an editor somewhere may want it. That all takes time, yet we, as writers, have our hopes and goals. Thank you for reading this post; I hope you enjoyed it. 🙂

♦

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An Excerpt…

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Many times, as composers of stories and makers of creative works, we endure a great many ideas throughout the day.  As we siphon through these ideas from time to time, we do not always have the time to put our best notions down on paper or out into electronic availability.  I had an idea for a space exploration prompt, for other people, yet with limited response (due to possible near non-exposure), I wrote out an idea for it.  Here it is – it will possibly be published elsewhere this month or later… 🙂

The Fuselage
   From the glossy windows of a small, outer atmosphere born, multi-engine computerized, ceramic-shelled fuselage, five astronauts documented their observations of Earth with on-board imaging technology and documentation devices safely within their space-born exploration and research vehicle.  The team’s lead scientist’s name was Captain Ron Featherton.  His crew of four researchers’ names were Gill, Luke, Isa (short for Isabelle), and Shawn.  The team’s mission?  To observe, document and digitally characterize Earth’s natural radiation belts, normal global geology and external geomorphology, and to journey safely from Earth’s outer atmosphere within normal return velocities.
   After documenting observations, including storms, stars, and pressure movements, the crew was impressed with their flight-specific gathered data and electronic journals.  Upon storing information into their data systems, it was nearing time to venture home.  Just then, however, the lead monitor of engine systems and on-board life, air, navigation systems Secondary Operations Engineer, Shawn, suddenly exclaimed…
   “Captain, our oxygen supply is decreasing due to an unknown malfunction source!  Should we down the two minor engine thrusts to maintain average support systems?”  “No,” said Captain Ron, “We need to leave them running to maintain minimum necessary travel speed – we will be returning to Earth in moments and should not take the risk.”  A small bubbling patch of perspiration beaded unnoticeably upon Shawn’s brow.  “Eye eye, Cap,” said Shawn has he continued to navigate the average-sized spaceship along its normonic path.
   “This is such a marvelous view of our planet and distant celestial sparkling bodies,” observed Gill in a dreamy frame of mind.  She had worked for most of her career to enjoy one single amazing experience such as this one.  “Of the things I have seen during my lifetime,” commented Luke, “There has been none such as marvelous as this one; never before have I viewed such a spectacular view of Earth and our amazing galaxy.”  “I concur,” said Isa, “I will treasure this moment for a lifetime.”
    As the astronauts continued to maintain normal operations, the spacecraft’s instrumentation panel began beeping and going haywire.  “We are losing vital oxygen fast, Captain!” exclaimed Shawn.  “Down the secondary thrusts and engage back-up systems! We will be lucky to survive!”  commanded Captain Ron.  Isa spoke a short prayer.
   Drifting through space the astronauts wondered if they were a part of a moribund exploration, done-for, bereft.  Oxygen continued to weaken as Captain Ron tried to contact home-command.  Unable to do so, the situation grew more terrible.  Due to lack of sufficient air his team of four fell unconscious.  He somehow did not.  Maintaining system controls, Captain Ron was able to bring the ship to a state of tentative normalcy.
   Therein lied his dilemma:  should he risk losing the lives of his team, utilize the oxygen supply in order to return to Mother Earth alive, chance becoming a known and perceived, detested failure, responsible for the deaths of four renown scientists?  “It is a temptation to disengage the pressure controls and drift hopelessly into the bliss of outer space… to suffer the short-lived torture of suffocation and die,” thought the compassionate space-captain, “No one would ever know.”  He had no family to return to, gave the cowardly notion a pinch of dangerous thought.
   The newly engineered, high-tech space-born fuselage allowed no emergency abort capabilities, proved now, to be a deadly capsule due to its systems’ malfunctions.  As he looked upon his crew in tears, the captain released their air supply.  Captain Ron brought the ship’s systems back to complete and normal operation within moments.  He powered up the main thrusts.  The other four died shortly thereafter.  Captain Ron returned to Planet Earth within normal and safe velocities exceeding an approximate 19,817 mph, presented never-before-gathered radiation belt data, sought counselling.
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A Drabble…

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The paragraphs below depict a micro-story I wrote for a blog I found recently.  Interestingly enough, it is always fun to include classic literary devices within a ‘word-filtered’ sentence combination.  I enjoyed editing the story; the original was over 300 words, over 200 words of their submission requirement.  My final submission was 98 words.  Due to the differences of the two drafts, I included both of them, here.  By request I will remove the actual submission.
Sam and Sam
Both car doors closed close to the same time.  A teenage school girl named Samantha and her male friend named Sam both exited their parents’ vehicles in front of the local bookstore known for its darkstout coffee.  “How goes it?” she asked.  “Great,” he said.  They went in to order a coffee.  They both liked cold house coffee; it was cheaper than the more extravagant lattes.  “I will take a house coffee on ice,” said Sam, attempting to hand the cashier with crimson red-blonde hair a five. She then heard Sam say, “I will have the same, however I will pay for both.”  She said thank you and Sam handed the cashier a ten.
After receiving their coffees they explored the store.  There were a great many exciting books and periodicals.  They both loved to read and did well in school.  After noticing how much the bestsellers cost, they visited the music section.  Sam and Sam liked most music, however they loved rock and dance the most.  “Check it out!” said Sam, and Samantha ran over to him.  It was a newly released greatest hits live recording by “nin”.
“Let’s put our money together and we can listen to it later,” said Samantha, too excited to wonder about teenage puppy love.  “Okay,” said Sam – their parents would be back anytime.  Their hour was nearing its death.  They made it to the checkout line and it seemed to be keeping the pace of a sprinting post-storm snail.
Samantha gave Sam her five and it was their turn.  There existed a man behind them deep in thought, holding a book titled, “On Living Well”.  The new C.D. was listed for $11.89; the teller said, “Your total is twelve ninety-six.”  “We are short seventy-six cents,” said Sam on accident.  Samantha was confused; the man behind them said, “Keep your money.  I will buy that disc for you.”  “Wow,” said Sam, “What is your name?”  “Atticus.”
Sam and Sam, by J. C. Martin, III
They exited their parents’ vehicles in front of a bookstore known for darkstout coffee.  “Howdy,” she said.  “Hi,” went inside.
“Cold house coffee,” requested Samantha, tried paying.  Sam said, “I will have the same,” paid for both.  “Thank you.“
They explored.  “Check it out!” exclaimed Sam, seeing a new release by “nin“.  “Let’s listen to it later.”  “Okay.“
Their hour dwindled.  Checkout kept the pace of a sprinting poststorm snail.  Samantha gave Sam her five.
A man held a book, “On Well Living”.  “$12.96.”  “We’re short.”  “I’ll buy it.”  “Okay.”  “What is your name?”  “Atticus.“

The Desk

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The Desk

Alone, I sat.  I wondered, “What are the real differences in coffees, anyway?  I know I like mine cold… I can ‘slam’ it and go.  No noisy gurgles originating from sipping.  Arabica blends and over thirty other kinds of coffees – I still think they are all highly similar.  My favored ‘South American Espresso’ blend is still hard to outdo, according to me.”

Thoughts on coffee dominate a percentage of my mental effort during the day.  I enjoy thinking of sociology and money, too.  I ask me, “How can I better myself and others?”  Today was going to be a good day; I had plans.  A favor for a favor, I only needed one other person and I could do this terrible and horrible deed that no one would ever be able to forget.

I, at one time, was down on my luck.  I asked a stranger, a student in law school, if he would buy me a meal.  He did.  I gave him my information, told him that if he ever needed a favor to let me know.  I told him that I am an honest man, a man true to my word.  He said, “I am a creative person.  Are you sure you mean it?”  I told him, “I am an honest man.  I mean it.”

Four years went by and I received a phone call from a probable sexy secretary with an attractive voice named Vanecia.  She said her boss was a lawyer who needed a secret favor, that she had a note.  I picked the note up from a stranger at a specific time at a familiar intersection in the city.  The note said:

“Here is your first favor; fulfill this task successfully and I will contact you in the future.  I will pay you for the next tasks, if you accept them.  Your goal is to enter into the insurance building on 14th and Tree St.  Go to the 22nd floor and find an office with the title ’22-A Office 10-Z’ above the door.  It should be unlocked.  There will be a large desk with the name ‘Mr. Hardens Gilma’.  Throw the sizable desk out of the large window to the streets below.  Exit the building via a stairway unseen.  We will be in contact.”

I would have done this alone, however I needed some anonymous muscle.  During the years I was away from the law student, I worked a great deal.  As an odd job, I swept out a bar for its owner early every Saturday morning due to its busy Friday nights.  I asked him for the help; the person he sent to help me would meet me at this very cafe at 8 am, I got here at 7:30 and began drinking a pot of coffee I paid for in advance.

It was 7:55 am and a man of enduring build approached me.  I was wearing a white shirt with an “X” marked directly on my chest, so he could identify me.  He asked me what my name was.  I told him it might as well be unspoken.  His code from the bar owner was to say that he had been looking for me.  “I have been looking for you,” he said.  “Good,” I said, “I saved you a cold coffee, down it.”  He happily did it; I was nice.  He drank one more cup of cold coffee, said it was not too bad that way.  I would have drunk more, yet I already met my own expectations for my morning coffee requirement.

We left the cafe and he kept pace with me.  A sturdy man, he was also in shape.  We jogged 3 blocks and made a right onto Tree St.  We jogged about half a block to the insurance building and entered.  We walked past various people.  A woman behind the front receiving counter did not even see us.  She was on the phone while reading a magazine.  I pushed a button to ride the elevator up.  The building was approximately 60 stories tall; the stairs were right next to us.  I took one look at my “all-knowing yet not wired whatsoever friend” and decided to just take the stairs.  The elevator would take too long.

We took the stairs and found a forked vestibule on Floor 22.  The hallway went left and right, so we chose to try going to the right.  We walked past various offices with differing titles and found the correct title with relative ease after having seen half a dozen or so.  We entered the large office.  No one was there.  We found the desk!  A small plaque with the name Hardens Gilma was there.  I saw the one window large enough for the task and pointed it out to my companion.  He saw it and knew what to do.  We both got one end of the desk and ran towards the window with it.

With all of our might we thrust the large desk through the window.  It fell its approximate 20 stories to the streets crashing into broken parts on the pavement.  People stood back as if they had never even seen such a thing.  They then carried on.  I shook hands with my companion, and we jogged down the stairs and out of the building.  I tipped him the few dollars I promised the bar owner I would.  We were not caught; the lawyer contacted me on another day; and the day was fine.

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