Monday, June 29, 2015

Story #23: "Mr. Bubbles"

And we're back to my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge, and not a moment too soon! It's Day 29, and this is Story #23. In case you may think I have backed myself into a corner from which I cannot escape, there are three more stories coming later today. Which means, I am merely four stories away from meeting my goal. Four stories to write over the next two days is no small task, but I am up to it. I hope you will enjoy this one, as well as the next few stories to come!  ~  JH



"Mr. Bubbles"

So sue me, I like bubbles. That I'm fifty-six years old and well past what many would consider my bubble-loving prime is no concern of yours. At least, it shouldn't be.

There's something about bubbles, a certain joy they brogan that can't be obtained through any other means. 

I dip my wand into the bubble mixture, extract it, and blow; and magically, I am transported to a place where all is right with the world, evil is nonexistent, and pain is obsolete. It is, in a word, heaven. 

A mere capful of bubble solution under a running faucet leading up to my bath is sufficient to drive me to paroxysms of childlike laughter.

The world is a terrible place to live in, but bubbles make it just a little easier, just a bit brighter, and the value of this temporal mirth – artificial though it may be – cannot be understated.

Sure, bubbles may not solve all the world's problems – and indeed, may only assuage a few of my own – but in my estimation, they are as good a place to start as any.

Thursday, June 25, 2015

Story #22: "To Smell Your Feet"


Today is Day 25, and this is Story #22 in my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. I have a really good chance of conquering this challenge in the next 5 days. As for the story, let me be clear that it is 100% fictional and does not in any way, shape, or form depict me or anyone I know. I can, however, relate to the sentiments of its narrator. Until that last sentence, at least. Enjoy? ~ JH



"To Smell Your Feet"

I love you with all of my heart. You are my best friend, my lover, and my soulmate. I fully intend on spending the rest of my life loving you, always in all ways that matter. My love for you is irrevocable, impenetrable, and unconditional. I will do anything for you, anything you ask, whenever you ask it, assuming it is within my power to do so. With one exception. 

I do not now nor do I ever wish to smell your sweaty feet. I realize that it means a lot to you and that you derive some degree of inexplicable pleasure out of merely offering your feet for me to sniff, to inhale deep the earthy aroma of perspiration between your cute toes. But that's not my thing. Not even close. 

I love you dearly, but that's disgusting. Not sexy, just plain nasty. So, please, for my sake, for our sake, just stop offering. Or at least wash them first.

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Story #21: "The Birds Will Eat Your Eyes"


This little story derives, in part, from a number of obsessions of mine, including the safety and welfare of other drivers (and, by proxy, myself); listening to and following rules, no matter how arbitrary; and Alfred Hitchcock movies. Intrigued yet? If not, the title of the story alone should have been sufficient to suck you in. It would have worked for me. Enjoy?  ~  JH



"The Birds Will Eat Your Eyes"

You should always listen to your parents. (My parents told me this.) The reasoning behind this is very serious, and it's very real. 

You see, if you don't listen to your parents, you are liable to make bad choices. One bad choice you might make is trying to send and/or read a text message while you are driving. This is not only illegal in some places, it's also quite reckless. 

Because when you redirect your attention from what it's front of you on the road to what's in front of you on your phone, you're opening yourself up to all kinds of bad possibilities. For instance, you might hit a pothole and lose control of your car. In a panic, you might overcorrect your steering and inadvertently hit a tree, spinning your car around three-hundred-and-sixty degrees in the blink of an eye.

In the process – if you also did not listen to your parents about always wearing a seatbelt no matter what – you might be thrown from the vehicle at a high rate of speed. You might be propelled bodily through the glass, landing with a surprisingly hard thud on uneven terrain, breaking limbs and possibly vertebrae in the process. 

If you happen to have crashed on a particularly desolate road – which is entirely possible, depending on where you live – you might not be found or rescued for quite some time (if ever). If you are losing blood rapidly, you will probably die a lonely and miserable death. 

If you are immobile but otherwise not seriously in jeopardy, you may still be at risk of consumption by wildlife. Generally, the birds will be the first to come, not to your aid but to what they perceive to be an extremely fresh meal. The birds – and we're not talking about sparrows, we're talking about big, ugly, ravenous vultures – will peck at your eyeballs and pluck them out and eat them. And then it gets really bad. 

After the vultures are done consuming your eyes, the wolves will come (or coyotes – again, depending on where you live) and begin to munch on the remainder of your carcass. You won't see them coming, because by this point you will be blind. If the vultures have spared your nose, you may smell the wolves (or coyotes) approaching. By this time, you may have a heightened sense of smell thanks to the loss of your eyeballs. 

You may smell them coming, but you will be able to do little to stop them from biting large chunks out of your torso. The worst part about all this is that you will probably live for quite a while, fully aware that your demise is imminent and – assuming you are not in a state of shock – writhing (as much as an immobile person can writhe) in unbelievable agony as the wolves chomp on your entrails.

And sooner or later, you will die. All because you valued sending and/or reading a text message more than you valued your future. All because you refused, no matter how many times you'd been admonished to do so, to wear your seatbelt at all times. All because you didn't listen to your parents. Shame on you, dead person.

Story #20: "Anybody's Guess?"


It's Day 24 of my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge, and once again I'm a few stories behind. It's my goal today to catch back up. Here's Story #20, and #21 will shortly follow it. Hope you're able to get something out of it, though what that will be is...wait for it...anybody's guess.  ~  JH



"Anybody's Guess?"

Excuse me, folks, could I have your attention, please? Thank you. No, actually, I'm not yelling. Now, could you all gather – ? No, I'm speaking in a normal tone of voice. Now may I talk? No, I will not whisper. I demand to be heard

Yes, forgive me, that was slightly yelling. Regardless, I have a few questions for you all and I'm going to need some pretty specific answers. 

First off, what are you all doing here in my house? Considering the fact that I've never seen a single one of you before, I'm pretty sure you don't live here. So there's that. 

Secondly, will the owner of this pair of Guess jeans please identify yourself? Anybody? No? Well, they're obviously a lady's, so that rules out about half of you. Come on now, don't be afraid to speak up. I won't bite. Much. 

Oh, these are yours? Well, aren't you a cute thing? Come forward, dear, and collect your jeans. Yes, it's simply the strangest thing. You see, I found your jeans balled up at the foot of my bed, on my husband's side of the bed. Odd, huh? I tried to talk to him to get him to explain, but he's in pretty much the same state as you and your friends here. Which is to say, mostly incoherent. 

You know what else is strange, sweetie? When I leaned down to speak to him, I caught a whiff of a very distinct perfume on his chest. Your perfume. Well, I shouldn't assume. Let's compromise and say that it's the same kind of perfume you're currently wearing. Add to that the jeans by the bed, and well, I'm not a mathematician, but it all adds up.

No, of course, I'm not going to kill you, child. And you are a child, just look at you, what are you, nineteen, maybe twenty years old at most? Twenty-one? Sure you are, dear. Keep telling them that at the bars. I'm sure they'll buy your smile and your fake ID, you're certainly pretty enough. No, I'm not going to beat you up either, though it is tempting. I would like a few more minutes of your time, however. 

The rest of you can go ahead and clear out. NOW! It wasn't a request! Yes, I am yelling! And I'm only going to get louder the longer it takes you to leave! Thank you.

Now, dear, please come with me. We're going to wake my husband and get to the bottom of this. Why am I bringing you with me? Well, to wake him up, of course. After all – and again, I'm assuming, but the numbers still match up – you are the one who put him to sleep. 

How do I know? Well, sweetie, I've been married to the man for twenty-five years. I should certainly hope that I know what it takes to put him into as deep a slumber as that. One thing, and one thing only, works every time. And that smile on his sleeping face is a dead giveaway.

Friday, June 19, 2015

Story #19: "While You Were Sweeping"


Okay, last story of the day. Here's Story #19 of my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge, and with it I am officially caught up. Whether I remain on target for the duration of the weekend remains to be seen. I'm betting not. Enjoy?  ~  JH



"While You Were Sweeping"

While you were sweeping, I went to the closet and dug out all of our old love letters. I tossed them all into a garbage bag, stepped outside, and dropped it in the Dumpster.

While you were mopping, I packed up all my clothes. Well, not all of them. I left the ones you really liked on me. Do with them as you wish.

While you were vacuuming, I roused the kids from their sleep, walked them to the car, still in their pajamas, and secured them in their seats. I'd already packed their clothes while you were dusting.

While you were washing the dishes, I cranked the car and drove away, leaving you once and for all and forever.

Don't bother to look for me – you'll never find me. But then again, you probably won't even notice that I'm gone. Not yet, at least. After all, there's still all that laundry to be folded and put away. Or is there?

Story #18: "This Means Peace"


It's still Day 19, and here's Story #18 of my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge. I don't know where these wildly diverse ideas for stories come from, but I like them. Writing the same kind of story over and over again would quickly become terribly boring. Enjoy!  ~  JH



"This Means Peace"

You killed my father. Prepare to live. For what you've done to destroy my family, you deserve the opposite.

A lesser man would freely indulge in hatred and bitterness and allow them to control his life. But I refuse to let you win like that.

I wish you a long life, spent in quiet contemplation of this and all other acts of violence that you may have committed. I wish you unfulfilled loneliness, heart-wrenching sadness, and enduring despair. But I want you to live through it, now and for a very long time. Death is early parole, and I'm sorry, but you haven't earned that.

I could wage war against the system that kept you on the streets for months, years, and decades after perpetrating your heinous acts.

I could rail against those who, for a fee or out of genuine affection, defended your character and proclaimed your innocence.

But these efforts would consume my time and profit little other than wasting the life with which I have been blessed.

As much as you do not deserve it, I offer you my forgiveness. It doesn't make what you did alright. It doesn't mean that I will forget it. I won't, and neither will you. I will and do forgive you so that I can move forward with my life.

I don't expect you to understand or even to care. It doesn't matter. You don't matter to me. All that does is gone, buried six feet deep and marked with carved granite sentiments.

I am at peace, and I fully intend to remain so. And in this peace, I've finally found my rest.

Story #17: "Mother Of Pearl"


Here's Story #17 of my #astoryaday June Writing Challenge. It's another one written from a female perspective. No, I don't have a gender identity crisis. I simply like to explore life – even fictional life – from different points of view once in a while. Enjoy!  ~  JH



"Mother Of Pearl"

I'm worried about my daughter. She doesn't call like she used to, doesn't visit, and doesn't even think about me more than once every six days. (I should know – I'm clairvoyant.)

Pearl has always been very close to me and her father both. But lately she seems so withdrawn, and my biggest fear is that she'll never come back to us.

It's been three months since the aliens abducted her – just sucked her right up into their flying saucer. (Just like the ones you see on TV – somebody in Hollywood KNOWS something!) They've been experimenting on her ever since.

Just yesterday, they had her hooked up to some fancy-pants extraterrestrial device intended to measure the length of time between her sighs. Apparently, sighs matter to the little green guys in ways we'll probably never understand. In my mind's eye, I saw her – in high definition, no less – trying to hold back her audible exasperations just to screw up their tests (which would only have to be repeated the next day, so her efforts were likely in vain).

Pearl's always been a fighter, what with the bullies at her high school (they didn't know how to relate to someone as intellectually and metaphysically superior to them, as she clearly was), the curse that gypsy put her under in college (the horns and tail eventually fell off, but not before leaving faint scars), and now these blasted extraterrestrials.

Pearl's had a rough go of it, no question about that, but I can say with confident clairvoyance that she'll come through on the other side of this a conqueror.

Still, it doesn't stop a mother from worrying just the same.