Monthly Archives: March 2015

March 26, 2015

How Much for the Tuba?

You can call this a second string Friday Fictioneers piece, not because it’s worse but because there was no way it was fitting into 100 words.

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“How much for the tuba?” I asked.

The clerk told me.

I smiled and let nostalgia glaze my face like a Kristy Kreme donut. “You know, my mom used to play the tuba. She had lungs on her like a pair of steel bagpipes. Growing up ,I thought she could put her lips to an elephant’s trunk and blow him up like a balloon, just like in the cartoons. Once, I put a ball bearing into the bell of her tuba before a performance, just as a prank. She played that whole concert, keeping it hovering in there. It wasn’t until the final note that she launched it up and out. Knocked out the conductor cold.” I chuckled, in a subdued way. “She passed away last year.”

The clerk looked amused and sympathetic at the same time. “Sounds like quite the lady. You know, I don’t normally do this, but I think I can give you a 20% discount on it. For your mom’s sake.”

“Wow, thanks!” I said. “That means a lot to me. I’ll think of her when I play it.”

I paid and arranged for the delivery. Then I strolled outside and down to the next music store. One down, three to go for my brass quartet.

“How much for the trumpet?” I asked when I was inside.

The shopkeeper told me.

I nodded and looked far away. “You know, my old grandpappy used to play the trumpet . . .”

16 Comments | tags: fiction, funny, Mother, music, nostalgia, scam, store, tuba | posted in Light

March 25, 2015

Sword Music – Friday Fictioneers

By David Stewart

First of all, I was very happy to see my picture appear here. I’m curious to see what others make of it. Secondly, I won’t be able to do that much this week, since I’m out of town on a business trip until Sunday. I’ll have Internet and will try to find time to read some.

Sword Music

The first note hovered in the air like an orb-weaver hanging from the horn of the moon.

More instruments joined, the energy rising like a waking predator. It ascended, a frenetic dervish, around the musicians, touching the forest of upraised swords. The edges kindled, maddened to fury by the throbbing cacophony of raw power.

The music ceased, except the first lingering, arachnid note. The hungry light of a thousand blades was quenched in their sheaths.

“We desire peace,” the king said, “but you see our weapons. Go tell your people.”

The ambassador wiped his brow. “There will be peace,” he said.

75 Comments | tags: fantasy, fiction, flash fiction, Friday Fictioneers, king, music, swords | posted in Friday Fictioneers

March 23, 2015

Monster in the Closet

By David Stewart

Monster in the Closet

There is a monster in my closet, waiting to rip my throat out.

I wake up, exhausted. I don’t want to do this again. I just want to get up and leave the room. I look towards the closet and in the deep gloom of the nighttime room, I can barely see that it is open a crack. The monster inside is quiet: you never hear anything until that snort of discharged steamy breath when it charges and it is too late. I close my eyes. I don’t want to die again.

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Eight feet from the bed to the door; six to the closet. I should be able to make it but that thing is always too quick for me. I have tried it fast and I have tried it slow but it never matters. Once I even had my hand on the doorknob before I felt pincer-like jaws clamp down on my calves, crushing my tibias and fibulas and pulling me backwards towards its lair underneath my dress shirts. I even remember the hem of that red sweater tickling my face as the creature slashed my stomach and I felt my vital organs tumbling out like sausages from a slit shopping bag. I woke up in bed, thinking of that sweater. It was always too big for me, but I couldn’t give it away since my grandma had given it to me.

I have even tried just waiting. Once, I waited for what seemed like hours, biding my time until the sun rose and burned away the mists of this unending nightmare. But the sun never rose and I waited until my bladder was bursting. I wet the bed and waited some more until I was cold and stinking and frantic. I screamed, “Come get me, you bastard!” and ran for the door.

It came. It got me.

After that, I woke up in bed, in that same eternal half-darkness. I thought I could smell a faint aroma of urine, which scared me almost as much as the monster, but I didn’t know why.

Now, I sit up in bed. No reaction. Slowly, I take one pillow and hold it to my back. I prop the other in front of me and pulling out the thinnest blanket, I tie them to me. I cinch it so tight that I can barely breathe. Slowly, oh so slowly like a sloth on tranquilizers, I lower my foot to the ground.

As soon as I touch carpet, I’m off. There is a roar and a shriek of angry, Stygian breath. My hand is on the handle when I am yanked back. I scream and pull hard. There is a ripping sound and the pillow is torn away. I yank the door open and then I am out, in the dark hallway, running hard for the front door. The monster crashes through the bedroom door behind me and I can hear the wood of the frame splintering. I can’t make it to the door in time. It will be on me in a second. Then, it feels like time slows and just before those ravenous fangs sink into my flesh one more time, I flick on the light switch.

I wake up in bed to my cell phone buzzing angrily. It is my co-worker Larry.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?” Larry asks. “Are you coming to work today?”

“What time is it? How long have I been gone?” I ask. I must sound like a wild man because Larry suddenly sounds disconcerted.

“Settle down. You’re only fifteen minutes late. Are you sick?”

“No, I’ll be there,” I say. I hang up. Daylight is streaming into the room through the slits in the blinds. I look at the closet.

The door is open, just a crack.

There is no sound, but of course, there never is before it charges. But now it’s day. There has never been a cell phone call before. The nightmare must be over.

But I can’t explain why my heart is pounding so hard or why I can’t make myself step onto the carpet. Because as long as I stay on the bed, there is a chance that everything is fine and my closet is empty.

I find myself straining to hear breathing.

I don’t want to die again.

I don’t want to die—

7 Comments | tags: bedroom, closet, creepy, cyclical story, death, fiction, horror, monster | posted in Dark

March 23, 2015

Green-Walled Tower News: March Edition

By David Stewart

I’m restructuring things a little here at the Green-Walled Tower. Not much, but a little. I’m cleaning out the attic and moving things around so they fit better. For one thing, I’m going to go back to concentrating on original fiction. I have tried various other projects here to mix things up but they never did as well as my fiction and I didn’t enjoy them quite as much. Also, I will be concentrating mostly on light, humorous stories. I do anyway, of course, and I will still be writing a variety of stories, including dark ones on occasion.

However, for those who don’t want to read scary, dark, or horror stories, I will put up a rating at the beginning to let you know, using my little mascot Belfry.

I won’t put up ratings for others just yet, except one, which is satire. I realize that I can write a pretty convincing satire at times, so if you read something of mine that seems a little too weird to be true (I will always say at the beginning of the post if it’s true, as well), check the end for the rating. It will always be at the end: I don’t want to spoil the show.

As well, I will be coming out with a way to buy some pretty cool Green-Walled Tower merchandise. The official announcement will probably be next week, with a contest to win some neat stuff. Stay tuned.

4 Comments | tags: belfry, blogging, horror, outside the tower, satire, stories, The Green-Walled Tower | posted in Uncategorized

March 22, 2015

Death Don’t Us Part

By David Stewart

Death Don’t Us Part

Life and death never end up like you think. I went to sleep one night, dreamed about being back at college with a lobster for a roommate, then woke up in a coffin. It was comfortable, at least.

I lay there for a bit, wondering why I had had a lobster for a roommate when I heard a tap, tap, tap.

“Who’s there?” I said. What else do you say?

“Is that you, Jamal?” It was my wife Olivia.

“Yeah, I’m in a coffin. Where are you?”

“In one too. I’m next to you.”

“Huh. Do you suppose we’re dead?”

“I suppose.”

There was a pause that could have been a few seconds or a few years.

“Do you think this is because we omitted ‘Til death do us part’ from our vows?” I asked.

“Could be. I never thought of this happening. So, you want to get out of here?”

“Can we?”

“After you, monsieur.”

I tried and a moment later, I found myself in a cemetery at night. A translucent version of Olivia appeared a moment later.

“Have you lost weight?” I asked. She rolled spectral eyes at me.

“You don’t have to be so grave about everything,” I said. That made her laugh.

“You kill me, you know?” she said.

“Not anymore. So, what now?”

She took my hand. “I don’t know, go visit our old haunts?”

“Now look who’s starting.”

We floated off. Together.

26 Comments | tags: Alastair's Photo Fiction, death, fiction, flash fiction, funny, ghosts, marriage | posted in Light

March 21, 2015

In An Alcoholic Home

By David Stewart

I found this a very powerful and honest piece. I’d encourage you to read it, especially if you’ve lived near alcoholism.

athingirldotcom

Both my parents were drinkers, and not of the modest variety.

My father died of cirrhosis of the liver at forty, while my mother, with ice tinkling in her glass, terrorized everyone and everything in her path. Even the goldfish were afraid of her.

As a kid growing up with serious drinkers, you never knew what to expect leaving its mark on you as an adult.

Why are you so edgy Susannah….always waiting for the other shoe to drop? A question I’ve been asked my whole life.

Well I’ll tell you, and it took 10 years in a 12 Step program to educate me on why I’m the way I am.

Imagine being raised by wolves, but just not as well.

I’d come home from school every day not sure what I’d find.

Would my mother be blissfully in the kitchen baking, or in my room breaking my 45s over…

View original post 531 more words

3 Comments | posted in Uncategorized

March 18, 2015

The Id of Life – Friday Fictioneers

By David Stewart

The Id of Life

52 Comments | tags: couple, eco-tourism, fiction, flash fiction, Friday Fictioneers, jungle, life, word art | posted in Friday Fictioneers

March 17, 2015

5 Ways to Celebrate St. Patrick’s Day like a Hipster

By David Stewart

Because of the huge number of people who are celebrating St. Patrick’s Day today, if you are among them, then statistically you are probably not Irish. There is even a big celebration in Tokyo, which is not normally known for its brogue.

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There are several reasons you might celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. In descending order of likelihood:

You like to hang out and have fun
It’s a socially-accepted excuse to get drunk on a Tuesday
You really like green beer
You’re an Irish Catholic

But come on. St. Patrick’s Day is so mainstream. If you want to be really cool, I have a better celebration for you: the feast of St. Gertrude of Nivelles, which is also on March 17. Here are five ways to celebrate March 17 that no one else is doing.

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5. Open Your House to Couch Surfers

Gertrude of Nivelles is the patron saint of travelers, so it’s a good idea to take in some travelers today. However, make sure you mention to people that you’re only doing it because of the holiday. If they ask if you’re having a party for St. Patrick’s Day, look rather shocked and say you’re celebrating St. Gertrude of Nivelles Day. Then expound about how Gertrude of Nivelles welcomed people of all types, especially Irish monks. Make sure you mention this too when you invite green-clad drunken revelers into your house late at night and explain why you have no beer for them.

4. Plant Something

Gertrude of Nivelles is the patron saint of gardeners, so carry around a house plant all day, the more obscure the better. Remember, if anyone asks about it, that’s your perfect time to explain you’re not doing it because it’s green, but because of Gertrude of Nivelles.

3. Dress up Like a Cat

This is bound to confuse people, especially if it’s not a green cat. They will probably think you started drinking early and mixed up Halloween with St. Patrick’s Day. You can then explain that, in fact, Gertrude of Nivelles loved her some cats and is often portrayed with them. If this doesn’t impress anyone, put up random cat memes based on her. Make reddit fall in love with this 1400-year-old nun.

2. Stand on a Chair and Start Screaming

Gertrude of Nivelles is the patron saint of “Those with a Morbid Fear of Mice and Rats” so doing this will definitely give you a chance to explain to people how you are celebrating the holiday in your own way and explain why this is way better than pinning a shamrock to your coat.

1. Get a Tonsure

This is the best and most hipster way to show you are a celebrating an obscure holiday that other people just don’t get. A tonsure, by the way, is when you shave all the hair on top of your head but leave a crown of hair around the edges, like this:

Source

This is especially effective if you are a girl, because when people inevitably wonder if you have gone crazy, you can explain that Gertrude of Nivelle’s mother gave her a tonsure cut in order to keep “violent abductors from tearing her daughter away by force,” i.e. marry her.

So, the choice is clear, either go out to a party, wear green, drink beer, and do that horrible attempt at an Irish accent that you do and be one of the crowd, or stay at home, welcoming in traveling, loving cats and plants, hating mice, and knowing smugly that you are celebrating the festival that just isn’t “cool.”

Go Gerty!

Note: All information is this post is totally true and accurate.

13 Comments | tags: beer, cats, gardening, Gertrude of Nivelles, hipster, party, patron, rats, religion, saint, St. Patrick's Day, travelers | posted in Uncategorized

March 16, 2015

Coffee and Writing and Muggings

By David Stewart

Last Monday, I wrote a story that only had verbs and adjectives, called Read Run Inspired. People speculated what was happening in the comments and some got pretty close to what I had intended. Here is the full story, with nouns and prepositions and everything.

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It was my New Year’s resolution this year to never have a full-time job again. That might seem risky but it wasn’t total suicide. The November before, an agent had gotten back to me about a novella I’d written. “Great,” he’d said. “Make it into a full-length novel and I think we’ll be in business.”

So I quit my job. I sold most of my furniture and moved into the back room of my friend Crazy Bob’s coffee shop, eating the bagels and baked good he couldn’t sell during the day. And I sat and drank free coffee and typed as fast as my jittery fingers could.

At least that was the plan. Maybe it was malnutrition or the pressure of having to produce a masterpiece, but everything I wrote sounded stupid. Crazy Bob was sympathetic but I could tell he thought I was stupid, and that’s something, coming from Crazy Bob. I wasn’t stupid, although I was afraid I might get scurvy by the end of the year if people didn’t stop buying all the lemon muffins.

I usually worked in the back where I wouldn’t take up table space, but one day I just kept writing and rewriting the same paragraph and went out front to get some sunlight and coffee. I sat there in an overstuffed chair and sipped my coffee, feeling my brain activity spark back into life.

I was feeling very cozy when a woman came in and walked straight at me. She was dressed like a mugger, or at least what one might be dressed like in a movie. She had a hand stuck in her pocket and it looked like she had a gun.

“Can I help you?” I asked, desperately hoping that I couldn’t.

“Give me all your gold dust,” she said. I didn’t know if this was a euphemism for money or a new kind of drug, but I just froze. She repeated it and moved a step closer.

I’m not a good one for crises. My body flips a fight-or-flight coin and I have no say in the matter. I yelled and threw my cup of coffee in her face. She screamed and fell down and I ran towards the door, leaving my laptop on the table.

“Wait, come back!” she shouted after me. I wasn’t going to fall for that trick. I kept sprinting. She stumbled out of the shop, still wiping coffee off her face, and promptly ran into a light pole. I heard the scream and looked back, still running. It was so comical that I laughed. I turned back around just in time for my nose to collide with the “S” on a stop sign. I shouted something that started with “S” but it wasn’t stop.

I kept running, limping even though it was my nose that was bleeding and apparently broken. The woman kept coming, cursing and shouting for me to stop. I was considering slowing down when I heard a gunshot, which convinced me not to. I was getting tired when I turned down an alley that was blocked by a truck at the far end. I stopped, trapped.

She came into view, scalded, bleeding, and holding a gun. I screamed like a little girl because no one gives out medals to the corpses that died with dignity. She stopped, caught her breath, then gave a little laugh.

“Are you done yet?” she asked.

“Uh, I guess.”

“You run really fast for an unemployed writer,” she said. I waited, not sure how to take that. “I’m Crazy Bob’s cousin,” she said.

I was confused so I just nodded. “He was worried about you,” she continued, “so he asked me to pretend to stick you up and ask for something bizarre, then just leave. He thought it would inspire you in your writing to have a real experience to write about. The gun’s not even real.” She put her hand over the muzzle and pulled the trigger. Sure enough, there was no hole in her hand.

“Are you crazy?” I was just about to begin an epic rant when I remembered whose cousin she was and thought it might not be a rhetorical question after all. I stood for a moment, trying to adjust my mind to not being mugged and murdered and then I started to laugh.

“Sorry about throwing coffee at you,” I said.

“Sorry about your nose.” We both laughed, then waved and limped our separate ways.

I went back and bandaged up my nose. It didn’t seem to be broken, just very sore. I got another cup of coffee and sat down again. The caffeine flowed through my brain and suddenly I started to write.

Thank you, Crazy Bob.

6 Comments | tags: chase, coffee, coffee shop, experimental, fiction, gun, mugging, quirky, reading, story, woman, writing | posted in Light

March 14, 2015

Acid Rain! Now in Different Colors!

By David Stewart

I pulled back the shower curtain after my shower and saw a group of people in blue raincoats crowded in front of me, holding up cell phones and cameras. I was shocked for a moment, then nodded smugly, remembering my new LSD-laced shampoo: Acid Rain! I didn’t think the hallucinations would be so specific though. The ceiling wasn’t melting or anything.

“Can we ask you a few questions?” one of them asked.

“I can’t hear you,” I said, combing my hair. “You’re just a product of double lathering.”

“Actually,” one said, “we’re part of a focus group on the drug-related merchandise you’ve recently bought.”

“You’re not hallucinations?” I asked.

“No.”

“You’re real people?”

“Yes.”

“So, I should put a towel on?”

“Please!” they all said, in unison, like they’d been practicing.

“Now, you have questions?”

They all pulled out clipboards. “How’s the shampoo?”

I shrugged. “No dandruff. Pleasing smell. The morning is a magical time.”

“Have you been eating your Weedies?”

“Every morning!” I said brightly.

“And how is your new Honda Ecstasy?”

“Great gas mileage!” I said, “and I always get to work happy.”

“Excellent.” They all scribbled notes assiduously. “Now, we’d like your ideas for other things.”

“Well, maybe some sort of heroin bicycle?”

There was a shocked silence. “Heroin?” one said. “At OmniDrugCo, we’re trying to make the world a better place. We’re not monsters. Now take your free sample of meth and have a nice day!”