Tag Archives: Alastair’s Photo Fiction

February 1, 2015

The Tireless Pirate

Everyone knows that the squeaky wheel gets the grease and a pirate that doesn’t yell “Avast!” every now and then, or at least swing his cutlass around, is likely going to be ignored.

It was a busy day at the tire garage to begin with. Pete called in sick again, one of the machines broke and the customers just kept coming. Around 10, the guy walked in, dressed like an extra from Pirates of the Carribbean 6: Jack Sparrow Takes Manhattan.

“I need new tires for my ship,” he said.

I frowned. “Ships don’t have tires.”

“Mine does.”

“Well, okay then.” I pulled out a form. “What’s the make, model and year?”

“Make?”

“Who made it,” I said slowly.

He wrinkled his brows, thinking. “Spain?”

“Okay . . . Model and year.”

“A brigantine, around 1802.”

“Gotcha. Your name?”

“Alec Greenbeard.”

“Okay, just have a seat, Mr. Greenbeard. We’ll get right on that.” Just then I got a call and I put the form on the desk.

I did look once but the manufacturer laughed at me when I asked for a lookup on tires for an 1802 Spanish brigantine. After that, I was too busy to worry about it and Mr. Greenbeard just sat there, waiting patiently. It was easy enough to ignore him. Soon he just seemed to fade into the décor.

A couple months later, the janitor found me. “You remember that pirate?”

“No.”

“The one who wanted the tires for his ship.”

“Oh crap! I forgot about him. Where is he?”

“Maybe you should come into the waiting room.”

8 Comments | tags: Alastair's Photo Fiction, dark humor, fiction, flash fiction, funny, garage, pirate, ship, tires, waiting room | posted in Light

January 25, 2015

Hooked on Books

By David Stewart

Hooked on Books

I was about to close up shop when a man staggered through the door. He was a word-head for sure: thin, and pale from too many hours under a desk lamp. His eyes flicked back and forth spasmodically: left to right, left to right.

“What can I get you?” I asked warily. I got this kind in sometimes. They were usually content to read a brochure or scrap of newspaper for the handful of grubby coins they were able to scrape together.

He leaned forward and his voice was a sandpaper whisper. “Fiction.”

“Fiction? That’s some heady stuff. Can you afford it?”

He pulled out an envelope and started pulling out wrinkled bills: singles I thought until I saw the zeros. Each one was a grand. When he stopped, there were ten bills on the counter, which equaled my profits for several months. “First edition,” he said.

I only had one first edition in the shop. It was A Farewell to Arms, by Hemingway, bound in lustrous leather. The asking price was $1200. I looked at that money on the counter. It probably wasn’t legitimately earned, but I could put it to work.

Then I thought of that beautiful book as a temporary high, misused when a cheaper version would do fine. It was like brown-bagging a Dom Perignon.

“Sorry,” I said finally. “I can’t help you.”

He left, grumbling and I watched him go, my mind a churn of polar emotions. I don’t regret it though. I guess I’m hooked on books too.

16 Comments | tags: addict, Alastair's Photo Fiction, book store, books, fiction, first edition, flash fiction, word-head | posted in Dusk

January 11, 2015

A Ghost of a Chance of Success

By David Stewart

A Ghost of a Chance of Success

Honestly, I only tried it because my wife said I couldn’t do it.

She gets me to do all kinds of things that way. “I’ll bet you don’t have the guts to marry me,” she said one indolent afternoon 27 years ago, when the summer crickets were in full concert.

I sure showed her.

The challenges started with the mundane: “Bah, you couldn’t mow the lawn if you tried.”

You’d think I’d learn but I had to show her who was boss. Soon I was doing most of the housework while she watched TV and occasionally called out her disbelief in my ability to do various small tasks that I had forgotten.

Eventually, her challenges crossed over into more exotic realms but I never backed down for a second. I spent most of 2013 trying to build a time machine but eventually just built a very small museum and declared victory.

For this latest challenge, I’ve assembled all the things I might need: a large glass bottle, a tombstone, a Bible, a copy of the Necronomicon (just in case) and a liter of ectoplasm.

Now how on Earth am I going to make a ghost ship in a bottle?

19 Comments | tags: Alastair's Photo Fiction, bottle, fiction, flash fiction, funny, ghosts, marriage, ship, wife | posted in Light

January 4, 2015

Blind Angel Luck

By David Stewart

Today is my birthday, although this story has nothing to do with that.

Blind Angel Luck

The angel in my hand was blind, projecting an air of bland, unfocused benevolence out into the world. That was how I had envisioned it when I bought it: a chunk of divine plutonium, radiating good luck and positive vibes to all those nearby. It hadn’t really worked out that way.

“Hey, is this for sale?” my friend Phil asked, picking it up. People were circulating through my apartment, looking over the price-tagged items. I told people I needed to de-clutter. No one was fooled; I could barely buy food.

“Just take it,” I said, “if you dare. I bought it for good luck, after all.”

“Ah.” He put it in his pocket, then slipped $20 into my hand. “I’ll take my chances,” he said with a wink.

Two hours later, the sale was over and I was just sitting down in my much-emptier living room when someone pounded on the door. It was Phil.

“It worked! It worked!”

“What worked?”

“The angel. I went to the corner shop to buy a Coke and I was coming back when I got mugged.”

“How is that good?”

“I threw the angel at him when he turned around. It knocked him out cold. The police are giving me a reward. I’ll split it with you.”

I still don’t believe in good luck charms. But I might start carrying a stone angel around with me anyway.

36 Comments | tags: Alastair's Photo Fiction, angel, blind, crime, fiction, flash fiction, good luck, luck, mugger, quirky, stone | posted in Light

December 13, 2014

Attack of the Cubblies

By David Stewart

And now for something completely different.

Attack of the Cubblies

“Your Majesty, after several failed attempts, we finally managed to capture one of the invading Cubblies. It’s imprisoned in one of the outbuildings.

“Well, can you interrogate it?” the king asked. “Find out what they want, man!”

“It’s just too cute, your Majesty,” the captain said, his face reddening. “The first man who tried to interrogate it untied it and was going to bring it home as a present for his children.”

“Well, find someone who isn’t so damned sentimental then.”

“We did, I’m afraid. That first man we chose was Major Hickens, who is the most bitter, misanthropic man we’ve got. The others don’t stand a chance.”

“You’d better kill it then. We can’t take any chances.”

“How are we going to do that, your Majesty? None of the men will put a hand on it.”

“Well, dammit man! Thank of a way. One of you throw a bag over it, hand to another and get him to drop it in the river. Use your creativity.”

There was a thud on the roof. “What’s that?”

“They’re catapulting themselves over the walls, your Majesty.”

The window smashed and a fluffy, round Cubbly bounced towards the throne. Its wide, liquid eyes sparkled and it stretched out stubby arms towards the king as it tottered towards him. “I wuv you!”

“Aww, that’s adorable,” the king said. “Let’s surrender.”

11 Comments | tags: Alastair's Photo Fiction, attack, castle, cubbly, cute, fantasy, fiction, flash fiction, king, quirky | posted in Light

December 8, 2014

You Never Forget Your First

By David Stewart

I feel like I should apologize. I feel very out of things, blog-wise, at least compared with what I used to be. Both my reading and writing dropped off before the summer when I moved and haven’t really recovered. Part of it is that I’m much busier at work, so everything has to be done when I get home, including all the other details of life. Part of it is that I’m working (hard) on larger projects that I can’t post here. In any case, I am very appreciative to you for reading. Thank you.

This story is dedicated to my friend Susannah Bianchi.

You Never Forget Your First

The kettle is screeching, sending out puffs of steam just like Yarr when he went out to play on a cold, winter day. There’s nothing like seeing a great red frolicking in the frosty air to make you feel like there’s still beauty left in the world.

I bring the cup to the stove and watch the teabag bleed rust as the boiling water hits it, coloring the water with that deep, hardwood hue that would have matched Yarr’s hide like a chameleon.

Gorgo, my new little one is scratching at the door, trying to get out. He was a gift from my sister. She got me a green, even though they’re supposed to be friskier (read: wilder). I open the door and Gorgo bounds off into the night. He’ll probably go hunting and I’ll go out for the morning paper to find a burglar or hobo lying on the doorstep. Then I’ll have to call the coroner and try to explain again. I couldn’t stay mad at him though, not with that open, innocent look of his. What an old softie I am.

I sit by the kitchen window and as I take a sip, the tea slips down my throat like a burst of invigorating fire. I hear Gorgo roaring out there in the velvet invisible, already on the prowl.

I miss Yarr but life goes on. Still, as they say, you never forget your first dragon.

10 Comments | tags: Alastair's Photo Fiction, dragon, loss, night, pet, tea | posted in Dusk

November 23, 2014

The Re-Genesis Hour – Sunday Photo Fiction

By David Stewart

The Re-Genesis Hour

There was still half an hour before dawn when Gina, the serving maid, slipped open the door. The boy pulled himself down the steps, scuttling sideways on his misshapen stumps and keeping a hand on the railing for support. Once outside, he pulled himself through the dewy, cold-shock grass. The world was fresh and alive in its daily re-genesis.

A rabbit ducked out of a thicket to his left and he gave chase for the sheer fun of it. The rabbit won, escaping back to its hole just before the boy reached it. He laughed and stood there for a moment, palms flat on the ground, cold and wet.

He continued on, farther and farther until he reached a road he had never seen before, going down to a high iron gate. A car was coming down from the house, its powerful headlights sweeping over him as he ducked back into the bushes. Not fast enough. The car stopped and a man and woman got out.

“What in Heaven’s name is that? It’s hideous.”

“George, please. I—”

“What is it!”

“It’s your son, George.”

“I have a son?”

13 Comments | tags: Alastair's Photo Fiction, dawn, father, fiction, flash fiction, handicapped, house, monster, son | posted in Dusk

November 16, 2014

Chillin’ in Alaska

By David Stewart

This was inspired by the photo prompt and also because we just got a fresh blanket of snow last night. Hopefully I’m a bit more prepared than the girl below.

Chillin’ in Alaska

Ramsey cursed. Who knew that Alaska in the winter would be so cold? She trudged through the snow, icicles forming on her Ray-Ban sunglasses and looked for a Four Seasons. Even a Marriott would work.

There was nothing but trees.

It was all Google’s fault. She had woken up two days before just hating the world and everyone in it. She needed to get away so she had searched for the place with the lowest population density in the US. It had said that Alaska had 1.3 people per square mile, but that was BS because she had walked at least a mile and hadn’t seen anyone.

She dreaded seeing the 0.3 people.

Her feet were frozen and she was ravenous. “I’ve never been this miserable in my life,” she said out loud. She had to tweet about it. She pulled out her phone.

No bars.

What was the point of being miserable if nobody knew about it? She had to go back, if she could just find her tracks. She set off, going back, and started recording a video to post later.

“Hey friends! Ramsey here. Just chillin’ in Alaska. Wish you were all here!”

It was dark and getting colder. There was a growl in the woods somewhere behind her.

“That had better not be the 0.3 people!” she yelled.

6 Comments | tags: Alaska, Alastair's Photo Fiction, cold, dark humor, fiction, flash fiction, icicles, snow, winter | posted in Light

November 2, 2014

Typical First Date

By David Stewart

Typical First Date

The moon sparkled off the waterfall like the flash of a thousand smiles. It made me nervous, like a crowd was watching me. I pushed the box into the river and watched it bob away. Everything was inside: the bloody knife, the drop sheets, and the towel I used to clean up. Everything but my blood-red embarrassment.

Talk about a disastrous first date.

Her name was Danielle and she was diamond tiara to my baseball cap. I took her to an abandoned farm to show her the stars, driving her Mercedes since she was afraid of getting her dress dirty in my geriatric Honda.

I hadn’t counted on the mutant cows. Who would, right? Slippery buggers they are, twenty feet long with a mouth like an anaconda. The milk’s not bad though, I hear.

We were walking by the barn when a mutant cow—feral, I assume—leaped out and sucked Danielle down like a dandelion. She didn’t even have time to scream.

I got a pitchfork and killed the thing pretty quick, but then it took almost twenty minutes to cut her out, hacking here and there and spraying gore like a low-budget slasher. When I was finally finished, she stood there, covered in gunk and blood and stinking like a garbage man with a soap allergy.

She drove off alone, leaving me to clean up. Damn, I hate first dates; something always goes wrong.

Maybe I’ll call her tomorrow.

12 Comments | tags: Alastair's Photo Fiction, cow, farm, fiction, first date, flash fiction, mutant, quirky, waterfall, weird | posted in Light

October 12, 2014

“I’m Sorry”

By David Stewart

“I’m Sorry”

“I’m sorry.”

I wanted to punch him, to smash that smarmy, false-penitent expression off his face. I spit at him through the bars. “What gives you the right to be sorry?”

“You don’t want me to be sorry? To regret what I did?”

“So that what? I can forgive you and you can die in peace? My wife didn’t die in peace or her parents or my parents or any of the thousands of people under your charge.” If it wasn’t for the bars protecting him, I would have choked him. “You herded us like animals! You fed us slops and garbage and sent droves off to the gas chambers, for years! And now, now you’re sorry?”

“Yes,” he said, head bowed.

I stormed off and spent a sleepless night wrestling with thoughts and images that would not die. I returned to his cell at daybreak and sat watching him until he awoke.

“I cannot forgive you,” I said. “Not today, at least. But tell me, why did you do it?”

“I was young and needed a job,” he began. “I started at a desk, but I was diligent and got promoted. After that . . .”

We talked all day. There were millions of bricks in that edifice of hate between us but with those two words, “I’m sorry”, a few bricks had fallen. As the day went on, they continued to fall.