“Two-Minute Tuesdays” are a series of micro-stories written in five ten minutes or less. Consider them “public practice,” like that guy who shoots free throws in the park. Prompts are supplied at the bottom in case you want to try your own hand at one of them.
The Boy From Portugal (Part 1)
Once upon a time there was a young boy from Portugal named Paulo. Despite the best efforts of his mother and father, he wanted nothing to do with life on the farm and became a shepherd instead, wandering the hills with his flock instead of earning an honest living. The life suited him, and although he dreamed of doing more he never did anything about it.
One afternoon, during his usual nap, a mysterious and powerful spirit visited him.
“Boy,” it said, “I can give you one of three things. I can give you great wealth, a mighty empire, or a small grain of wisdom. Choose well.”
The boy had read One Hundred and One Arabian Nights from cover to cover, and quickly saw through the spirit’s ruse. “Give me wisdom,” he said.
“Very well,” said the spirit. “Go to the pyramids, in Egypt. You will find wisdom there.”
The boy awoke hours later, remembering the vivid dream. “I must go,” he said to himself, “if I’m not to waste the spirit’s gift.” And so he sold his sheep and set off.
Many adventures happened to the boy along the way. The pyramids were much further away than he originally suspected, and it took years to work his way across Africa. Finally he arrived at the fianl oasis in the desert, nearly at his goal.
There he met a beautiful young woman, and they fell in love.
He wanted to stay with her—she made him happy. But he knew he could not stay without sacrificing the wisdom that the spirit had promised him. So the lovers parted, and she pledged to wait until his return.
The young man reached the pyramids, but instead of wisdom he found a vast treasure. After a hair-raising adventure, he was made chief of a powerful tribe, and as much as he wanted to go back to the oasis and his love the duties of leadership called.
(prompt: Write a fairy tale.)
My own shot at a Two-Minute Tuesday:
The Plastic Dog:
Why did I pick this stool? It’s definitely mine because my name’s on it. Maybe it’s because I can see the door and watch people come in…but I don’t come here to talk, so it can’t be that. No one gets their name on a bar stool coming here to chat. My only “conversation” here is with the Newcastles the barkeep hands me without either saying a word. I probably talk less these days. I’ll grab it myself next time.
I used to come here to relax before going home and silently, seamlessly putting on my “husband-uniform” as I walked in the door. The routine with my wife and I was well practiced and choreograped a long time ago. We don’t do it anymore; at least she doesn’t do it with me. She has one with her new husband I imagine. I wonder, is he going to have a pub like the “Plastic Dog” where his name is on his stool, where he tries to remember why he’s there in the first place? That sign has been flickering for years…certainly isn’t the atmosphere.
I wondered if someome was going to turn it into a bar!
Ah, gotta love these happy endings.