David S. McWilliams

Two-Minute Tuesdays 24

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“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 Enchanter’s Arm (Part 1)

Once upon a time there was a young enchanter of more-than-usual ability who lived in the city. He fell in love with his beautiful second cousin (which was allowed, even encouraged back in those days), and she fell in love with him in return. However, he had to leave the city to go to school far away, and so they carried on their courtship overseas. A great many letters soon filled the mailbags of those skippers unlucky enough to be running between the two cities.

The young enchanter loved getting letters from his love. They would come in a great sack whenever a ship landed, and he would try to restrain himself to a single letter per day. Inevitably he lost his resolve and tore open the entire bag, devouring over and over again the words of his lover while waiting for the next ship to come in. He lived this way for several months.

The enchanter was not lazy in writing back. He wrote once, twice, even three times daily to his distant (second) cousin. What he was lazy about, though, was washing his hands after finishing his enchanting work for the day. He often forgot to clean the magic ether off of himself before writing or reading his love’s letters, and the residue began to build up upon his favorites.

One morning he woke to a single brand-new letter laying on his desk. It was the most beautiful, transcendent, magnificent love letter yet . . . but there was no ship in the harbor. Puzzled, but unwilling to question his good fortune, he responded with even more passion than usual and dropped the his response in the mail box.

The next morning there was another letter on his desk, and the next morning another. No one knew where the letters were coming from. Finally the enchanter stayed up all night, watching his desk to learn the truth.

For hours, nothing happened. Finally a beam of moonlight came in through the window (moonbeams are a special kind of magic, of course). As soon as it struck the enchanter’s pen, the pen jerked upright and began writing feverishly on the page. When the moon faded an hour later, the pen dropped, and there it was—a fresh letter from his love!

The enchanter was astounded, and blessed his luck for the miracle. He devoured the new letters every morning for the next week, until all of a sudden they stopped.

The enchanter moped all morning, miserable and with a terrible headache. Finally, at lunch, he realized what had happened: the new moon had come the night before. With no light, there was no letter.

And then the enchanter had an idea.

(prompt: Write a fairy tale. (Yeah, I’ve been on a fairy tale kick.  I love writing these because I don’t have to explain shit.))

(Also, I’m totally sure that the enchanter’s idea won’t backfire on him in ironic fashion.  Totally.  Sure.) 

Two-Minute Tuesdays 23

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“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 2)

After years of war, his tribe prevailed over its enemies and the young man was crowned king of the Nile. However, he did not feel any wiser than he had herding sheep in Portugal. Giving up, finally, on the spirit’s promise, the young man went back to the oasis where his love was (traveling in disguise, of course, because he’d read One Hundred and One Arabian Nights from cover to cover).

He found his love quickly. She was married to another man—an honest, brave man. He was a caravan guide and part-time camel merchant, and knew the desert well. The woman did not recognize the young king, because of his disguise, and so he asked his love about the boy from Portugal.

She sighed, but smiled. “I love him still, but love is not the only thing.”

“What more is there than love?” asked the young king.

“My lover left to seek wisdom,” answered the woman, “but my husband finds his wisdom in me. I am his life, and he is mine—we need not seek it elsewhere. That is love, and more.”

And so the young king left, and wrote a royal decree giving his entire kingdom to his love and her husband (for he could tell that they were both strong and worthy—kings know these things), keeping only enough for himself to travel back to Portugal and buy a new flock of sheep. There he lived until the end of his days, reflecting that the spirit had indeed given him a small grain of wisdom, but that love had been his to lose.

(prompt: Write a fairy tale.)

(Nice happy ending, there, bud.)

Two-Minute Tuesdays 22

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“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.)

Two-Minute Tuesdays 21

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“Two-Minute Tuesdays” are a series of micro-stories written in five 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.

Lucifer, Lord Of Kindergarten

Red.  That was the crayon that Bobby used up the fastest.  Every single crayon box that he touched was marked by the whittled nub left where the red crayon had been–at preschool, in the dentist’s waiting room, at home, everywhere.

Other children wanted to climb the metal pyramids of playground equipment, swing on the swings, or run in the yard.  Not Bobby; he spent all recess coloring.

Teachers at first suspected that he ate the red crayons.  This wasn’t the case–Bobby had quickly learned that he hated the way that wax and paper stuck in his esophagus.  Besides, he had more important uses for red.

Bobby’s dad hung his kid’s pictures dutifully on his cubicle wall, but he never had particular reason to look at them in any detail until–

“Damn.  Frank, have you seen these?”

“What?”

“Your kid’s drawings.”

“Sure, what about them?”

“Have you actually looked at what he’s been drawing?”

“Uh . . .”

Frank’s coworker pulled down one drawing where a clearly elated Satan was stringing bodies up over a sea of flame.  It was not atypical.

“Ah . . . uh . . . yeah.”  Frank took the pictures down.  “I think we’re finished with crayons for a while.”

(Prompt: Use the words “red,” “pyramid,” “esophagus,” “cube,” share,” “damn,” “elated,” and “finished” in order in a story.)

Two-Minute Tuesdays 20

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“Two-Minute Tuesdays” are a series of micro-stories written in five 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.

A Heated Scene

“It’s a sign,” the priestess said, “it’s got to be.”  The volcano roared it’s approval behind her.

Or at least, that’s what Olaf thought she said.  He didn’t speak the language, really, and he was distracted by the rough surface of the rock he was tied to.

A circle of loincloth-clothed warriors loudly rejected her interpretation of the unprecedented solar eclipse.  Olaf was much more sure of the meaning behind their yells.

The priestess sighed and turned back to Olaf.  “I can do no more.  They will not listen.”

A more philosophical man than Olaf may have marveled at the capacity of humanity to regress from thinking beings to an angry mob in the face of fear and superstition.  In Olaf’s mind, though, there was no contest–the temperature continued to increase and his full attention was focused on the surging pool of lava rising to meet their precarious perch.

The chief rose to his feet and pushed the priestess out of the way.  “You die now, fat man!”

(Prompt: Use the words “sign,” “rock,” “reject,” “can,” “regress,” “contest,” “increase,” and “rose” in order in a story.)

Two-Minute Tuesdays 19

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“Two-Minute Tuesdays” are a series of micro-stories written in five 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 Rose Garden (Pt. 2)

The witch was patient.  She and the man became friends, and soon they found themselves sharing lunch together in the woods behind the schoolhouse.  She never said that she loved him, but on the third Tuesday of every month she asked him for a rose.

The schoolteacher wanted to bring the woman a rose, but try as he might nothing would grow in his garden.  Finally he stopped by the flower shop one Tuesday morning and bought a rose.  It wasn’t as beautiful or sweet as his own had been, but it would serve.

This worked for months until one morning she caught him in the flower shop before school.  “What are you doing?” she asked him.

He hung his head and explained what had happened, how his flower garden still refused be anything other than a black, rotting mess.

“Show me,” she said.

The two of them went back to the man’s garden.  He showed her the garden, reluctantly, knowing that she would immediately shun him when she saw it.  But instead, the witch smiled, and told him to wait where he was.  She filled her hands with water from the well, breathed a quick spell over them, and then sprinkled the water on the dull earth.

Immediately the dead vines sprang to life, twisting and moving around each other with years of suppressed growth.  Roses, rich with color, bloomed everywhere.

And the schoolteacher smiled, picked a rose, and gave it to the witch.  They lived happily ever after.

(Prompt: Write a fairy tale.)

Two-Minute Tuesdays 18

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“Two-Minute Tuesdays” are a series of micro-stories written in five 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 Rose Garden (Part 1)

Once upon a time, a young man lived by himself in a village in a house he’d inherited from his parents.  He was the village schoolteacher, but behind his house was his true passion: a closely-guarded rose garden, safe behind a tall fence.  Before and after school he spent his time there, planting, watering, and pruning the flowers that he was known for.

Also in this village was a young woman that he was in love with.  Every Friday he picked the most  beautiful rose in his garden and brought it to her, and they went for a walk in the forest.  Soon they were engaged to be married.

But tragedy struck.  The young woman was run over by a runaway carriage one afternoon and died.  The schoolteacher cried all night, and when he awoke in the morning his beautiful garden had withered and died.

Several years went by.  Try as he might, the schoolteacher wasn’t able to grow a single flower in his garden; it remained as black and dead as the day his love had died.  He boarded up the gate and wouldn’t let anyone else see what was inside.

Eventually the village grew into a town, and the schoolhouse was expanded with a second room.  Another teacher was hired, a lovely young woman who was also secretly a witch.  She fell in love with the schoolteacher, and after asking delicately around town discovered the story of the rose garden.

One day, after classes, the witch approached the schoolteacher.  “I heard you grow the most lovely roses.  Would you bring me one tomorrow?”

The man was startled.  “Uh . . . no!  I can’t!”  And he hurried home before she could say another word.

(To be continued)

(Prompt: Write a fairy tale.)

Two-Minute Tuesdays 17

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“Two-Minute Tuesdays” are a series of micro-stories written in five 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.

One Of Us

It was a task that fell to him, not only as the elder of the herd, but as the young bull’s father.  He drew no pleasure from it, but it had to be done.

“Son,” he said, getting his offspring’s attention.  “Come walk with me.”  The other elephants feigned deafness.

They walked out into the night, away from the herd and into the soft, fresh grass.  It was smooth and supple underfoot, which would not last long after the rainy season ended.

“Son, you know why we’re here,” he said.

“I didn’t mean to!” said the young bull.  His tusks were white in the moonlight, clean now of the blood that had dripped from them the day before.  “I didn’t mean to stabthe man!”

“It doesn’t matter,” his father replied.  “All that matters is that you did it.”  He turned to face his son.  “I’m so proud of you.  Welcome to adulthood.”

(Prompt: Use the words Elephant, stab, and supple in a story.)

Two-Minute Tuesdays 16

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“Two-Minute Tuesdays” are a series of micro-stories written in five 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.

Horror Stories In Three Sentences

“Oh, babe, I just let in the cat,” said Tim, returning to the living room.

“Babe . . . I don’t own a cat,” replied Sheila from under the blanket.

The microwave dinged, and then the lights went out as the power died.

—

It snaked out of the darkness, a slender tentacle with a three-pronged claw on the end.  Ed watched it snag the loose piece of paper floating on the surface before disappearing.

He’d never forget to flush again.

(prompt: Write a horror story in three sentences.)

Two-Minute Tuesdays 15

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“Two-Minute Tuesdays” are a series of micro-stories written in five 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.

 

Art

“It’s like Chuck E. Cheese,” Audrey told me, “but for intellectuals.”

“You’re kidding me,” I told her.

“I’m not,” she said.

Three hours and two subway tickets later, we stood at the top of a flight of narrow stairs.  They led down from the street to an unmarked door.

“Are you sure this is the place?” I asked her.  She didn’t bother responding.

Three uneven knocks later, the artist let us in.  He kissed Audrey on both cheeks, and said something in French to me before doing the same.

“Jean-Claude doesn’t speak English,” she explained.

We were the only visitors that day, and we had Jean-Claude’s entire “museum” to ourselves.  Out of the dark loomed shadowy figures that were suddenly list by motion-activated floodlights as we approached.  An animatronic Teddy Roosevelt rattled of of his perch and cocked one lecherous eye at me.

“Walk softly, and carry a big stick!” said Teddy in a voice that sounded like a Vietnamese street urchin talking into a tape recorder while riding on the back of a motorcycle.

“Who else has he got?” I asked Audrey.

“Well, Ghandi’s over there,” she pointed.  “He’s my favorite.”

“The means is the ends in the process of becoming!” croaked Ghandi unbidden from the corner.

“I think the means could use a bit more ends to it,” was my reply.

“Come on,” said Audrey.  “Lighten up!  Let’s go see Bismark!”

(prompt: write a story that involves the following quote by Mahatma Ghandi: “The means is the ends in the process of becoming.”