David S. McWilliams

Two-Minute Tuesdays 28

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“Two-Minute Tuesdays” are a series of micro-stories written in five minutes or less. Consider them “public practice,” like shooting free throws in the park.  Prompts are supplied at the bottom in case you want to try your own hand at one of them.

Was it possible to see beauty in a cockroach, I wondered?

It was my seventh day of solitude. The doors were still locked, the windows dark. Not much I could do about either.

But as I studied the small, brown specimen, these things mattered less. It clung to the wall, near a piece of plastic moulding, lured into the open by careful inactivity on my part. Now I stared at its almond-like form, the bobbing antennae. How many discarded hamburger wrappers, rotting bird carcasses, literal pieces of shit had that small insect burrowed its way inside over its short lifetime? Could I see beauty in the mindless, unstoppable force of decay and consumption that this bug personified?

No dice; I was still crazy, and solitude wasn’t making it any better.

Write for two minutes using these three nouns: beauty, cockroach, dice

Two-Minute Tuesdays 28

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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.

Neville Chamberlin

Let’s give Hitler Prague

I’m sure that will work out well

Said no one, ever.

(prompt: Describe a famous historical figure in haiku form)

(Actually I just finished Shirer’s gargantuan history of the Third Reich, and while Chamberlin did royally screw over the Czechs, I came away from the book with more respect for him than I had before.  He was a man who wanted nothing more sinister than to avoid violence–look up what Churchill said at his funeral sometime.

Of course, it’s easier to sum up his life in mocking haikus.)

Two-Minute Tuesdays 27

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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.

Ed and Eduardo

“She’s totally in to me.  She’s totally in to me.  She’s totally in to me.”

Ed repeated the words feverishly to himself just as his love coach had told him to.  Eduardo, assistant dean at the Don Juan School of Seduction and Romance, was a tall, dark, Italian man always wore leather shoes and smelled faintly of aftershave.  The maestro had poked Ed in the chest that morning to drive his point home.

“Remember, she is in to you!  She wants you to sweep her away like a knight on horseback!  She wants to you to make love to her all night long and into the morning!  She wants to take you in her hands and –”

“All right, all right, I get it!” said Ed hastily, cutting off his teacher.  “She’s totally in to me!”

“Excuse me?”

Ed jolted back into the present.  She was looking at him from the other end of the park bench.

“I — um — what?” said Ed.

“You were talking out loud,” she said.

“Oh.  Oh!  I’m sorry,” said Ed.

She looked down.  “Your fly’s open.”  She left.

Ed sighed.  “She’s totally in to me, all right.”

(prompt: write an embarrassing story on a park bench)

(I definitely didn’t realize that I’d given both of my characters the same name until after I went through and read it again.  Whoops!)

Two-Minute Tuesdays 26

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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.

Olaf Visits Stonehenge

It’s not the business of a taxi driver to judge.  Olaf knew that.  It was one of the reasons that his friend Jorgund said he’d make a good cabbie–Olaf was strictly non-judgmental.

“Olaf, my friend, let me tell you something about my work,” said Jorgund one night in the flophouse in South London.

“Mmm?” said Olaf, eating his porridge plain.

“Taxi drivers must be the wisest and most accommodating of all professionals in the world–well, save perhaps barkeepers or ladies of the night.  Do you know why?”

“Mmm-mm,” said Olaf, taking a drink of lukewarm tapwater from a stained plastic cup.

“Because we never know what manner of person might climb into the back of our cab at any time.  And yet we are bound by a professional code to serve them the same as if they were royalty.  We are the bartenders of the open road, Olaf, the last refuge of decency and compassion for those who can find it nowhere else!”

“Pipe down, already!” yelled someone from the other room.  “We’re trying to watch the match!”

Jorgund ignored them.  “Do you know what I mean, Olaf?”

“Mmm,” said Olaf.  He took a break from his oatmeal to take a bit of plain white toast.

“That’s why you’re a natural, Olaf.  You judge nothing–not food, not drink, not liquor, not women, and least of all would you judge fares!  You’re a natural, Olaf, and I believe you’re in need a of a job, yes?”

“Mmm,” agreed Olaf, his mouth still full.  He took another sip of tapwater to help turn the toast to mush inside of his mouth.

“That’s what I thought,” said Jorgund, satisfied with himself.  “Stick with me, Olaf, and I’ll make you the best cabbie the world has ever seen.”

—

All that Jorgund predicted came true.  Olaf had been the least-judgmental cabbie in all of England for the past two years running.  It was a title that he would’ve been proud of, if he was capable of feeling pride.

And yet, even Olaf thought the old woman looked like a frog.

He’d left London the year before and worked in the gray, murky city of Southampton now, haunting the cruise ship terminals where sunburnt Britishers got off the big Cunard boats looking for the train station.  That’s who he took her for, at first, a toadlike tourist with frilly pink luggage and a faint, Hitleresque moustache.

“Stonehenge, please,” she said.

“Pardon me?” said Olaf, immediately regretting it.  That was two screw-ups with a single fare, and he hadn’t even turned on the meter yet.

(prompt: Write a story that includes a taxi driver, a frog, Stonehenge, a 1969 Ford Mustang, and a breakup)

(Okay, so there’s no Mustang.  We were getting there, I promise.  And there wasn’t a breakup, yet (we were getting to that, too).  I never claimed that this was an exact science.

Like Jimmy Buffet says, the best navigators don’t know where they’re going until they get there, and then they’re still not sure.  And do you have any idea how difficult it was going to be to get a 1969 Ford Mustang into Great Britain?  You’d have to move the steering wheel over to the other side, reverse the gearshift, etc . . .)

Two-Minute Tuesdays 25

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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 2)

As an enchanter of more-than-usual ability, it was simple for him to build a hand and an arm to hold the pen. He imbued it with more-than-the-usual amount of power, and hardly daring hope he put the arm on the table. Lo and behold, it picked up the pen and began writing!

The enchanter stopped going out. He spent his days and nights in a feverish passion, reading as fast as the magic arm could write, abandoning food and sleep altogether. Sacks of letters from his love arrived at his doorstep, but he shunned them for the magnificent letters produced by the magic pen. His love’s letters soon became curious, then irritated, and finally worried, but he read none of them.

Meanwhile, the enchanter realized that the arm could write faster if it was supported by a shoulder, and the shoulder would be more steady if it was supported by a spine . . .

–

One Autumn morning, the enchanter’s (second) cousin finally arrived in person on his doorstep. She’d heard rumors about his sickness, and feared to find her lover on his deathbed. The servants tried to stop her, but she would not be denied and finally forced her way into his study.

The sight stopped her cold.

A metal statue of her sat at the desk with pen in hand, writing faster than any human could. It was grotesquely exaggerated; where she was bony, the statue was round and full. Where her bosom sagged, the statue was pert and high-breasted. Where her complexion was blotchy, the statue shown golden-pink with simulated health. Only the eye sockets were empty, showing black and bent where the enchanter had tried over and over again to recreate the eyes of his lover. He had been unable to succeed.

On the floor by the desk was the enchanter. He glanced up but did not recognize her, and went back gibbering to the endless stream of parchment that flowed from the statue’s fingers, reading the words before the ink had dried.

But the enchanter’s (second) cousin did give up. Such was her love her him that she took a step toward the statue and tried to remove the pen from its hand. There was a sharp sting as the enchanter attacked her, frail and weak from starvation but strong with the ferocity of the insane. She left.

It is, of course, a mortal sin to create an unlicensed golem in the form of a human. The city mourned the loss of the enchanter with more-than-usual ability, but the fire made for a lively spectacle that night in the town square.

(prompt: Write a fairy tale.)

(Man, and I thought the last one was dark.)

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.) 

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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.)

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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.)