Stories on the Go: 101 Very Short Stories by 101 Authors

by Hugh Howey

  Marry her off to a great guy, move her to a big city in Tornado Alley, then pop three daughters out of her in twenty two months (one set of identical twins). Then, make her a jinx – every great genre TV show she loves gets the ax – Beauty and the Beast, Dark Angel… and Buffy and Spike NEVER have a happy ending! She gets upset about no romance in the world, and fires up to write her own stories with happy endings.

  Throw this all together into a small house in Wyoming, along with a small bouncy dog named Baxter and too many cats, shake constantly and pour it out onto a computer keyboard.

  There! You have me, Melisse Aires.

  Melisse Aires’ Website

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  Romance

  Heiligenloh

  Cora Buhlert

  Marco found Heiligenloh quite by accident. Autobahn A1 from Bremen to Osnabrück was choked by a monster traffic jam. Twenty kilometres of standstill due to a combination of construction work and a capsized truck that had spilled glue all over the highway.

  Unlike the civilians in their cars and campervans cheerfully lining up for the monster traffic jam, Marco had deadlines and a job to do. And since he didn’t want to arrive two or three hours late, he did what you did in such situations. He piloted his Mercedes-Benz truck off the highway and tried to make his way across small country roads, directed by the ever so slightly prissy voice of Else, his GPS.

  At first it wasn’t so bad. Marco drove his truck down the B51, a nice broad and mostly straight road that cut through fields, woodlands and small towns Marco had never even heard of.

  Then, in one of those small towns, Else directed him onto a side road. Again, this wasn’t so bad. The road was narrower than the B51, but nothing his truck couldn’t handle. Until he suddenly found himself faced with a “Road closed” sign and the dreaded word “detour.”

  So Marco followed the signs back onto the B51 for a few kilometres and then onto an even smaller road that wound its way through fields and clusters of birch and oak trees. With increasing urgency, Else demanded him to “Turn around at the next opportunity.” Marco ignored her.

  This road was bumpy from decades of use with too few repairs and so narrow that Marco’s truck veered dangerously close to the edge whenever he passed another car. He reduced speed, for even though there was no speed limit here, going faster than sixty kilometres per hour would quickly have sent his truck careening into a tree or a ditch.

  He passed farmhouses, well tended and speaking of past wealth, and a brothel, its red lanterns shining like beacons in the late afternoon gloom of a misty December day.

  There were shrines and crosses by the roadside, adorned with fresh flowers. Quite different from Marco’s hometown in former East Germany, where forty years of Communism had driven out any vestiges of religion.

  Marco spotted a cluster of houses up ahead and reduced his speed further in anticipation. A moment later, he saw the town sign. Heiligenloh, winner of the 1982 award for Germany’s prettiest village, as the sign proudly announced more than thirty years later.

  Else had regained her composure by now and directed him to “Turn right at the end of the road” onto what passed for a main street here in Heiligenloh.

  As might be expected from a village with “holy” in its name, there was a church, a squat medieval church with thick walls that looked like they had withstood many a siege in their time. Men and women of the local volunteer fire brigade were setting up a Christmas tree in front of the church, testing the lights. The view was surprisingly peaceful, like an image from a Christmas card, and even the firefighters in their Day-Glo orange jackets didn’t look out of place.

  It was this view, the little old church with the Christmas tree and the firefighters – volunteers one and all, doing the job not for thrills or for money, but because it was the right thing to do – that had first endeared Heiligenloh to Marco.

  He drove on, past a defunct dairy and the local bank and veered around a corner. A glowing Christmas star adorned a promising sign. “Humpe’s Groceries – Fresh coffee and sandwiches – Open Monday to Saturday 6:30 AM to 7:30 PM.”

  Marco’s stomach grumbled. He sure could use a sandwich. Coffee, too, freshly brewed and not the stale stuff in his Thermos.

  So he pulled over and parked his truck on the shoulder of the road, because the parking lot of the store was much too small for a forty-ton truck.

  An old man nodded to him as he crossed the parking lot. “Good afternoon.”

  Marco returned the greeting, smiling to himself. Quaint place, where the locals greet even a stranger they’ve never seen before.

  Humpe’s had apparently started life as a barn sometime in the nineteenth century and had turned into a mini-supermarket somewhere along the way. Marco made his way through the narrow aisles, picked up some chocolate and a magazine.

  He came to the bakery counter at the back of the store, opened his mouth and froze. For there, behind the bakery counter of Humpe’s Groceries in Heiligenloh, was the most beautiful girl Marco had ever seen.

  “Can I help you?” she asked with a smile brighter than the Christmas lights outside.

  “Y… yes,” Marco stammered, “I… I’d like a sandwich. Ham. And a coffee. Black and fresh. P… please.”

  Damn. Now she probably thought he was a halfwit or something.

  The girl smiled. “Our coffee’s always fresh.” Then she poured him a cup.

  From that day on, Marco always drove through Heiligenloh whenever his job brought him to the area. When his boss asked him why he eschewed the Autobahn for a little country road, Marco told him he was saving the toll and earned a nod of approval.

  When Marco had been coming to Heiligenloh for two months, he finally found the nerve to ask the beautiful girl behind the bakery counter her name.

  “Katherina.”

  “Would… would you like to go for a drink?”

  She checked her watch. “I have to work till half past seven.”

  “Afterwards then,” Marco suggested. Screw the cargo of lettuce slowly wilting in the back of his truck.

  Katherina flashed him one of her dazzling smiles. “Sure. Why not?”

  Six months later, after the grain had been harvested, but before the sugar beets were due, Marco and Katherina got married in the small church of Heiligenloh. And all because of a monster traffic jam on Autobahn A1.

  Cora Buhlert

  was born and bred in North Germany, where she still lives today – after time spent in London, Singapore, Rotterdam and Mississippi. Cora holds an MA degree in English from the University of Bremen and is currently working towards her PhD. Cora has been writing, since she was a teenager, and has published stories, articles and poetry in various international magazines. When she is not writing, she works as a translator and teacher.

  Cora Buhlert’s Website

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  Paranormal

  Cag

  An Almost True Story

  Philip Harris

  Jacob first realised his ghoul was missing when he went outside to give him his favourite meal, Roast Prime Rib with a Red Wine Jus and a side of Rosemary Encrusted Lamb’s Brain. It was early evening, the air was beginning to cool and normally Cag would already be hanging out by the patio door, waiting for Jacob to arrive, but tonight there was no sign of him. The garden was empty.

  Red wine jus splashed the front of Jacob’s jacket as he ran round the corner of the bungalow to the main gate. He was convinced someone must have opened it and let Cag out but the gate was still closed and the bolts were still drawn. There were a handful of new gouges in the wood where Cag had tried to claw his way to freedom but nothing that would explain his absence.

  As Jacob walked back into the garden, he heard a soft, somewhat pitiful moaning from somewhere near the back wall. Relieved, he placed the steaming bowl of food on the patio and trotted across the lawn. The relief quickly evaporated as he realised that
somehow Cag had managed to get over the wall and into the alley behind the house.

  As Jacob neared the wall, Cag moaned again, louder this time.

  “Shhh,” said Jacob, “stop calling attention to yourself.”

  Jacob chewed his lip. Cag was unlicensed and if the neighbourhood watch caught him there’d be hell to pay. And fines. Thankfully, the gate to the alley would be locked so Cag couldn’t get out onto the street but he’d be clearly visible to anyone looking into the alley and, obviously, Jacob couldn’t risk bringing him out that way. The only way to get Cag home would be to bring him back over the wall.

  Jacob retrieved his ladder and a battered old cushion from the grey plastic shed in the corner of the garden. Then he propped the ladder against the lowest point of the wall and climbed up. The top of the wall was covered with a rainbow of broken glass — a largely unsuccessful attempt to discourage thieves from stealing beer from the pub next door. Putting the cushion onto the least lethal looking shards of glass, Jacob climbed gingerly on top of the wall.

  Cag was directly below him. Jacob’s daughter, Susan, had been playing dress up again and Cag was wearing the bumblebee costume they’d bought him for Halloween a couple of years earlier, the yellow stripes turned a grubby orange by the ravages of playtime. Cag looked up at Jacob and moaned forlornly.

  Jacob hauled the ladder up and over the wall, thankful it was aluminium, not wood. As he rested it against the wall he lost his balance. Without thinking, he reached out to steady himself and speared his hand on a very attractive purple beer bottle.

  Jacob yelled, then yelled again as he saw the ladder slipping away from him. He lunged forward, his hand reaching it just as it began to topple into the alley. Jacob settled the ladder into position again, his heart pounding and the theme tune from his wife’s favourite medical drama playing in his head.

  The cut on his hand wasn’t too bad, he’d clean it up once Cag was back in the garden, whenever that was. In the alley below, Cag was staring at the ladder and showing no signs of climbing up. Jacob tapped the side of the ladder. Cag looked up, moaned again, stepped forward, then clamped his mouth on the fifth rung of the ladder and began to suck. Jacob sagged.

  It took Jacob seven minutes to clamber down the ladder and maneuver his way around Cag, who was eagerly trying to clamber between the rungs of the ladder to reach the remains of a sandwich he’d noticed lying on the floor. Five minutes later, as Jacob tried for the fourth time to demonstrate correct ladder climbing technique, the neighbourhood watch bell rang three times.

  “Awww, crap!” said Jacob. That meant Danny Brown would be checking the alley in less than five minutes.

  In desperation, Jacob pushed Cag towards the ladder. By some scientific miracle, the synapses in Cag’s brain fired with sufficient accuracy to guide his feet onto the rungs. Jacob placed his shoulder under Cag’s backside and pushed. He felt his stomach churn at the smell and for a moment he thought he was going to throw up. Then Cag began to move. Slowly, step by step, he padded up the ladder until he reached the top. When he got there… he stopped.

  Jacob glanced down the alley. He could see the street and so far it was empty but he could hear Danny’s heavy leather boots stomping along the pavement. He’d be at the entrance to the alley any moment. In desperation Jacob threw himself up the ladder, grabbed Cag by the shoulders and pushed.

  Cag let out a startled grunt and fell forward, arms flailing. As he fell, the bumblebee suit caught on a particularly long slice of brown glass, leaving Cag hanging from the wall by his ankle. Jacob reached out to free him but as he did there was a moist ripping sound and Cag’s ankle gave way, leaving his foot hanging from the top of the wall. There was a wet thump as Cag hit the ground.

  By the time Jacob had made it onto the wall, retrieved the ladder and the errant foot and made his way back into the garden, Cag had discovered his dinner and was happily tearing his way through the beef.

  Jacob looked down at the foot he was carrying and sighed. Never mind, he’d reattach that tomorrow.

  Philip Harris

  was born in England but now lives in Vancouver, Canada where he works for a large video game developer. Not content with creating imaginary worlds for a living, he spends his spare time indulging his love of writing. His non-fiction articles have appeared in such enigmatic magazines as EXE, WTJ and CGI. His fiction credits include Garbled Transmissions, So Long, and Thanks for All the Brains, Peeping Tom, New Horizons, Flurb and Blood Samples. He has also worked as security for Darth Vader. You can find more of his fiction on his website.

  Philip Harris’s Website

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  Fantasy

  A Phone Conversation

  Emily Martha Sorensen

  "White House.”

  The little boy breathed heavily into the phone as he talked.

  "Hello, is this McDonald’s?”

  The president paused from emptying out old files from his desk.

  “This is the President of the United States speaking.” He cleared his throat meaningfully. “On an unlisted number.”

  “Oh.”

  The little boy exhaled loudly for a moment.

  “I guess I called the wrong place. I thought I was calling McDonald’s.”

  The president clicked a button to record their conversation. He somehow doubted that.

  “Where did you get my unlisted phone number from?”

  The voice sounded puzzled.

  “I dunno. I pressed the name on Mommy and Daddy’s list.”

  “List?” The president sat up, suddenly alert. “List of what?”

  “List of people I should call in case someone came in when they weren’t home and I was, and my sister just came in, and they haven’t come back with my Happy Meal yet.”

  There was a long pause.

  “I — see. A Happy Meal, you say.”

  “The kind with toys in it.”

  The president took a deep breath, trying to work out whether the child was sincere, or if this was a crank call. The latter seemed much more likely.

  “Happy Meals usually do. Do your parents leave you alone often?”

  “Not when my sister’s here.”

  The president leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. He had more important things to do; the sooner he cleared this mystery up, the better.

  “No supervisor?”

  “I don’t need one.”

  “Little children shouldn’t be left in the house alone.”

  The boy sounded puzzled.

  “If they didn’t leave me, they couldn’t go anywhere.”

  The president frowned at the phone.

  “They could take you with them, couldn’t they?”

  The boy panted loudly.

  “I’m not allowed out of the house until I metamorphose.”

  The president struggled to keep his temper in check.

  “Why don’t you hang up and try not to dial my number next time?”

  “Okay.”

  Click.

  Ring, ring!

  The president snatched at the phone on his desk.

  “Hello?”

  The voice was familiar.

  “Oh, I guess it’s you again.”

  Click.

  Ring, ring!

  “Hello?”

  The child’s voice sounded amazed.

  “Is it still you?”

  The president clenched his teeth.

  “It’s still me.” He pressed the recording button again. Why on Earth weren’t his calls being screened?

  The little boy spoke in a confidential whisper.

  “I think Mommy and Daddy programmed the caller wrong, ’cause I keep pressing the McDonald’s name, but I’m not getting McDonald’s.”

  The president fought to control his temper. This crank call was no longer funny. “Where did your parents get this number from?”

  There was silence for a moment, punctuated by heavy breathing. “Dunno. I gu
ess from those files.”

  “What files?”

  “The ones they find all the numbers from.”

  The president’s mind raced. A child whose parents worked in the White House? Or perhaps were hackers? Of course, it was more likely that this caller was a hacker who thought crank calls were exceedingly funny.

  They weren’t.

  The president tried to keep his voice level. “May I speak with your parents?”

  “They’re not home right now.”

  The president struggled to avoid sounding annoyed. “Right. You mentioned that. Where are they? Do they have a cellphone?”

  “I dunno what a cellphone is.”

  “Tell me their names, and I’ll have them paged.”

  “What’s paged?”

  “It means I call their names on a loudspeaker.”

  “What’s a loudspeaker?”

  The president fought his temper under control again.

  “Just tell me their names and where they are!”

  “They’re Mommy and Daddy, and I dunno where they are.”

  The president ground his teeth.

  “Estimate.”

  “I dunno. Probably halfway between Alpha Centauri and Sol, if the lines weren’t long." The little boy added, in his confidential whisper, “I don’t like it when the lines are long. I get hungry, and then I go into hibernation and it takes forever to wake up, and when I do, my food’s all cold.”

  This joke had gone far enough.

  The president jabbed a button to trace the call. It came up negative.

  “Where are you?”

  “In my house.”

  The president ground his teeth. He’d forgotten how maddening little boys could be. He could deal with congressmen, but little boys were something else.