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

by Hugh Howey

  Becca Price’s Website

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  Science Fiction — Fantasy — Religious Fiction

  Telling Your Story with Misty Rose

  Arrington Flynn

  “I told you, woman, I’m not going in,” the old man said.

  “Now, Mr. Carson, you promised,” said the caretaker.

  “I did not.”

  “Then why did you get dressed up?”

  The old man’s eyes went vacant for a minute.

  “I thought we were going for icecream,” he finally said.

  “After you attend today’s activity, I’ll take you out for some icecream.”

  The woman helped the old man out of the car and into his wheelchair.

  He kept his head down as she pushed him towards the Senior Center. He didn’t want anyone on the street to notice him. I’m never going to get used to this darn contraption, Mr. Carson thought to himself. It’s proof of my cursed, pathetic life.

  “Is he here for today’s special activity, or just to hang out?” asked a staff member as they came inside.

  “I don’t care,” the woman said, “just keep him busy for thirty minutes. If you can manage it.”

  “Well, unfortunately, our regular activity was canceled at the last minute.”

  “He can watch television, then,” the woman said.

  “No,” the old man said, “I don’t want to, I hate Judge Judy.”

  “Well, we do have a back-up activity,” the staff member reported, “a last minute volunteer, let’s see — it’s called ‘Telling Your Story with Misty Rose.’”

  “Huh?” Mr. Carson said, then let out a gasp, as he felt a sharp pain near his chest. It went away. They hadn’t noticed.

  “MISTY ROSE.” The woman was speaking now, leaning over him and talking too slowly and too loudly into his ear.

  “You forgot to turn on your hearing aid again, didn’t you?”

  Mr. Carson felt the woman’s fingers groping around his ear.

  His temper flared. Bad enough she had to wipe his ass every day, she didn’t need to humiliate him in public.

  “Don’t touch me, you fat old biddy!” He swatted her hand away, as if she were an annoying mosquito, then he wheeled his chair towards the activity room as fast as he could go.

  Inside the room smelled of old coffee and burnt popcorn. Another old man, hooked up to a full-size oxygen tank on wheels, sat in a regular chair in the front of the room, his back to Mr. Carson.

  While his breath wheezed and rattled inside his chest, Mr. Carson settled himself at the handicap table in the back of the room. He felt so tired. He’d just put his head down…

  “Welcome, class. My name is Misty Rose.”

  Her voice was clear and sweet. He wanted to see her, but his eyes…

  “All you have to do is think the words. You won’t even have to write them down.”

  Mr. Carson was sitting up now, his elbows on the table, his chin propped in his hands, still trying to open his eyes.

  “Shall we begin?” The voice seemed to be coming from inside his head. He could feel himself nodding in the affirmative. He wanted to please Misty Rose.

  “Wonderful. Now keep your eyes closed. Think of the one moment in your life that you felt the most loved.”

  That broke the spell. Mr. Carson laughed bitterly at this ridiculous thought. His eyes popped opened. He tried to move his arms back to his wheelchair, this was a stupid class, even Judge Judy…

  An intense pain hit him deep inside his chest and then radiated down his arm. Fear came with it.

  “You’re not closing your eyes, Gerry.” The soothing voice had returned. His eyelids were so heavy. They closed.

  A memory swam into his consciousness. My wife is smiling at me, she’s holding our son in her arms. I’m kissing her forehead, I’m telling both of them how much I love them.

  A tear started falling down Mr. Carson’s cheek.

  “Go on,” the voice said.

  I’m lightly touching my baby’s face. Our son is gazing up at me. He’s so small, his tiny fingers are wrapping around my little finger. He doesn’t want to let me go.

  “Do you feel loved?” the voice wanted to know. It was a simple question.

  “Yes,” Gerry Carson said, then something exploded in his heart.

  “Clear!”

  Gerry Carson came out of his body. He was floating above himself. Two men in uniform were standing below him, leaning over him.

  More men in uniform were walking around the room, several standing at the front of the room. But they were not doing anything to the still form lying on the floor.

  Gerry Carson watched as the woman ran into the room. He heard her gasp. He saw real tears flow down her face. He watched impassively as a policeman hustled her shaking body out of the room.

  “Clear!”

  He felt his body jump as an electric charge sizzled in the room, then he was pulled back inside. His eyes were opening. He could smell the anxiety.

  “Sir, sir?” the man in the uniform was speaking to him.

  “Where?” Gerry Carson tried to speak. “Where’s Misty Rose? Please, I want to see her.”

  “Who?” said the man in the uniform.

  “I’m right here, Gerry.”

  And so she was. The man in uniform was gone. Misty Rose was back. She reached down to him.

  He lifted his arm towards her. A blazing light shone through her hair. He felt so happy.

  “Clear!”

  The man in uniform was back, rubbing something cold and sticky onto his chest. Go away, Gerry Carson tried to say, but he couldn’t move his lips.

  “Stay with me, sir!” the man in uniform yelled.

  “Clear!”

  A pair of glistening white wings rose high into the air. Misty Rose reached down and firmly took Gerry Carson’s outstretched hands in hers. She pulled him upright, kissed his forehead, and together they walked out of the Senior Center.

  Misty Rose submitted her daily work report and closed her shimmering laptop. The extra paperwork required for taking an unscheduled soul was such a pain in the astral, she thought.

  Arrington Flynn

  lives in La Jolla, CA with her husband and several pets. She likes to eat macaroni and cheese and watch the pelicans fly by. She also likes to watch the tourists pack their rental cars up and go home at the end of each summer. She is publishing short stories, while working on her first novel, Mosaic Witch. The first book in a planned Paranormal Chic-Lit series, the Mosaic Witch series involves real Witches, real Genies (or Jinn), real Shape-Shifters, real Inter-Dimensional Time Travel and a very confused ‘wannabe, witch trainee’ who has no natural magical ability whatsoever and no inherited undiscovered witchy past. The only gift she does have is a devoted Jinn who can’t help but give her some witchy powers she doesn’t deserve, absolutely cannot handle, and in an intelligent universe should never possess, but she wishes for it and ‘So mote it be.’

  Follow Arrington on Twitter and you’ll probably get a tweet when Mosaic Witch is finally published. Arrington Flynn also hosts a popular podcast called Indie Book Rebels, all about independent book publishing and discovering great new ‘independent’ authors.

  Arrington Flynn’s Website

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  Fairy Tale — Fantasy — Young Adult

  The Frog Prince

  L.E. Parin

  “You’re one of the Fae sent to trick me.” Ariana leaned forward, tilting her head as she peered at the…talking frog.

  The frog chuckled, and Ariana sat back in the perfectly cut grass at the edge of the perfectly circular pond. Silver strands of her perfect silken gown shimmered under a perfect cloudless sky while her crown sparkled perfectly.

  Perfect. Everything was perfect except for her.

  She was going crazy.

  “I assure you, Princess. I am a prince placed under a curse,” the frog croaked, and
Ariana nodded, deciding to entertain this green figment of her imagination. She needed a break from reality; she had just met her betrothed.

  And he was a jerk.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have run away from the palace, but the disdain and undisguised loathing in his eyes was enough to make anyone run away.

  From her wedding. Yep. Meet, greet, get married. That’s how they did it in her kingdom.

  “All right. You’re a prince." Ariana crossed her arms before uncrossing them and tearing off the lace arm-length gloves that itched. She pursed her lips. “Because we don’t have enough of them around here.”

  The frog jumped from the lily pad it — he — was sitting on and landed just at the pond’s edge. "A handsome one, mind you.”

  “Of course," she said dryly. Ryder, her almost husband — she choked on the word, thinking about it — was handsome, too. That didn’t stop him from being a jerk.

  “Help me break this curse, and I’ll give you everything you could ever want."

  “Really?" Ariana lifted a hand and pointed to each finger. "Will you let me share my opinions? Will you let me follow my dreams? Can you give me freedom?”

  “Is that worry in your big green eyes? Don’t worry your beautiful, blonde head. I’ll run the kingdom while you sit here and embroider.”

  Ariana’s hands tightened into fists as she fumed at Ryder’s words. They were among the first words he ever spoke to her, and the words dripped with condescension and disgust. She should have shown him how good a punch she could throw. Instead, she smiled prettily. Inside, she seethed.

  The frog eyed her as if she was the oddity. “What are your dreams?”

  She stood quickly and gracefully. With arms spread, she twirled in a circle and yelled, “This Kingdom is my dream! These people are my people! I want to rule alongside my King as the Queen I was meant to be!"

  Her face was flushed as she looked down at the frog. “I’m not meant to be a decoration on a throne. I’m meant to be out there with my people. Learning about them. Caring for them. Leading them!”

  Her arms dropped, and her voice caught. “But no one cares about my dreams. I wish I was free to show the world I’m so much more than a silly princess.” Yes, she was first born, but because she was a woman, her future husband would be the ruler.

  “I care, Princess,” the frog assured her. “Join me, and you can have everything you ever hoped and wished for.”

  Ariana took a deep breath. There was nothing left for her here except for furious parents, scandalized wedding guests, and a conceited prince. She took a step forward and crouched down, her hands cupped together so the frog could jump in.

  “I wouldn’t have my people,” she said sadly as realization hit her. Being a leader required sacrifice, and this marriage would be hers. “Sorry, you’ll have to find another princess.”

  “This is not what I expected. A princess and a frog?”

  Ariana stiffened before gently putting the frog down. She pasted on a serene smile and slowly turned. "My apologies, Prince Ryder. I needed some air.”

  The prince laughed, startling her. Where was the disdain, fury, and disappointment? Instead… was that admiration?

  He nodded. “Seems like as good a time as any."

  Ariana narrowed her eyes. What was going on? The stiff ogre of a prince looked…relaxed?

  “I don’t think we’ve met, Princess.”

  Ariana put her royal mask back on as she wondered if Ryder was the one who was going crazy. Coming from someone who was just talking to a frog, that was saying a lot.

  “We have, Prince—”

  “No. We’ve met different people, I believe.” Ryder bowed, startling Ariana. “I am Prince Ryder from the Drayden Kingdom, and I was led to believe that my betrothed would be a vapid, mindless decoration. Instead, I find myself enchanted by a strong-willed woman who is passionate about her Kingdom and people.”

  Ariana stared at him for a moment, taking in the fact that the prince seemed genuinely happy. It really was like meeting someone different. She curtsied. “I am Princess Ariana from the Meria Kingdom, and I was led to believe that my perpetually furious betrothed didn’t care for women with brains.”

  He admitted, “I was furious that I would be trapped in a marriage with someone who only cared for sewing and looking pretty.”

  “Sewing is important. I just can’t do it.”

  Ryder laughed. “All those tapestries everyone attributes to you?”

  "Someone takes apart the sections I do and redoes them. I suspect it’s mother,” she confessed with humor as she looked down and noticed the frog was gone. Off to his own Kingdom? More like back in the land of her imagination.

  After a moment’s pause, Ryder reached over and took her hand, studying her face. "What you said earlier…when you thought you were alone. Did you mean it?”

  She couldn’t stop the flush creeping up her face as she nodded. "Every word."

  He smiled, relief on his face. “Good. Let’s go live those dreams.”

  As the couple left, hand in hand, neither saw the frog peering from the reeds. With a shimmer, it transformed into a winged creature with shocking white hair and a self-satisfied smile.

  She tsked. "These princesses really make us fairy godmothers work!"

  L.E. Parin

  has been a fan of books for as long as she can remember. Being able to write and publish her stories is now icing on the cake for her. Not only does she get to fall in love with characters from other writers, she gets to fall in love with her own and introduce them to other readers. L.E. enjoys writing fantasy and paranormal romance. When not writing, she’s reading, playing games, enjoying the Pacific Northwest, and chasing after her toddler to keep him out of trouble. L.E.’s biggest fan is her husband, which is perfect since she’s his biggest fan, too.

  L.E. Parin’s Website

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  Science Fiction — Dystopian

  The Last

  Darrin Perez

  The vast expanses of the wasteland bore silent testament to the atrocities committed in the world. A single cloaked man remained. He was a man only by the most relative and tenuous of definitions, for his left arm, both of his legs, and his eyes were all robotic. It was his crime that set off the events that ended civilization. His arms crushed the world’s hope. His legs marched unyielding as his eyes condemned all that he saw.

  The man walked through the ruins of the last city of the world. In a not so distant past, it had been humanity’s final bid to stay alive. It started with a plague to end all others, a virulent disease designed by the Last. A relentless pox that laid low ninety-eight of every hundred. Humans, for all their posturing and self-entitlement, reverted to a primal state in times of extreme crisis. Glass, ash, and broken dreams signified their pointless struggle. What had started with death ended thus.

  Why had he survived? The Last looked at his right hand, putrid with rot. It would not be long. Karma had a way of bouncing back in the most insidious ways. His death would be an ironic one. That was, if he allowed it to be so. The Last had been a brilliant scientist in the times of civilization. He was en route to enact a plan so brazen that it would’ve earned him death by the edicts of the law. That was once, not then.

  His peers had ridiculed him, called him crazy, a delusional maniac! What did they know of his brilliance? His lab was as decayed as his own being, but it would serve his purpose well enough. He had been tasked by his government to find ways to feed the hungry remnants of humanity. During his endeavor, the Last had stumbled upon knowledge of an ancient time from a civilization that slept in the bottomless ocean. It was blasphemous merely to speak of such, let alone carry it out. They would never let him do it, he knew. That was then, not at present.

  Against all odds, the main elevator was still operational. More were the tiles broken underfoot than not. Defiant lights flickered above as the elevator screeched its way to the Last’s destination. The cacophony
of grinding metal greeted the scientist as he arrived at the Room. It was named as simply as that, for the weight that location carried could not be placed into words. A giant column akin to a lava lamp hummed from its location at the center of the Room. Dozens of computer terminals ringed the arcane tube as the Last made his way to the largest. The beeping and clicking of electric activity signaled that the terminal was active. The sentient AI spoke to its master.

  “Hello, Professor. It has been seven years, eighty-one days, fourteen hours, and eleven seconds since you last accessed this terminal. How may I serve you?”

  The Last always found a measure of amusement in the fact that the AI had to verbalize the time of last access. It was not as if he could not see the information himself. That was what computer screens were for. The question, on the other hand, was not so pleasing. A single drop of sweat revealed itself on the Last’s forehead. Fear clutched at his heart as he stared at the terminal. That, too, was ironic. There had been a time when he would’ve embraced death. Fear had been little more than a whisper at that time. That moment had passed when he had lost the one being that had meant anything to him. He closed his eyes and girded himself for what he was about to do. An eternity passed before the Last spoke those fateful words.

  “Activate Operation Izanagi.”

  The sentient AI held its peace for a time, calculating various pieces of data, its inner machinery churning violently as it did. The Last knew that it was searching for reasons to not activate the forbidden protocol. It would find none. His peers had programmed fail-safes that would fail, for they relied on the existence of life. Death was all that remained. The AI’s scanning became more and more violent until it suddenly stopped.

  “Are you sure, Professor?” was all that it communicated through the terminal’s speakers when it finished its calculations.