Category Archives: 10-Minute Story

A Stick in the Road

Posted by Piscis on

stick

 

Once upon a time, there was a stick in the road that nobody liked.

“I very much dislike this stick,” muttered John.

“And who are you to make such a proclamation?” asked Lydia.

“I’m John,” said John.

Lydia raised an eyebrow.  “I see.  I’m Amy.”

“Are you, now?”

“No.  I’m Lydia, actually.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” John sighed.

“It is a rather awful stick, isn’t it?”  Lydia crossed her arms and stared distrustfully at the little piece of wood lying in the middle of the street, doing no one any good at all.

“Quite so.  If I had to guess, I’d say it’s worse than the half-eaten sandwich my employer threw at me in a fit of anger earlier this morning.”

“That does sound dreadful.”

John put a hand on Lydia’s arm, appreciating the sympathy.  “What would you say should be done about the stick?  We could give it to a dog, I suppose.  Or put it in a museum.”

Lydia shook her head.  “I think that would be a disservice to both dog-kind and society as a whole.  No, I think it must simply be done away with.”

“But how?”  John frowned, shifting awkwardly as he let the thing re-enter his field of vision.  “How does one get rid of such an unpleasant stick?”

“I have a pistol at home,” Lydia offered.  “Perhaps we could shoot it?”

“Maybe.  Maybe…”

Collin strolled by the two, sneering at the road as he passed.  “Lousy, good-for-nothing stick.”

“Who was that?” whispered Lydia.

“I think it was Collin,” John decided.

A small yellow vehicle pulled up to the stick, paused, then reversed and backed up the way it came.

“Whatever it is,” Lydia insisted, “something must be done.”

“You’re right.”  John swallowed, tugging nervously at his collar, then stepped out into the street and approached the stick.

“John?” Lydia called.  “What on Earth–”

John picked up the stick and tossed it into the brush on the other side of the road, then returned to Lydia’s side.

“Oh, thank heaven,” a woman in front of a flower shop called as a portly man down the sidewalk said, “About time,” and a few other onlookers submitted their chorus of relief.

“Well done, John,” Lydia beamed.  “I dare say that stick won’t be bothering anyone any longer.”

“It was truly a despicable thing,” John agreed.

“Do you think we ought to be married, now?”

John nodded gravely, gazing off into the horizon.  “I believe so, yes.”

They linked arms and walked off down the street, and no one knows what became of them, as they were not very important.

 

Bene scribete.

10 Minute Story: Dincton Flatt and the Perfect Chair

Posted by Piscis on

Here’s another one of these, I guess, why not.

WHY NOT.

 

A chair

 

“No, that simply will not do,” muttered Dincton Flatt, dismissing yet another chair as he wandered down the expansive aisles of the Sitting King Emporium.

“You can’t be too picky, sir,” offered his robot coyote, trotting alongside him.  “Surely there must be something here you fancy.  It is, after all, the premiere shop in Danesbury for all your sitting needs.”

“My needs are precise, Featherby.  I must be comfortable as a mouse who is – well, you must know, extremely comfortable.  And it must make me look important – but not as though I’m trying to look important.  It’s a delicate balance, you realize.”

“If you say so, sir.”  Featherby trotted up and sniffed at another seat – a wide, over-padded avocado-green affair.  “What of this one, then?  I’d say it would do your bum a service.”

“Heavens, Featherby.”  Flatt put a hand to his chest, eyes rolling over the thing in mortification.  “It is a punishment to behold.”

“Certainly unpretentious, yes?  Yet only someone of obvious importance would dare let himself be seen perched on such a seat.  And it looks quite comfortable, you must admit.”

“I shall admit to nothing.  Surely it must be as far from delivering a pleasant sitting experience as one might imagine would be a pair of large and unforgiving needles protruding haphazardly and expectantly from the earth.”

“That is startling imagery, sir.  Nevertheless, you will not know unless you give it a try.”  Featherby hopped up onto it and bounced up and down a little.

Flatt narrowed his gaze, then turned and continued walking.  “Remind me to have your reasoning algorithms refined.”

The coyote sighed and jumped back down to follow.

“Can I help you find something?” a friendly but businesslike voice reached Flatt’s ear.  A sharply dressed middle-aged woman approached him from a couple aisles away, navigating awkwardly between the tightly packed rows of chairs to get to him.  She was carrying a clipboard.  It was always clipboards.

“You’re likely to be of more help than him, I suppose.”  Flatt nodded toward Featherby.

The attendant let out a small gasp on noticing the coyote.  “What?  Er, sir, I don’t think you’re allowed–”

“Hold the cream,” Flatt interrupted, eyes landing on a tall, ruddy-brown wingback the next row over, elegantly stitched and expertly beaded.  He squeezed through a pair of plush recliners to reach it, nearly tripping over them and falling on his face, but no, gravity would not best him on this day.

“Sir?” the attendant called after him.

“This one.”  He stroked the perfect chair in admiration.  “Yes.  This is the one.  Have it prepared for me, will you?”

The attendant scanned her clipboard, offering a sympathetic smile.  “I do apologize, but that item has already been claimed.”

Flatt grew pale in horror.  “What?  No, you must be–by whom?”  He searched the chair in a desperate fit, hands landing upon a small blue tag.  Across it was written one word – a word which Flatt whispered in despondency: “Cheverly.”  He slumped miserably down into it, becoming only more distraught as it greeted his posterior with immaculate support.

Featherby hopped up onto his master’s lap and nosed his face.  “Take heart, sir.  There is still the green one.”

Flatt leaned his head back, frown threatening to unravel his features.  “Oh, Featherby, why did I build you?”

“For good times, sir.”

 

Bene scribete.

10-Minute Story: The Grumpy Sparrow

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Yeah, I don’t know.

 

Sparrow

 

There was a bird.  It turns out it was a sparrow, let’s say.  It was a terribly grumpy sparrow, which, as you might imagine, made it a very bothersome creature.

It flew around the forest, day after day, looking for sugar and saying unkind things about the other animals in its passive-aggressive manner.  It was rude as well as grumpy, it seems.

One day, the sparrow landed next to an incredibly stupid frog.

“Helloooo,” said the frog.  “Are you a fox?”

“No,” replied the sparrow.  “I am not a fox, you incredibly stupid frog.  I am a bird, of which a fox is clearly not a type.”

“Oh,” said the frog with a thunderous ribbit, then hopped around in circles.

The sparrow fluttered its wings and chirped in irritation.  “Look – I realize that you are incredibly stupid, but do you know where I might find some sugar?”

The frog jostled and regarded the sparrow with a distant, wavering look reminiscent of the way a tree might gaze upon the sky – which is to say, stupidly.  “Is sugar the black things that fly around and I eat them?” burbled the stupid frog.

“Not,” spat the sparrow, “in the slightest.”  It was at that very moment – or perhaps the moment immediately thereafter – that the sparrow murdered the frog, which was, one must agree, a gross overreaction.  But the sparrow was quite grumpy, you might recall.

Thereafter, the sparrow flew around some more until it came upon a fox and alighted on a branch overhead.

“You – fox,” he called.  The fox looked up.  “Can you believe I was mistaken for you not long ago?”

The fox wrinkled her nose.  “No, I don’t believe that I can.  You’re a bird, of which a fox–”

“Is clearly not a type.  Precisely.”

The fox tilted her head.  “Say, sparrow, now that we are speaking, would you mind coming down closer so that we may chat more amicably?”

“Of course not,” huffed the sparrow.

“Whyever not?” asked the fox, licking her chops.

“Because you mean to eat me up.  I am grumpy, not stupid.  The frog – now, the frog was stupid.  Though I do believe I murdered him.”

“That sounds awful.”

“Only in that he was not made of sugar.”  The sparrow squawked and fluttered off, fed up with another tiresome day.

 

Bene scribete.

10-Minute Story: Dincton Flatt and the Cherry Grove Fiasco

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Time for some more spontaneous nonsense, I suppose.

(Though I may not be feeling quite punchy enough today.)

 

House of No

 

Dincton Flatt sat cross-legged on the floor of one of his empty properties, shuffling through a deck of cards and frowning.

The sound of padding on the carpet and the soft voice of his robot coyote broke his trance.  “What’s wrong, sir?”

Flatt turned at the prompt and raised an eyebrow.  “I’m missing some cards, Featherby.”

The coyote tilted his head.  “Are you trying to say that you’re not playing with a full deck, sir?”

Flatt narrowed his eyes.

“Which cards are you missing?”

“The diamonds, of course.  It’s always the diamonds…”  He shoved the rest of the deck between Featherby’s jaws.  “Go fetch a new deck, will you?”

“I’ll see what I can find, sir,” was the coyote’s muffled response as he trotted away.

A buzzing rumble shook Flatt’s trousers, and he reached in to fetch his mobile.  “Flatt’s Flats – this is Mr. Flatt.”

A husky voice answered on the other end of the line.  “It’s Watley.”  Abberson Watley, one of his top agents.

“What is it, Watley?  News on the Clumpsworth listing?”

“No, Flatt, I’m afraid not.  There’s been a murder.”

“A murder?”  Flatt shot to his feet, eyes squinting at the horizon he could not see beyond the wall in front of him.  “A murder most foul, you say?”

Watley sighed.  “Most foul, I fear.  At the Cherry Grove property.”

“Cherry Grove?  Damnation, Watley, it’s only been two days on the market!”

“It seems people are literally dying to get into your suites, Flatt.”

“Yes, well, they could do us the courtesy of popping their clogs on the way there, now, couldn’t they?”  He wiped his free hand down his face.  “Very well.  I’ll be right over.”

Only a moment after he hung up, Flatt’s phone buzzed again.  “Yes, Watley – what now?”

The voice that answered this time was not Watley’s, however, but one which heavily implied the perfection of its owner’s immaculate white suit.  “Abberson Watley?  Come, now, Flatt, you mistake me for someone who cares as little about his closure rate as he does his attire.”

“Cheverly,” Flatt grumbled.  “I’m sure you’re looking splendid this afternoon.”

“Mm, yes, quite.  I hear there’s been a murder.”

Flatt glowered at nothing, nearly crushing the phone in his hand.  “If fact, there has.”  His voice grew low and sharp.  “Was it you?”

“Don’t be daft, Flatt.  It’s unbecoming.  You must understand, however, that a murder would never happen at one of my properties.  No, I imagine this will not be good for business.”

“Imagine what you will, Cheverly – we’ll see how things play out.”  He hung up as forcefully as modern technology would allow.

A moment or two later, he dialed Mr. Cheverly back, but only reached his answering service.

“Good,” he spoke into the recording, “is how things will play out.  Because I shall solve the murder with wit and good manners and make the property worth double.”  He hung up again and dropped the phone back into his pocket as Featherby returned with a much slimmer stack of cards in his maw.

“I’ve found the diamonds, sir,” he said, dropping them.

“Excellent work, Featherby.  But,” he began, then continued, without stopping, “where are the others?”

The coyote’s gaze wandered the room.  “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

Flatt crossed his arms and shook his head.  “Oh, Featherby, why did I build you?”

“For good times, sir.”

 

Bene scribete.

10-Minute Story: Dincton Flatt and the Goat that he Found

Posted by Piscis on

Good afternoon, those who may or may not be reading this in the afternoon.

Time for another “story” blast-written in ten minutes without forethought, I suppose.

And I call myself a writographer. Or, wait, no I don’t.

 

Goats are places

 

“Sir?” came Featherby’s voice from another room.

Dincton Flatt ignored him, absently clicking through tabs on his browser.  The immaculately dressed Mr. Cheverly had posted a photograph of his newest suit on Facebook.  It was perfect.  Flatt glowered.

“Sir?” Featherby called again.

Flatt sighed.  “What is it, Featherby?”  He looked over his shoulder, and saw his robot coyote trot into the room.

“I think you ought to see this, sir,” the coyote answered.

“Not now, Featherby, I’m quite in the middle of something.”

“Sir, even if I believed that, I would still feel pressed to tell you that there is a goat on your lawn.”

“A goat, Featherby?”

“Yes, sir, a goat.”

“Heavens, that shouldn’t be.”  Flatt pulled up an MSPaint process he always had open, filled in all black so he could look at his reflection on the computer monitor.  He was handsome as you please and blond as anything, just as he intended.  He smiled dashingly at himself and minimized the window, then stood and crossed his arms.  “Very well, then, show this goat to me.”

Featherby led him out to his front yard, where a goat indeed stood munching on the grass.

“You.  Goat,” Flatt warned.  “You mustn’t be here.  Not in the slightest.  This is simply not the place for goats.”

The goat looked up, staring blankly, then goatnoised.

“Hmm.  Quite rude.  What should we do, Featherby?”

“Perhaps we should call the goat store, sir.  Maybe it escaped and only needs to be returned.”

“No, Featherby, I do not think such a place exists.”  Flatt twisted up his mouth in consideration.  “Although, that might not be a bad thing to have around here.  Perhaps we should start one.”  Flatt approached the goat carefully.  “Well, there, fellow – how would you like to be the first in a line of magnificent goats – Flatt’s Goats?  We could sell your ilk all over Danesbury, perhaps as a complimentary add-on to our properties.”

The goat goatnoised.

Flatt frowned.

“Sir,” Featherby cautioned, “I do not mean to rain on your parade, but it might be said that this idea is not a good one.  The real-estate business is enough to manage on its own without adding livestock to your inventory.”

Flatt shook his head.  “You may be right, Featherby, but people do like goats, do they not?  And Cheverly does not have goats.”  Flatt eyed the robot.  “Does he?”

Featherby tilted his head.  “I don’t believe so, sir.”

“There.  You see?”  Flatt turned to grab the goat, but the goat backed away, causing Flatt to overreach and fall on his face.  “Mmph.”

“Sir, this is the second time you’ve fallen down this week.  People may start saying things.”

Flatt rolled over onto his back and stared up into the afternoon sky.  “I didn’t plan on any goats, now, did I?.”  He looked around, but now could not see the creature.  “Where did it go?”

“I am not certain, Sir.  Perhaps it was never here at all.”

Flatt sighed extensively.  “Oh, Featherby, why did I build you?”

“For good times, sir.”

 

Bene scribete.

10-Minute Story: Dincton Flatt at the Market

Posted by Piscis on

I have been neglectful of general writing as of late.

Thus, as penance, I shall sit down and write whatever un-premeditated nonsense comes into my head, without stopping, for ten minutes straight, and then share my shame with the world.

Apologies in advance.

 

Cart

 

Dincton Flatt strolled ponderously through the aisles of the market, eyes darting left and right in agitation.

“What is it, sir?” asked Featherby, his robot coyote.

“I need to find the pickles, of course,” Flatt responded.  He looked down at Featherby.  “Get out of the basket, would you?  Ridiculous.”

Featherby lowered his gaze in disappointment, but obliged him with a hop to the floor.  “I think the pickles would be in the back, sir, wouldn’t you?  Because of the vinegar and all.”

“I haven’t the slightest, Featherby.  But, yes, let us check there.”

The two made their way to the back of the store, and Flatt approached a woman behind the deli counter.  “Pardon, me, madame”  When she looked up, he flashed the smile of a thousand winners, the shine of his teeth alone solving the energy crisis in three small countries.

“Oh,” the woman stammered, then put on a pair of gloves.  “What can I get for you, sir?”

“Some pickles, I should think.  And some strawberry good-goods.”

“Some what, sir?”

“He means bon-bons,” Featherby offered.

“I don’t speak French when I can avoid it,” Flatt muttered.

The marketess smiled uncertainly, but got his items together for him.

Flatt looked around the market and took a deep breath.  “You know, Featherby, I like it here.  It has food, and I like food.”

“Yes, sir, I imagine you do.”  Featherby, being a robot, could not eat food, though he probably wanted to.

Flatt stroked his chin and turned around, but immediately slipped upon a puddle of grease and fell to the ground.

Featherby yipped in surprise, then nosed his face.

“I’m all right,” Flatt grumbled.  A hand reached out for him from the corner of his vision, and he drew his up to it in acceptance.  As the other hand pulled him up, his eyes set upon its owner – the immaculately dressed Mr. Cheverly.

Flatt frowned extensively, but allowed himself to be helped up, nonetheless.  “Mr. Cheverly,” he mumbled.  “You are looking rather dapper today.”

“Mm, yes, quite,” Cheverly concurred.  “Do be more careful, Flatt – there are enough dangers in this world that you needn’t add a market floor to their lot.”

“It was intentional, I assure you,” Flatt lied, brushing himself off.  “I needed to test out gravity.  You know how it is.”

The corner of Cheverly’s mouth turned down in a subtle but earth-darkening frown.  “Ah, yes, Flatt.  I’m quite certain of that.”  He strolled away in his perfect white suit.

Flatt grimaced, taking the pickles from the marketess and dropping them into his basket.  “I wonder what that dastardly fellow has in store for Danesbury.”

“Who can say?” asked Featherby.  “Perhaps he means only to torment those who fall down at markets, when they clearly shouldn’t.”

Flatt shook his head.  “Oh, Featherby, why did I build you?”

“For good times, sir.”

 

Bene scribete.