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Fragment of a memoir

“The thing is,” Papa said, “everybody gets that story wrong. They always think the baby died.”

“Well, sure,” I said. “What else?”

Papa shook his head. “The baby didn’t die. The mother doesn’t want the shoes.” He finished his gin martini and motioned to the barkeep for another.

The fan turned ponderously above our heads.

“But why?” I asked.

“The shoes are a gift from the mother-in-law. You see? There’s a conflict. The women don’t get along. The ad is a knife in the ribs.”

“That’s a lot of iceberg under the water.”

Papa grinned and raised his glass. “Salute!”

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge: “Memoir” at Thin Spiral Notebook.

Her name is Future

By Jim Anderson

The streets of Kal teamed with festival-goers. Nothing draws crowds like the prospect of burning a woman at the stake.

Even a good drawing-and-quartering runs a distant second.

“Her name is Future,” Proffer said as we made our way back to the inn.

I knew he was referring to the accused. The anguish in his voice surprised me. “You know her?”

Proffer nodded. “As do you. She’s the baker’s daughter, the girl you flirted with our first day here.”

“I do not ‘flirt’!”

“You do. And you marked her by it.”

“But –”

“It’s clear they know what you are.”

I wrote this fiction for the 100 Word Challenge “Future” at Thin Spiral Notebook.

Also see Part I of this story: If the gods be merciful.

Remembering My Dad

By Jim Anderson

My father was a Flint guy, Great Depression edition — blue-collar even when he was in management, hands-on, patriotic, optimistic, and altogether typical of his generation. As a young man, he played baseball, drank beer, smoked whatever cigarettes he could afford, and helped save the world for democracy. [Read more…] about Remembering My Dad

If the gods be merciful

By Jim Anderson

The good people of Kal were fixing to burn another witch. The event would close the Festival of the Tyrant’s Demise. “Third one this week,” Proffer said as we watched the wood-stack grow. “They must like the smell. The evil–”

“Judge not, lest you be judged,” I said hastily. And in a lower voice: “Be careful, my friend.”

Proffer narrowed his eyes, but spoke more softly. “You’re right, of course. I’m sorry.”

“We’ll move on before the lighting.”

He sighed, and glanced toward the great temple. “Do you think she has confessed?”

“If the gods be merciful,” I said.

I wrote this fiction for the 100 Word Challenge: “Tyrant” at Thin Spiral Notebook.

See Part II of this story: Her name is Future

Loathsome, tiresome exercise

By Jim Anderson

Photo of Mark Twain — Mark Twain, 1907. Photo by A.F. Bradley

When it comes to exercise, I’m a Mark Twain kind of guy. At his 70th birthday party, feted by 170 people in the Red Room at Delmonico’s in New York City, Twain said, “I have never taken any exercise, except sleeping and resting, and I never intend to take any. Exercise is loathsome. And it cannot be any benefit when you are tired; I was always tired” (The New York Times, Dec. 6, 1905). [Read more…] about Loathsome, tiresome exercise

What Else You Can’t Do

By Jim Anderson

He had no music in him, never had.

In fourth grade, before the Christmas pageant, a desperate teacher ordered him to lip-sync “The Little Drummer Boy.” Decades later, a grown man, it still made him sad.

“You can’t dance,” a woman told him over the booming bass at a grad school party. “It makes me wonder what else you can’t do.” A nasty sly smile. A mean drunk, he thought. He wanted her anyway.

He wanted to sing “Drummer Boy.” He wanted to dance. He wanted the music to lift him up and waft him away, but it never did.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge: “Music” at Thin Spiral Notebook.