Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but truly advanced fury needs a mentor – help from an expert in the field, so to speak.  Fortunately, Sable Jordan has the perfect answer to your desire for further instruction in this short story, inspired by our Ain’t That Quaint? [...]]]>

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but truly advanced fury needs a mentor – help from an expert in the field, so to speak.  Fortunately, Sable Jordan has the perfect answer to your desire for further instruction in this short story, inspired by our Ain’t That Quaint? contest.  Just listen to these audio tapes, follow the guide’s simple steps, and you’ll be scorning with the best of them in no time.  Here’s a sample:

*******************************************

Tape Six

Welcome to audio tape six of The Scorned Woman’s Guide to Murder. I’m your host, and shall remain nameless for obvious reasons.  On tape five we discussed methods for the job, and I shared with you my favorite; a lethal dose of mescaline mixed with vodka.  Watching someone “trip” is downright hilarious when you’re sober.  In this lesson we’ll tackle the question “What to do with the body?”  Before starting check to be sure you have the following materials available:  wheelbarrow, sunglasses, cinder blocks, rope, broom, knee-high rubber boots, and spare clothing.  Let’s get started.

So, you’ve done the deed; whacked that lying son of a gun who moved into your house, ate your food, ruined your credit, and screwed your friend.  If you’ve skipped ahead in the course and not killed your intended victim, please stop now and complete tape five, then return to this tape so you’re caught up.  Assuming the bastard’s dead, now what?  If things got messy–and they always get messy–you’ve got some major cleanup ahead of you.  But first you’ve got to dump the lifeless husk of the idiot who promised to take care of and love only you.  Here’s where the wheelbarrow comes in handy.

Grasping by the waistband, heft the carcass into the wheelbarrow.  It may take a few tries, but keep at it.  Be sure to bend and lift with the knees so you don’t strain your back.  Next, wheel the cart out to the car and dump the body into the trunk. Drive one of those eco-friendly numbers and don’t have a large trunk? Don’t panic.  Just put the body in the passenger seat and apply the sunglasses.  If it’s not sunny out, forego the sunglasses as they may bring unwanted attention, and simply prop your passenger against the door, giving the illusion the person is fast asleep or hungover.  Great, you’re halfway through!

Now, I could regale you with stories of my past attempts to be rid of a body; wood chippers, burying in wet cement, abandonment in the woods.  The list is long, so I’ll teach you the best way first.

Drive to a deserted area with a large body of water–preferably a secluded lake or pond.  If it’s headed away from any major cities, a fast-moving river tumbling to a majestic waterfall will do.  You might as well see some beauty for your trouble.  As you take in the sights of nature swelling around you, use the time to discreetly scan the area for witnesses.  With none around, pull on the boots and proceed with dragging the body over to the water’s edge.  Now, you may be itching to toss the mongrel overboard but remember, whether dead or alive, drowning people always rise several times before finally sinking.  And you don’t have time to wait around while that insensitive moron dances a jig before getting the lout out of your hair, do you?  ‘Course not.  So to avoid that pesky bobbing, merely fasten the cinder blocks to the body with rope–a sheet knot about the neck and another about the ankles should do the trick.  Remember to bind the hands to prevent them from waving goodbye to you as the corpse descends into the murky deep.  I’ve skipped this step before, and trust me, it’s…unseemly.  Let’s move on.

Sit facing the body with your knees slightly bent and feet on the midsection.  Brace your hands behind you for leverage and push.  Again, this may take a few tries, but persistence wins the day!  If the body doesn’t cooperate, enter the water and drag it along to be sure it floats out a good distance.  Be careful you’re not drowned in the process, as that’s sure to spoil your plans.

Once the body sinks, return to your car and change clothes.  Check to see you didn’t drop anything, and use the broom to sweep away footprints that may have accumulated.  Then drive back to town and wash down your vehicle.

Congratulations!  You’ve offed the bozo and ridded yourself of the remains.  Please continue to tape seven where we’ll discuss how to get away with it.  Thinking ahead, consider post-dumping visibility:  should you go to a bar and drink, or hide out at home?  I say:  Be seen, but not by too many.  You want to be memorable enough for the alibi, but not so lasting that, should something go wrong with the lessons on tapes five or six, some drunk twit can pick you out of a lineup.

************************************

I’ll be your alibi.

In this exceedingly clever latecomer tale for our Ain’t That Quaint? contest, the delightful Sable Jordan settles two questions at once:  Whether bartenders can hold their liquor, and whether librarians are truly loose. To get to the bottom, so to speak, of these pressing questions, either Sable has spent [...]]]>

In this exceedingly clever latecomer tale for our Ain’t That Quaint? contest, the delightful Sable Jordan settles two questions at once:  Whether bartenders can hold their liquor, and whether librarians are truly loose. To get to the bottom, so to speak, of these pressing questions, either Sable has spent a lot of time in bars listening to the old timers’ beery banter, or she has a powerfully good imagination.  Either way, she’s an excellent writer, a superior humorist, and possesses a preternaturally sharp ear for dialogue.  Just like a good bartender, she knows how to shake, stir, muddle, mix and blend words to produce one tasty concoction.

**********************************

Tie

“How’s it goin’, Mac?” I asked, sauntering up to the vacant spot at the bar where a young woman–face red and puffy from crying–pulled herself from the stool.  I watched her stumble out into the night, her sobs filtering through the open doors of Liquid Courage before the heavy wooden structures swung closed, drowning out the sound.  It wasn’t an unusual occurrence for people to leave the bar drunk off their rocker and in tears.  Chances were good she’d come in, had a drink, spilled her problems to Mac, and he dished up his usual brand of therapy–straight, no chaser.

White towel in hand, Mac massaged the same spot on his shiny mahogany bar even though there wasn’t a drop of anything on it.  There was never a drop on it, but that didn’t stop him from wiping.

“Same ole’ same, Nicky.  What’ll ya have?”  He stopped his ministrations long enough to take my order–Jack and Coke–before resuming his endless buffing.

“Sam,” I said, nodding a greeting to the portly man perched on the stool beside me who was a constant fixture at the place.  He’d probably come in hours ago and been glued to the spot all day. Levelheaded Sam only said as much as he needed to, but you could count on him to settle all the stupid bets that popped up when men got inebriated.   Mac delivered my drink and I sipped the cocktail slowly, enjoying the sharp bite of the alcohol after a long day at the shop.   “What was her problem?”

“Didn’t say.  Came in for a soda an’ started cryin’.  Then she left out.” The bartender shrugged but kept rubbing.

“Crazy how people come in here and spill their guts to you.”

The shining stopped long enough for a response to my comment.  “Jus’ like goin’ to a head doctor, Nicky, ‘cept ya get a drink an’ the advice is free.”

I snorted.  “That ain’t the reason.  Everyone knows ‘tenders can’t hold their liquor.  People come in an’ tell all ‘cause they know you’ll get drunk and forget everything by mornin’.  You’re more like a confessional than a therapist, Mac.”

The man’s fleshy face turned an alarming shade of red.  I suppose I’d insulted his psychology credentials.

“Can’t hold liquor?  That’s the stupidest…s’like sayin’ all barbers are bald or all librarians are loose!”

“Bald barbers…” I chuckled, shaking my head and bringing the tumbler to my lips.  “There’s a joke.”

“So, you think librarians are loose?” he barked, catching my meaning.

“Your words,” I shrugged, which only made him angrier.

With a finger pointed at me he said, “Got a hunn’erd dollars says I can out-drink you.  Sam, pay attention.” Mac slammed two shot glasses on the bar then hurriedly filled them to overflowing with whiskey, sliding me one.  “Keep count’a how many drinks me an’ this old fool have an’ tell us who wins.”

Sam nodded, quietly nursing what might have been his tenth drink of the day.

“I hold my water,” Mac growled firmly, “An’ librarians ain’t loose.”

I gripped the whiskey and boasted, “Easiest hundred I’ll ever make!”

The doors flew open and I spun to see the same young woman storm back in; brows knit, jaw set in determination.  “I’m pregnant, and I don’t know for who!” she proclaimed loudly, directing her ire at Mac before fleeing back into the night.

Wide-eyed, Mac looked at Sam then back at me, grabbed his shot, and downed it in one gulp.  His red face turned a brighter shade, looking like a squeezed tomato ready to explode.  Seconds later he pitched face-forward onto that perfect mahogany bar, leaving a drool mark before crumpling to the floor.

I sat, whiskey in hand, too stunned to respond.

“He missed a spot,” Sam commented indifferently, sipping his drink.  “Looks like ya won’t find out if he can hold his water.  I’ll call it a tie fer now.”

“A tie?  But he passed out after one drink!” I argued.  “He can’t hold his liquor and I win.”

“You’re the baldin’ faster’n a cheap tire, Nicky, so Mac’s got ya there,” Sam chuckled, a gravelly sound like rocks in a can.  “As for bartenders…well you ain’t right about that jus’ yet ‘cause that whiskey ain’t what put Mac on his back.”

“Then what did?” I frowned, a low groan making me think we should call an ambulance.

“That was Mac’s daughter,” Sam flashed a toothless grin.  “The librarian.”

*****************************************

Maybe the barber is the father.

There’s a reason why Charles Schultz’ gang has been adored by millions for decades. It’s because they’re deep. It’s because there’s a little bit of Charlie Brown in all of us – or maybe Lucy, or Snoopy, or Linus.  Sable Jordan, in her amusing, slightly-belated- but-who’s-going-to-mind? entry for our [...]]]>

There’s a reason why Charles Schultz’ gang has been adored by millions for decades. It’s because they’re deep. It’s because there’s a little bit of Charlie Brown in all of us – or maybe Lucy, or Snoopy, or Linus.  Sable Jordan, in her amusing, slightly-belated- but-who’s-going-to-mind? entry for our Ain’t That Quaint? contest, uses Charlie as a construct to explore her narrator’s inner blockheadedness. Read Sable’s inspired riff on “a square jaw is a sign of willpower” to find out whether she gets unblocked…or if she decides that maybe being square isn’t such a bad thing.

*************************************

A Word with Charlie Brown

“You blockhead!” Lucy yelled, the animation flitting across the screen.  It’s the Charlie Brown Halloween special, my favorite, and Linus is waiting for The Great Pumpkin to arrive.  Every year like clockwork, waiting for The Great Pumpkin to arrive.  And at every house, the other kids get candy and Charlie gets rocks–always the trick and never the treat.

I wonder where John is.  It’s the third time he’s been late this week and dinner’s been cooked and cooling for hours now.  It’s a shame, really, ‘cause I had my heart set on going to his office party tonight since we missed it last year.  Now, instead of being dressed up like you, Charlie, in my yellow sweater with the black zigzag across the chest that I made myself, I’m sitting on the couch eating ice cream in a Snoopy shirt and cute lounge pants with you all over them, “Oh, brother!” inscribed in the speech balloon.  Only gift I got for my birthday this year, even if I did buy them myself.

You’re in that field again, and Lucy’s holding the football, promising you she won’t move it.  I think deep in your heart you know she will anyway, but you’re hoping that, just this once, she’ll keep her word and hold it still so you can kick it far.  I always wonder if you’ll ever know what it’s like to feel your shoe connect with the pigskin.  Sometimes I’m afraid you never will.  But that doesn’t stop you from trying, does it?

A great thing happened at work today.  Marissa –this nice girl I work with–she’s being considered for a promotion! I’m so happy for her.  She always comes by my desk and asks me to check her data sheets, and sometimes the mistakes are so bad I just start from scratch.  But Marissa’s a hard worker, so she deserves to move up.  If she gets the position she promised to put in a good word for me with our boss, Mr. Klein.  Who knows?  Maybe on the next go ‘round I’ll be getting that promotion…and the raise that goes with it.

Oh, I love this part!  Snoopy and Woodstock are up to more of their antics.  Those two always make me laugh.  Charlie, how do you understand Snoopy since he can’t speak?  And Woodstock, that little bird must win a lot at charades ‘cause he can act out anything.  No matter how many times you tell Snoopy not to do something, he ends up doing it.  Kinda reminds me of John’s dog, Angel.  Cutest Doberman, but she tears up everything.  I’m the one who feeds her, and I know she understands me, but she’ll only listen to John.  Life’s funny that way.

I’m out of ice cream and Lucy’s screaming that you’re a blockhead again, Charlie.  Lucy’s a mean one, always calling you that name even though your face is round and will never be square.  Who ever heard of a round block?  It’s comical, really.  I have a round face, too, and I think we’re more easy-going and amenable, aren’t we?  We have hope things’ll work out.  Not like real blockheads.  No, people with squared jaws tend to be more earnest and dogged.  Something about the way their faces are shaped gives the impression they’re more resolute in their endeavors.

Y’know, now that I think about it, you’re kinda the same way, aren’t you, Charlie?  Ever-determined to kick that football, or get your dog to listen to you, or hoping to get something besides a rock in your goody bag.  Guess that makes round-faced Linus a blockhead too, waiting for The Great Pumpkin to come even though he knows it never will.  Maybe there’s something to be said about round-faced people.  Maybe we’re not the gullible pushovers people think we are – just square pegs in round holes.  Perhaps there’s fortitude in hope.

The credits are going and it’s the end of another great Halloween special.  I’ll have to wait until next year to see it again, and that usually makes me sad, but right now I feel…excited!  Tomorrow I’ll go talk to Mr. Klein about that job.  There’s no reason I can’t do just as good – no, better than Marissa.  And I think it’s time John and I parted ways. I think he’s been seeing someone else, anyhow.  Maybe she can make Angel obey, but it’s not my problem anymore. ‘Cause I’m like you, Charlie Brown.  I’m a blockhead and proud!

*************************************

This made me really want a pair of Snoopy pajamas.

I posted off FJ Dagg’s prize package today. As promised, I took a photo of the post office, but it ended up as a sign saying ‘post office’. So I took this snap of the park, on the way back to the car.

I’m hoping FJ will send us [...]]]>

The British sure know how to have fun

I posted off FJ Dagg’s prize package today. As promised, I took a photo of the post office, but it ended up as a sign saying ‘post office’. So I took this snap of the park, on the way back to the car.

I’m hoping FJ will send us his thoughts on the prize; meantime, I’ll tell you that it comprises three elements, relating to: personal independence, national independence and creative independence.

Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et monsieurs, writers and artists,

We hereby announce Liam O’Brien as the winner of our Ain’t That Quaint contest and would like to congratulate him on gaining the most votes with his entry Dandelion Season. If you haven’t read it yet, check it out here [...]]]>

Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et monsieurs, writers and artists,

We hereby announce Liam O’Brien as the winner of our Ain’t That Quaint contest and would like to congratulate him on gaining the most votes with his entry Dandelion Season. If you haven’t read it yet, check it out here –  Dandelion Season.

And if you have read it before, go back and check out all the feedback.

We would also like to thank the other finalists for their fine work and, in fact, everyone who entered and made the contest such a celebration of writing.

Derek, Thorn, Monika and Kristy

The next contest will be announced over the next couple of days. We’re currently surfing the wave of visitors to the site and enjoying the vista. Some of us are swaying gently on the shore. And what’s that coming up over the horizon? A new contest, you say? But, wait a minute, that looks just like a….

To be continued!

Power to the people! Power to the people, right on! Oh, yes, hello. I’ve now recovered from my 60s flashback. Actually, I’m too young to have a 60s flashback (although just barely). I’m not too young, however, to remind you to cast your vote for the winner of our [...]]]>

Power to the people! Power to the people, right on! Oh, yes, hello. I’ve now recovered from my 60s flashback. Actually, I’m too young to have a 60s flashback (although just barely). I’m not too young, however, to remind you to cast your vote for the winner of our Ain’t That Quaint? contest. This is democracy at its finest – or should I say, democracy at its funnest? At any rate, there’s only a few hours left until voting ends at midnight tonight, Aug. 6. Then we’ll tally up the votes and reveal your chosen champion tomorrow, Aug. 7. In the meantime, here are the top 10 candidates:

A Matter of Principal by Diane Broyles

The Story of Sharp Eyes by Diana Diehl

The Midget by Gabe Gurbal

Simon Says by Sean Labrador y Manzano

The Stand Off by Suzanne Morse

Dandelion Season by Liam O’Brien

Lobsterman’s Fancy by Liam O’Brien

Coolies Work for Six Cents a Day by Russ Shor

Was Earl by Julie Ann Weinstein

1929 Funniness by Julie Ann Weinstein

If you haven’t yet voted, be sure and read all 10 before you do, in order to give every author the benefit of a fair election. (We don’t want to get the Supreme Court involved.) And please, no hanging chads; that is, be unnecessarily, excruciatingly, over-the-top clear about which story gets your winning vote when you leave your comment in the comment box.

Once again, we offer our heartiest congratulations to the finalists, and we offer our gratitude to those who have read and commented. These stories have the distinction of engendering some of the most thoughtful responses we’ve received on our site to date.

In the meantime, swim on over to A Dish Called “Wanda” and keep those keyboards humming with new stories!  A Word with You Press is a site that’s truly of the people, by the people, for the people. We’re ready for a revolution of creative writing, and you’ve got the power to make it happen. Right on!

In the sporting spirit, A Word with You Press offers you an update on our Ain’t That Quaint? contest.  The top 10 entries were posted on Sunday, Aug. 1, and now it is up to you to pick the winner.  Please be sure to read through all 10 finalists [...]]]>

In the sporting spirit, A Word with You Press offers you an update on our Ain’t That Quaint? contest.  The top 10 entries were posted on Sunday, Aug. 1, and now it is up to you to pick the winner.  Please be sure to read through all 10 finalists before casting your vote so you can give everyone who made it this far a fair shake of your eyeballs.  Leave lots of comments; we’re chomping at the bit to know what you think of our choices – mainly since it was such a hand-wringing, nail-biting, brow-wrinkling choice to make.  But when you have selected your winner, we the judges plead with you on bended knee to make it absolutely, vividly, unequivocally, crystal-shatteringly clear which story gets your winning vote. Use impossible-to-misunderstand words, such as “first place” or “winner” or “this story is the best story I’ve ever read in my entire life, and it gets my vote, and I’m deeply grateful to A Word with You Press for introducing me to the work of this literary genius.”  Voting ends at the stroke of midnight on Friday, Aug. 6, and the winners will be announced this Saturday, Aug. 7.

We’d like to thank everyone who has left comments, especially first-time commenters who enjoyed a particular story so much they felt compelled to say so.  You’ll find that we’re a community that loves conversation – and I myself have already found several new things to like about our top 10 contenders that I never considered during my first couple of readings.  I loved being illuminated.  Illuminate me some more!

And now to the business at hand . . .

Earlier this afternoon, I painstakingly tallied what appeared to be votes – or as near as I can tell – and came up with these stats (which include the judges’ points/votes):

1.  Simon Says by Sean Labrador y Manzano:  7 votes, along with some other fuzzy comments that might be votes, or might just be compliments

2.  Dandelion Season by Liam O’Brien:  6 votes

3.  The Story of Sharp Eyes by Diana Diehl:  3 votes

4.  Was Earl by Julie Ann Weinstein:  3 votes, possibly more – the comments are unclear.

5.  1929 Funniness by Julie Ann Weinstein:  2 or 3 votes, depending on whether one of the comments is or isn’t a vote.

6.  The Stand Off by Suzanne Morse:  2 votes

7.  A Matter of Principal by Diane Broyles:  2 votes

8.  The Midget by Gabe Gurbal:  2 votes

9.  Coolies Work for Six Cents a Day by Russ Shor:  2 votes

10.  Lobsterman’s Fancy by Liam O’Brien:  1 vote

If more votes have been cast since these were tallied, forgive me.  If you are one of the unclear commenters, I forgive you – but only if you go back and revise your comment so that it can be understood by even a mind so puny as my own.  If you are the author of one of these stories, congratulations to you once again; you have earned our respect and admiration.  We know how hard it is to write a truly good short story, because we’ve all attempted it ourselves, and we have a lot of crumpled up pieces of paper to show for it – or at least several broken windows through which we’ve thrown our computers in a fit of mad exasperation.

In the meantime, exercise your democratic free will.  Read all 10 stories, cast your vote, and we can’t wait to see who emerges as the undisputed quaintest of the bunch.

Gratefully,
Monika Spykerman
Your Friendly Local Content Editor

Well people, we’ve done our best to bring you the best. As creative types ourselves, we understand the pain of rejection and the subjectivity of taste and value. All that said, we hope you’ll approve of the final list.

So, it’s up to you now. You know what to [...]]]>

Well people, we’ve done our best to bring you the best. As creative types ourselves, we understand the pain of rejection and the subjectivity of taste and value. All that said, we hope you’ll approve of the final list.

So, it’s up to you now. You know what to do and you know how long you have to do it. Good hunting!

Thorn, Monika, Kristy and Derek

Derek voted The Stand Off by Suzanne E Morse into the final and awarded it one judge’s point. Here’s what he had to say about it:

Some stories pivot on a moment in time, a snapshot decision that has unimaginable ramifications. Such tales are magnetic. Suzanne doesn’t give us [...]]]>

Derek voted The Stand Off by Suzanne E Morse into the final and awarded it one judge’s point. Here’s what he had to say about it:

Some stories pivot on a moment in time, a snapshot decision that has unimaginable ramifications. Such tales are magnetic. Suzanne doesn’t give us the goods right away; she builds it up gradually and tells us only what we need to know. There are no adverbs, it’s show without tell. There being both a man and a woman in the car really got under my skin, adding to the sense of menace. It’s the end of innocence. And the story leaves us wanting, hinting at another time when the dog made all the difference.

******

The Stand Off

Richard and I always walked down the steep sidewalk that wound from La Jolla to Pacific Beach.  We were the closest siblings in the family, in age and interests.  Richard was 7 and I was 5. We took Princess, my sister’s dog with us.  She loped along ahead of us, wriggling her massive haunches.  The breeders had told my family that she was only part German Shepherd.  Her other half was wolf. As she walked ahead of us, she strode like a wolf.

We walked, taking turns holding Princess’s leash, indulging ourselves in our fantasy world that we had created between us.  We even spoke our own language.  The breeze was gentle and the sun shone.  It was always fun to go walk the dog, distract ourselves from school and home, and pretend we were in our fantasy world again, chatting away in our made-up language.

A large white Buick suddenly interrupted us as it pulled up along the curb of the sidewalk.  A dark-haired woman, slender, looking professional, opened the card door, and peered out.  Beside her, in the driver’s seat, sat a man wearing a suit.

“Come on, we’ll give you a ride,” she beckoned.  We were sweating, and the car looked cool and enticing.  “You look like you could use a rest.  We’ll give you a ride.”

Richard and I stopped and stood there, looking at the big car, and the smiling woman.  It was hot and the ride was tempting, but we remembered what our mother had said.  “Never talk to a stranger much less get in their car.”  So we stood there, unsure of what to do.  Maybe if we walked on, they would just drive away.  We began walking further down the hill, remaining silent, but the white car rolled slowly forward, following us.  The woman kept talking to us, encouraging us to take a ride.  The man just kept staring, rolling the car down the hill with us.

Richard and I kept glancing at each other, becoming nervous, still not sure what to do.  If we complied, then maybe they would just drive us to the bottom of the hill, or maybe give us a ride home.  Or would they?  We kept walking and they kept gliding along beside us.  The woman continued to hold the door open, and reassure us that they just wanted to give us a ride.

Finally, the car pulled ahead of us and drove up a little onto the sidewalk.  The woman said, “ come on, now, get in the car.”  And then it happened.  Princess prickled up the hair on her back, bared her teeth, and began growling.  A deep growl.  Being part wolf, her growl and stance looked fierce.  There was a standoff.  The woman stared at our dog, holding the door open, and Princess planted her feet and growled.  Princess’s reaction was our warning.  She never growled that often.  If she did, they had to be bad people.  We froze in our tracks.

Minutes passed.  At last, the woman looked perplexed, frustrated, she slammed the card door shut, and they drove off down the street.  As soon as they drove away, Princess relaxed, sat down, wagged her tail, and panted with her wet soggy tongue hanging out of her mouth.  All was well again.  But Richard and I knew that we had just avoided being kidnapped.  That our beloved Princess had done her job as a guard dog.  She had saved our lives.  We talked about what could have happened on the walk home.  But we vowed it our secret.   We never told another about it.

Princess was a loving family dog.  She’d bark at strangers or other dogs, but never planned to bite.  I learned the difference.  When she growled and took her wolf-like stance, you better believe it, she planned to bite.  She only did that 3 times that I remember.  And two of the times, she saved my life.

******

A reminder of those voting rules…

1. No writer can vote for their own work.

2. Apart from the judges, any voter may only vote once and for one entry.

3. For your vote to count, you need to include a feedback comment so people can see why you chose what and who you chose.

4. Voting ends midnight, Friday August 6, California time.

We’ll announce the winner on Saturday August 7.

Kristy voted The Midget by Gabe Gurbal into the final and awarded it one judge’s point. Here’s what she had to say about it:

Okay, I love this story. It’s edgy, gritty and modern. Plus, who doesn’t love a story about midgets? I believe the politically correct term is “little people” [...]]]>

Kristy voted The Midget by Gabe Gurbal into the final and awarded it one judge’s point. Here’s what she had to say about it:

Okay, I love this story. It’s edgy, gritty and modern. Plus, who doesn’t love a story about midgets? I believe the politically correct term is “little people” so I also can’t help but admire the brave use of the “m” word.

” As I walked out the apartment door, I looked back, hoping to catch a glimpse of her sweet face, but the door had already closed.  On the subway home, I could only think about what it would be like to live with a midget.”

This story doesn’t depend solely on quirky subject matter. There’s an underlying statemwent self-revelation and awareness, a confession in it that most wouldn’t be brave enough to make.

**************

The Midget

Desperate to find a new apartment before my impending eviction, I went to check out a place advertised on Craigslist as a “cozy room in the heart of Williamsburg”.  It turned out the apartment was located in a dilapidated, graffiti-decorated section of East Williamsburg, in a building that looked more like a sausage factory.  When I arrived, I was greeted by a midget.  I stared down at all 4 plus feet of her, not quite sure what to make of someone so short, but I agreed to limply shake the tiny hand she extended.  She gave me a cute little smile and told me to come on in.  Her face was attractive, even if it was attached to a dwarfish body.  As she led me up the stairs to the apartment, I checked out what little ass there was for her to offer.  It was small, but definitely firm; like two small oranges just waiting to be picked up by the palm of a hand.  I decided she could be a passable roommate.

Once inside she introduced me to her roommates.  To my disappointment, they were not at all midget-like.  I shook the hands of two spiky-haired dudes who let out quick, sharp grunts as they gripped my hand.  I returned their grunts, and after polite and mindless small talk, the group gave me a tour of the place.  It didn’t take long.  The apartment consisted of a living room dominated by a drum set, with stairs leading to a couple of cubicles that overlooked it.  I commented on the drum set.

“We’re in a band” the first Sid Vicious wannabe said.

“Really?”

“We practice two nights a week right here”, the other Sex Pistols star said.  “I hope that wouldn’t be a problem”.

I looked at him blankly, picturing a bunch of prickly-haired 2^nd-rate punk rockers slamming away on guitars as their attractive midget girlfriends looked on.  Then I thought of making out with some of the groupie midgets that just wanted a taste of the action.  “No, I love rock music.” I said.

“Actually, we’re a punk rock slash pychobilly band”, Sid said.

“A punkabilly band!” I exclaimed with mock enthusiasm.  They went on to explain the nuances of pychobilly versus other pycho forms of music.  I suppressed my yawn, and asked to see the bedroom they were offering.

The bedroom, if one could call it that, could only be shown by the midget.  I was perplexed by this, but when we climbed up the stairs to see the room, I realized it was one of the cubby holes I previously noticed above the living room.  I had erroneously assumed they were storage units, maybe for extra drums.  It turned out the midget lived in one of the rooms.  She walked in the first room, the ceiling just an inch or two above her small head.  I stooped down, hobbling into the room like an old man.  I regretted not bringing a cane.  Hunched over, I tried to view all of the room but could only see the floor.  The midget took notice and said something about the room not being for everybody.  I resisted commenting how it wasn’t for anybody taller than 5 feet, and let out a grunt instead.  We stood there—well she stood, I hunched—and admired the beauty of cramming a twin mattress into a space barely large enough for a human to lie down in. The moment passed, and then my back started to hurt, signaling it was time to hobble on out.

“What do you think?” she asked once I could stand again. I snuck a peak down her low-cut shirt, and caught a glimpse of midget cleavage nestled in her A cup bra.

“Well it certainly is cozy,” I said.  She smiled.  I knew if I lingered any longer I would develop a full-fledged midget fetish.  Eager to beat it out of there before this happened, I told her, “You know what they say, ‘New Yorker’s are always on the go.’”, and I began to head out.  But I noticed a twinge of disappointment in her eyes, and I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “I’ll give you a call if I’m interested.”  As I walked out the apartment door, I looked back, hoping to catch a glimpse of her sweet face, but the door had already closed.  On the subway home, I could only think about what it would be like to live with a midget.

******

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