Story Cubes 21: Errant Arrow (fiction)

I was out in backyard, practicing archery again and ready to scream "bullseye!" for the thousandth time. But then my hand began to shake. The arrow went wild and missed the target -- and hit the beehive. "Shit!" I said. (You can quote me on that!) The bees started swarming. I ran around the corner of the house and fumbled for my key. I fished it out of my pocket just in time -- the bees were circling -- and bolted through the front door, slamming it just in time.

What the hell is wrong with me, I thought. My hands don't shake! I looked down at my fingers. Nothing unusual. Then I looked at my new watch, the one Miranda gave me. It had a tiny second dial that was impossible to read. The house was dark, so I got my flashlight and magnifying glass, placed the watch on the kitchen counter, and took a closer look at the dial. It was set to the time when I had told Miranda I'd be doing target practice. The watch had a secondary knob that controlled the smaller dial. I moved it to the current minute, and the watch began to vibrate -- hard. Seven on the wristband Richter scale, I'd say. After a few seconds, it stopped. So that was the watch's alarm feature, which Miranda hadn't mentioned.

Miranda! She was trying to sabotage me, wanting me to shoot arrows in all directions, in any direction except toward the bullseye. To break my record of hitting it almost every time. To destroy my confidence. And all because that errant arrow on my first day of archery practice had killed her cat.

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(This is prompted writing. I interpreted the bold-faced words from the images on Rory's Story Cubes)

Story Cubes 20 / Random Sequence / Halloween

You wave your flashlight like a magic wand, and the kid's shadow becomes a monster on the wall. You make some popcorn and cook up a story for him about aliens building the pyramids. Are they around today, he asks? You say you think so. Aliens are always here, flitting around the skies in all directions. The key to seeing them is to get under the covers and count some sheep.

You can quote me on that.

~~~

(The bold-faced words are interpreted from the images on Rory's Story Cubes)

Story Cubes 19: End Game (fiction)

"Rules! You can't move your rook diagonally!" he said.

"Oh right," I said, and instead moved the chess piece one measly square forward. "I'm more of a bridge player, actually." It was a fib. I hate playing games.

The old man looked up at me. "Bridge? Bleh!" he spat (not literally). "Checkmate!"

I wasn't sure if it really was checkmate, but his queen was threatening my king, so I let him have his victory. "Well played!" I said. As a volunteer at the nursing home, I didn't think it was my place to be disagreeable.

He waved his hand at me, as if to say it was nothing. "You need to shine your apple," he said.

I couldn't help noticing his pointy Adam's apple bobbing as he said it, and I suppressed a giggle. I had only a vague idea of what he meant, but I said, "Yep!"

I didn't like to think of him locked up in there, no family visitors, spending his days staring out of the window -- through the keyhole, so to speak. Not being able to sleep at night -- so the nurses said -- and watching for shooting stars.

"I'll see you next week," I said.

"If I'm here," he said.

"Come on, why wouldn't you be?"

"Checkmate", he said. Then he put his hand on top of his rook and moved it across the board -- diagonally.

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(The bold-faced words are interpreted from the images on Rory's Story Cubes)

Story Cubes 18: Vertigo (fiction)

"I don't have a magic wand," I said when we reached the top of the tower.

She gave me a sour look. "You don't need one," she said. If you weren't slow as a turtle and such a straight arrow, you could leave footprints around the world."

"You are just full of clichés, aren't you?" I retorted.

Angry, she turned and stared out at the landscape, her mouth slowly opening and closing, like a fish. Apparently, she was trying to think of something pithy to say, but nothing would come out.

I started to whistle a meandering tune and leaned out of the window. I could just make out our footprints below. It was getting dark, and I saw a star fall to earth. Then I felt her hand on my back. For an insane second, I thought she was going to push me.

I turned around, and we both started to laugh. Vertigo? I said. "Don't worry. This isn't the end," she said.

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(The bold-faced words are interpreted from the images on Rory's Story Cubes)

Story Cubes 17: Keys (fiction)

I walked to the middle of the bridge, slow as a turtle. Then I dropped my keys into the water, perhaps startling the fish down there. They were my the keys to the old house, the one we lost in the fire. I guess I was saying goodbye, in a way, to that life. I looked up at the sky. No rainbow there. Then my phone rang. "It's six o'clock", she said. "Where are you?" "It's only early morning on the other side of the globe", I said. And I wished I was there.

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(The bold-faced words are interpreted from the images on Rory's Story Cubes)

Story Cubes 16: No Place Like (fiction)

"Help me understand," I said. "What's the story?"

"Let me give you some pointers, mister journalist. Think about snoozing in a wigwam every night. It ain't rainbows and rose buds. Once you cross a bridge into my kind of life it's masks and demons. And a cold moon at night. I just want to get on a jet and fly to Costa Rica. Where it's toasty this time of year. Put your pity under a magnifying glass. It's not compassion. If it was, you'd be on the street too. You call me 'homeless'? The world is my home."

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(The bold-faced words are interpreted from the images on Rory's Story Cubes)

Story Cubes 15: The Crystal (fiction)

It was the day I hoped to propose to her, but I was waiting for the right moment. Monique and I crossed the bridge over the brook and walked towards the woods. But it wasn't the right moment, because something odd caught our attention. Some kids -- or so I thought -- had erected a teepee at the edge of the tree line.

We looked inside, but there was nobody home.

Someone had been there recently, though. There was a half-eaten apple resting on the floor of pine needles, along with some dice and some recently picked flowers. There was also a small wooden box with a padlock on it. The lock was open, so we removed it and looked inside. We found an alarm clock, a tiny set of scales, and a pyramid-shaped crystal.

"What do you suppose these are for?" I whispered.

"Why are we whispering?" Monique whispered.

"I don't know. Something odd was happening here, though. And whoever was here will probably be back soon. Why else wouldn't they have locked the box?"

"Maybe because there's nothing actually valuable in it," Monique said, rolling her eyes.

"I don't know. This might be valuable," I said, holding up the crystal.

The alarm clock started to ring.

"Ought oh," I said. "I bet whoever put up this teepee is coming back."

There was a crash outside, like someone dropping an armload of sticks onto the ground.

An ugly old man with long gray hair, filthy jeans, and a denim jacket opened the teepee's flap and stuck his head in. "What are you doing here?" he rasped.

"Just being, being curious" I stuttered.

He held out his hand. "Hand it over!" he demanded.

"Hand what over?" I said.

"The crystal."

"What's it for?" I asked.

"Just give it to him," Monique said.

I handed the crystal to him. He smiled and motioned for us to sit down.

"We'd rather not," Monique said.

"Please," he said.

Since he looked frail and unthreatening, I decided we might as well sit. "What the hell," I said sitting cross-legged. Monique gave me a dirty look but then sat down too.

"Scales," the man said as he sat down facing us.

I handed him the scales. He emptied all of his pockets and placed a few coins and pebbles on the scales, until each side was perfectly balanced.

"Nice, but what's the point?" I asked.

He grinned and said "ten bucks." Then he held up the crystal over the scales and began to turn it slightly. It caught some sunlight that was filtering through the hole in the top of the teepee. It seemed to glow. I couldn't stop staring at it and began to feel dizzy, like the teepee was spinning. I closed my eyes. Then the alarm clock went off again.

I hoped it was all a dream, that I would open my eyes and find myself in bed with Monique. But no. Monique and I broke up later that day. And all I ended up with is a stupid pyramid-shaped crystal paperweight.

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(The bold-faced words are interpreted from the images on Rory's Story Cubes)

Story Cubes 14: Shooting (fiction)

I was his guardian now, after the shooting. We would talk about anything, little Thaddeus and I, while we sat on the living room rug, in the dark, with a flashlight. Thaddeus thought of it as a sort of magic wand. We would sometimes make shadows on the wall, but most often he would draw with the beam, and I would try to guess what he depicted.

That night, one of them was a swooping U shape -- a horseshoe? A rainbow? No, a magnet he said. That led to a discussion of electromagnetism. He wondered if it would be possible to build an electromagnetic weapon, a gun that would shoot a beam, like a tiny lightning bolt, through a keyhole.

"Maybe," I said. "But why would you want to do that?"

"To stun people. Not kill them."

"And why would you want to do that?"

"So nobody would ever need bullets again."

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(The bold-faced words are interpreted from the images on Rory's Story Cubes)

Story Cubes 13: Gurgle (fiction)

I stood on the bridge, ready to drop my phone into the river.

I wouldn't regret losing the contacts, but I would miss the photos. So many faces, some cheerful, some gloomy. There was Henry, with a light bulb in his hand, illustrating a joke: "How many millennials does it take to screw in a light bulb?"

There was Evie (with Adam), from Halloween, in her flesh-tone tights and caressing an apple -- Adam and Eve.

And then there was the image of my own eye -- an extreme close-up with a tear in the corner. The one I sent to my false friends. The ones who turned me in. The ones I didn't want to know anymore, now that I was out of the slammer. Now that I was starting over.

The phone made a soft splash and sank out of sight. But just before it disappeared, I heard a gurgle. It was ringing....

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(The bold-faced words are interpreted from the images on Rory's Story Cubes)

Story Cubes 12: Coffee Calamity (fiction)

All I wanted was a steamy cup of wicked black java, something to perk me up and obliterate the sleepy funk I was in. I needed that fix so bad that I felt like a dying fish, a falling star, a bee without a buzz.

Turtle-slow, I shuffled toward the local caffeine emporium, a scruffy establishment that nevertheless ground a good bean. My feet were tied to bricks -- or so it seemed -- and for the first time in my life, I wished I had a cane. The door of the shop was loath to open, and for a panicky moment, I thought it might be locked, that this temple of caffeination might be drained for the day.

Inside was a skinny, acne-scarred teenager behind the counter, munching on an apple and waiting on a gray-haired man in a wrinkled business suit. "I'll have a mocha coconut Frappuccino", the man said. The counter-boy turned away to mix it, which I knew would take until the heat-death of the universe, since he seemed to be the only barista on duty. I rolled my eyes, and they landed on a hipster slumped in a corner armchair, snoring softly. I knew I'd be similarly narcoleptic if I wasn't sipping a mean grind soon.

Finally, it was my turn at the counter. I handed my debit card to the teen and barked that I wanted "a large black". "A large, black what?" he said, smirking. A rhetorical question. I said nothing. "Anything else?" he said. "No!" I retorted, with what I realized was too much insistence. His expression soured, and he proceeded to pour with the speed of an arthritic glacier. "Here," he said as he set the dark remedy before me at last. "Sugar?" "No, no thanks," I growled.

The paper cup was so hot that my fingers throbbed as I found a seat at a table. The first sips scorched by lips and tongue, but I didn't care. I needed jolt therapy to slam me back into radiant consciousness. I imbibed half the cup within two minutes, but the thunderbolt didn't come. In another minute I knew I'd been subjected to perfidy. I stared up at the ceiling and hissed a curse-word at the wagon-wheel chandelier: "decaf!"

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(The bold-faced words are interpreted from the images on Rory's Story Cubes)

Story Cubes 11: To the Rescue (fiction)

I couldn't sleep again, so I got up, took a pill, and let the cat out. Then I stood on the back porch, puffing a cigarette and gazing up at the star-spangled sky. The bulb in the porch light had fizzed out, so I had my flashlight with me. I dropped the butt, stamped it out, and was about to go back in the cabin, when I heard on odd sound off in the woods. It was a faint "ahhhh" sound, and for a crazy moment, I thought it sounded like the bleating of a sheep. Then I realized it seemed human, someone wailing weakly off in the trees. Somebody in trouble.

I have a hero complex, so I set off in the direction of the moaning, if that's what it was. I crossed the rickety footbridge over the stream and trotted into the woods. My flashlight made eerie shadows as I hurried down a path, and I started to worry about bears. I kept hearing that disturbing "ahhh" sound, louder and closer. It seemed to emanate from above, not just ahead. Finally it seemed to be coming from directly overhead. I stopped at the trunk of an enormous tree and pointed my flashlight up.

There was a man there, suspended by cords and fabric from the branches. What the hell, I thought, and then realized he was a parachutist. The missing pilot -- the one they couldn't find after the plane crash. But that was on the news a week ago. "You okay?" I yelled. No answer to my question, just another "ahhh." I didn't know what to do. He was way up there, higher than I could climb. I pulled out my phone, thinking I'd call 911, but there was no signal.

I lit a cigarette, closed my eyes, and tried to think. But then -- it was very odd. When I opened my eyes, I was back on the porch, without knowing how I'd gotten back there. The cat was in the yard, coughing up a hair ball and making "ahhh" sounds. I really, really have to stop taking Ambien.

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(The bold-faced words are interpreted from the images on Rory's Story Cubes)

Story Cubes 10: Parachute

Trevor stood on the bridge, staring down at the rapid water, and tempted, for the hundredth time it seemed, to jump. A beetle was crawling along the edge, and he kicked it over with his boot. He smiled as it tumbled down, but then his face went blank. "I'm a chicken," he thought. "I'd wish for a parachute the second I stepped off." The gurgling of the water reminded him of the ridiculous little fountain in the backyard of his house -- his former house, the one that caught fire, consuming his dog, his cat, and him photographs. His life's work. All that was left was ashes and that damn, mocking fountain. "Where's my rainbow?" he whispered, thinking of the picture on the saccharine Hallmark card his ex-wife had sent him. At least he still had his Nikon. He aimed the camera at his feet, with the toes of his boots peeking over the edge at the current below. "Decision," he said to himself. "A nice, ambiguous title."

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(The bold-faced words are interpreted from the images on Rory's Story Cubes)

Story Cubes 9: Peculiar Magnet (fiction)

It was beautiful day on planet Earth, and more specifically along the lakeside path in Bayville. But amid the blooming dahlias and honeybees and rainbows, a question occurred to Sylvia. How much of a shake of the dice was it to agree to meet Boris here? His impassive face and taciturn manner didn't square with the pleading text he'd sent her, insisting she join him at the lake because he had something important to ask. "So, what is it?" she murmured. She wasn't sure she wanted to know, but the suspense was a nagging itch.

For a long time she'd felt drawn to Boris, a Russian-accented nobody and yet a peculiar magnet, attractive yet distant, a young man always seeming to be mired in morose Eurasian thoughts. Maybe he was finally ready to crack open? She pictured a dialog balloon over his head that needed to be filled. "What is it?" she repeated, louder this time, allowing insistence to color her tone.

He exhaled a leaden sigh, and stared across the lake, then cleared his throat. "Can I borrow a hundred bucks?"

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(The bold-faced words are interpreted from the images on Rory's Story Cubes)

Story Cubes 8: Waning

It was four o'clock and already dark on that wintry day. My eye was nearly touching the telescope lens as I squinted at the moon. Then my cell phone bleeped. Was it her? She'd vanished months ago without saying good-bye. Was it her? That was the constant question mark that hooked me like a fish every time the phone rang. When I answered, it was a female voice saying "hello?" I smiled, and a little shock of surprise and momentary hope traveled up my spine like an electric insect. "Nadia?" I said. But it wasn't her. Just a woman reminding me about an upcoming dental appointment. "Thanks," I said and hung up. I stamped my foot, because my feet were getting cold, but also out of frustration. The moon was waning, and so was my patience.

Story Cubes 7: Fish Tale

"I suppose dreams are the key to unlocking our repressed thoughts," Jacob said. "But why do I keep dreaming about a fish?" he wondered. "I took a nap earlier today, and it happened again. It seems so real. It's disturbing. I'd rather just keep snoring away and not have any dreams."

"What happens in the dream?" the psychiatrist asked. "Are you in it?"

"Yes, my hand reaches out for a stick, some kind of magic stick -- a wand. I wave it and a beautiful fish appears, swimming in midair. It makes me happy at first, but then, after a while, I feel sad."

"Why?"

"The fish is dying. Maybe because it's not in the water. It suddenly starts sinking toward the floor, heading right down, straight as an arrow. Plop! I pick up the fish, and it feels all slimy. It's dead."

"Hmmm," the psychiatrist said. "What does that suggest to you?"

"That I'm a fish out of water?" Jacob mused.

"I think you may have something there. But our time's up for this session."

"Here's my credit card," Jacob said. As the psychiatrist took the card, he could not help noticing a slight fishy smell emanating from Jacob's fingers.

Story Cubes 6: Bedtime Story

I was lying in bed, asleep and snoring softly (no doubt), when I heard a key twist in the lock. Immediately my eyes flicked open, thinking it must be Mona at the front door. The bedroom was pitch, but I could see the moon and a star framed by the window. Why hadn't Mona called if she was going to be late? Then I remembered -- I had lost my phone to some thief that day when I forgot to close my gym locker.

I heard the front door creak, but no further sound for a long time. If that was Mona coming in, she was moving as slow as a turtle. All I wanted was to hear her voice, to see her smiling face. Any second I expected to see her in the bedroom doorway. But no one was appearing. Not yet. Then I remembered. I had also lost my keys....

Story Cubes 5: Backyard Dreamland

When he was a kid, Hector's favorite pastime was camping out in his parents' backyard in his makeshift teepee under the fulgent moon. He would watch the darkened sky for alien spacecraft. When the UFOs failed to show up after an hour or two -- all he ever saw was the occasional winking airplane -- he would take out his magnifying glass and pretend it was a magic wand that could materialize anything he wished. He would draw it up to his eye and imagine, through the blurry image, that he was under the sea, gliding like a fish. When it was past his bedtime, his mother would call him from the backdoor and insist that he climb inside his sleeping bag. He'd do so reluctantly but couldn't drop off until he started counting sheep. Eventually, though, he would drift off to dreamland -- and always miss the midnight saucer floating overhead.

Story Cubes 4: Soaring Eagle

"Time to go on", Dillon thought, glancing at the clock. He finished applying his makeup, put on his costume -- which mostly consisted of a loincloth -- and reluctantly left the makeshift dressing room. He got into the elevator and pressed L for the lobby, where the temporary stage had been erected in this tenantless office building. Community theater in this theaterless town had to set up wherever free space was offered, and this play, called "Scales of Justice", would be lucky to break even, no matter how much manipulating of the abacus the volunteers did. The flat at the back of the stage had been freshly painted with a rainbow, he noted with disdain. Dillon adjusted his war bonnet and got into the paper teepee. "Native American stereotypes. Uhg!" he moaned, thinking about his lines. "Even if it is about tribal justice. For this I went to drama school?" As the curtain rose, though, the ragtag audience gave the tableau a big hand. He picked up his bow and arrow, and once again the miracle occurred. He became Chief Soaring Eagle.

Story Cubes 3: Up All Night

"Why can't I get to sleep?" Evan thought. He'd tried everything, even counting sheep. Ever since he'd broken his ankle, he'd mostly been confined to the house, and the restlessness this induced just wouldn't leave him. "Might as well get up," he thought, grabbing his cane from where it hung on the bedpost. He was vaguely hungry, so he hobbled downstairs to the refrigerator and found an apple to munch on while he built a pyramid of sugar cubes on the kitchen table. Then he went to the living room, settled on the couch and began to doodle an abstract figure on his sketch pad.

Just as he was beginning to nod off, there was a knock on the front door. "At this time of night?" he thought. He shuffled over to peer through the keyhole. It was his prodigal brother, no doubt needing a place to stay again. He'd have another tearful tale to tell him, and Evan would have to decide how much of it was true. There would probably be a dust-up. So, an exhausting night of turbulent emotion ahead. At least in the morning, with luck, he'd be able to sleep.

Story Cubes 2: The Breeze

Owen felt like a turtle in a shell. He'd been staying in his apartment for far too long, but tonight he was still too paranoid to leave the building. What he could do, he decided, was to borrow a key from the maintenance man and climb the stairs to the roof. 

The key seemed to stick in the rusty padlock's keyhole at first -- a metaphor for the dead end he'd reached, Owen thought. But then the lock unclicked and Owen was breathing fresh air at last. He looked down over the roof's edge at the treetops below. He looked up at the stars and the sleepy-faced moon. The lighted windows of the buildings across the street formed random zigzag patterns, like a crazy, electrified abacus. 

Jump? he thought. Not tonight. Not while the breeze felt so tender against his skin.