Short Story Du Jour #9

All Story Du Jour tales are available online and free! A small presentation in these trying times.

Relax and enjoy your flight!

Translunar Travelers Lounge

"Calling on Behalf of the Dark Lord" - by Catherine George

1,639 words

Having difficulty holding down jobs, a young Ottawa woman finds telemarketing has never been  more diabolical. 

Here’s a sample of the writing:

“It’s better than retail,” you mutter, stung. And it is, really. It’s better than selling designer knock-offs at the mall, or records in the cramped vinyl shop on Bank; better than bartending at weddings, or working the night shift at the sketchy 24-hour diner. No, it’s not your dream job, but those are a myth anyway. And it’s not like the Dark Lord Himself is ever going to drop by an office building in an industrial park out east of the Rideau, right? He’s definitely got better things to do than check up on his telemarketers—like, can you even imagine? Does Anna think he’s going to come in and scorch the dropped ceiling with the heat of his Perpetual Flame, or inspect the new wireless headsets with his single glowing Crimson Eye?"

I vacillated for nine days. Less next time. Stay safe!

Story Du Jour #8

"Anxiety at the Highest Level!"

Suspense Magazine 

“The Author” – Stephen Maitland-Lewis 

3607 words

 At a high-end publishing house, we learn that time heals all wounds and uncovers all deeds. Nice forshadowing in this pleasant well-written tale.

Here’s a sample of the writing:

“We would meet up in the kitchen around one, have soup and a chunk of bread I’d warmed up, and then we’d go for a long walk. Sometimes we’d walk for two or three hours. Less in the winter months, as we wanted to be home before it got dark. We’d have simple dinners, usually stews, listen to classical music on the radio, and then go to bed. As I said, we were happy. That is, until Gerald was notified that he’d been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. At that moment, he changed. Life became hell. What should have been a most joyful moment in our lives became an absolute misery.”

Tomorrow: horror? Sci fi? I vacillate.

Short Story Du Jour #7

Branching out into short fiction.

The Dark 

 “The All-Night Horror Show” 

by Orrin Grey 2434 words 

During a home invasion, a washed up old actor finds the best solution lies within. You can see how this one will play out, but nonetheless enjoyable.

 Here’s a sample of the writing:

"That is not the crack-pause-crack of the fireworks one or two streets over. That is the sound of someone knocking on the front door, though it is late now, getting on toward midnight. “The witching hour,” he remembers intoning in his heavily-accented voice on some talk show or another a decade gone now, when people still cared who he was.

He rises from his chair and it is like rising from a coffin. His arms and legs feel heavy, bound in chains, as he was in The Secret Door. He can feel them dragging along behind him as he struggles across the hardwood floor, into the narrow hall. On the TV at his back, he is walking the other way, up a set of stairs cast in chiaroscuro."

Monday might be time for a little mystery.

Short Story Du Jour #6

"Childish, but not for children."

Space Squid 

“Old Habits” by Frances Pauli 

3429 words 

There’s no life like the afterlife, but there are some things only the living can offer. A wry tale of what could lay beyond this mortal coil.

Here’s a sample of the writing:

"The cowboy crossed in the open, an old habit, not any more necessary than the twin revolvers hanging low around his hips. He only kept them for the memories. One hand still hovered over each polished butt, and he still imagined his spurs jangling as he moved, heard the faint echo of a lifetime of chink, chink, chink in his steps. 

This particular saloon wasn't much. He spat again before pushing through swinging doors that were just a hair off kilter. Even the conversations inside were muted, the voices somehow subdued by the ominous and continuous presence of death. Not too different from the old days to be honest, but the afterlife carried a depressing and lackluster aura with it, a cheap facsimile only simulating real life."

I'm not sure what tomorrow will be other than later on.

St. Patrick's Day Greeting

(The Michael O'Donoghue version.)

May the road rise up to meet you. 

May the wind be always at your back. 

May the sun shine warm upon your face; 

the rains fall soft upon your fields 

and until we meet again, 

may God hold you in the palm of His hand

and squeeze your head until the piss runs out your ears.  

I would wish a more pleasant outcome, nonetheless, Happy St. Paddy's Day!

The Gospel Heard

Short Story Du Jour #5

East of the Web – Short Stories – Romance, 

“Return to Paradise” by Eliza Riley

 996 Words 

An unhappy woman on the brink of divorce returns to the scene of her marriage only to rediscover hope. A number of typos marred this simple story as did the narrator’s long backstory dump. But rewarding enough in its own way.

Here’s a sample of the writing:

"The man stood watching from the edge of the palm trees. He couldn't take his eyes of the dark-haired woman he saw standing at the water's edge, gazing out to sea as though she was waiting for something - or someone. She was beautiful, with her slim figure dressed in a loose flowing cotton dress, her crazy hair and bright blue eyes not far off the colour of the sea itself. It wasn't her looks that attracted him though; he came across many beautiful women in his work as a freelance photographer. It was her loneliness and intensity that lured him. Even at some distance he was aware that she was different from any other woman he could meet.”

The first romance story I’ve ever read. (It’s only the biggest genre category out there.) Tomorrow, something much different.

Short Story Du Jour #4

Andis Reinbergs

 Beneath Ceaseless Skies

“The Sniper and I” by Rich Larson 

3,439 words 

 Intriguing military sci-fi that examines the result of a smart weapon becoming too clever. Some initially confusing pronoun use, but turns out not to be an affect, but germane to the story. 

 Here’s a sample of the writing: 

 “On the way back to camp, we wound between the birds’ crumpled bodies. I stepped on one by accident, and its bones made a noise under my boot like ice crust breaking. The sniper turned back to look at me, reproachful, either for the noise or for the trespass. A little farther on, the sniper found an immaculate corpse. It had fallen with the others, but somehow its feathers were snow white, untouched by the smog. They crouched down and picked it up, turning it over in their hands, extending one delicate wing and then the other.” 

My fourth short story, chosen at random, and I’ve yet to locate an American author. I’ll find one. You just wait. Tomorrow, a change of pace.

Indochina History Break Revisited

Check upper left hand corner. World Atlas

Fourteen Years Later, Procrastination Wins Again

Back in the day, to avoid arduous writing tasks, as well as training for a marathon, I took a break to write up a brief history of the battle of Dien Bien Phu, it being March 13 and the anniversary of the opening salvos. Here is what I jotted down then:

Today marks the 52nd anniversary of the Viet Minh attack on the French garrison at Dien Bien Phu — a remote valley in northern Vietnam near the border with Laos. The Viet Minh were an umbrella group of Vietnamese nationalists under the leadership of communist Ho Chi Minh. They had been fighting the colonial French, and other Vietnamese nationalist groups, since 1946.

The French viewed their position in a flat valley surrounded by hills as an offensive base. From there they would venture out and cut the Viet Minh supply lines, preempting an attack on Laos. As a result of this outlook, the garrison never outposted the hills. They'd be attacking and, besides, it was impossible for the Vietnamese to haul any significantt artillery up there.

Unaware of French opinion, the Vietnameses went ahead and hauled heavy artillery up onto the hills along with daunting amounts of anti-aircraft guns. On March 13, they let loose a barrage, followed by a human wave attack that engulfed a French strongpoint manned by crack Foreign Legionnaires. The fight was on.

French troops entrenched. ThoughtCo

For the next several months, while peace talks droned on in Geneva, the Vietnamese strangled the French. All French supplies had to come by parachute. The planes—many flown by American contract pilots— braved intense flak dropping their cargo. As the garrison was compressed, the drop zone grew smaller. Food and ammunition ran short. Meanwhile, generous supplies from nearby communist China—including American ordinance captured in Korea— enabled the Viet Minh to bombard their opponents at will.

Despite horrendous casualties, the Viet Minh seized one French strongpoint after another. Finally, on May 7, 1954, it ended. The French surrendered. Over 10,000 men marched into captivity, many of whom died in Viet Minh prison camps. French colonial rule in Vietnam and Laos ended. In 1955, Vietnam was partitioned into a communist north and a non-communist south along the 17th parallel.

Now back to running and writing stuff.

Sixty-six years have now passed and the valley appears to be something of a tourist stop. For a better short summary of the battle, try here. And while I'm considering another marathon, much writing awaits my hand today. 

And yet, I repost. 

C'est la guerre.

Short Story Du Jour #3

Screw Amazon. Try Raw Dog.

Café Irreal, “Manuscript Found by a Stoplight After a Grave Accident” by Osvaldo Gonzalez Real 1,035 words 

 Here’s a droll little tail from a quarterly webzine seeking “fantastic fiction infrequently published in English . . . described[ed] as irreal . . . resembl[ing] the work of writers such as Franz Kafka, Kobo Abe, Clarice Lispector and Jorge Luis Borges."  A dead man looks back on his last day and realizes he’s not as unique as he thinks. 

Funny, fast, with a nice twist at the end. And it certainly lived up to “irreal.” Here’s a sample of the writing: 

 “Patiently, I gathered all the possible data regarding fatal traffic accidents of the past five years. I investigated—with the help of an astronomer—the periodical variations of solar flares, eclipses, and the strontium levels found in fluvial precipitations. I consulted experts on ecology and numismatics. Finally, using a bell-curve graph—the result of my erudite and tedious investigations—I honed in on the N260 and N300 bus lines. From that moment onwards I felt more assured of accomplishing my goal: math was on my side.” 

 On Monday, I’ll be exploring Beneath Ceaseless Skies.

Short Story Du Jour

bracken VI

bracken 

"Ocean" 

by Su-Yee Lin

933 words

Continuing with yesterday’s offering of things happening in China—other than Wuhan virus and dissident beatings—comes this flash fiction piece from Pushcart Prize-winning author Su-Yee Lin. A magical realism tale of loss and memory, a young woman reacts to a sound that she shouldn’t be hearing. There may’ve been other deeper elements but, as usual, I missed them. 


Once again, a mother is involved. Here is a sample of the writing: 

 “And despite the chatter of everyday life, I can still hear the ocean. No one else seems to notice, or maybe they're just used to it. It's like the way you can get used to anything—having the ocean in your backyard, white hum of electricity in a room, an illness that comes and goes, a disappearance of a person you love. You get used to it all in time.”

 Tomorrow, I’ll read a short story not involving China.

Today's Short Story Recommendation

"Time Reveals the Heart"

As I'm reading more short stories to better my own, I've decided to share my discoveries with the

Clarkesworld Sci Fi and Fantasy

half-dozen regular readers of this blog.

Today's offering hails from Clarkesworld: "Time Reveals the Heart" by Derek Kunsken. (His name contains an umlaut over the u, but I can't figure out how to add one.)

Here's the opening paragraph of this science fiction tale:

"Guo Lěi mounted the stairs to his mother’s apartment at seven in the morning. He hadn’t visited in two weeks; he never knew what he would find. It was early, but he had a launch today, maybe several, and no matter what, he tried to see his mother before every launch, just in case. When silence answered his knocks, he used his key."

That's pretty nifty writing. You've got your foreshadowing, the knowledge that the protagonist's work is dangerous, and that his mother's health is an issue all bundled in the action of knocking on the door. It'd take me a page and half to get all that out. 

A story exploring time travel, addiction, the dangers of altered perception, and the worth of reality, this is a quick read, not too heavy on dialogue with nice descriptive touches such as "His voice sounded like falling drops of water, shapeless, wobbling in free fall, transparent."

Weighing in at 5804 words, "Time Reveals the Heart" is available online and as a podcast at the Clarkesword site.