Short Stories Archives – Page 3 of 3

Category: Short Stories

18Jul

Tales From The Grouch: “The Porthole”

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The Porthole

by J.D.H.

Sarah Seemore was drunk … and stuck.

“Oh, my,” Sarah said. Fog-headed, she tried to recall how she’d gotten into this predicament. In front of her, she could see the outline of the ship’s railing as it swayed up and down, up and down. This disorienting motion — along with the alcohol in her system and the pre-dawn darkness at sea — did nothing to clear her head.

“My goodness,” Sarah said. From what she could tell, there was no one on the outside deck.

When she felt well enough to move, Sarah found that she could not; something was binding her at the waist.

She began to cry “Help!” — but then memory began to come back. It was a porthole, of course. She had foolishly joined the men at their party, and had drunkenly said that, of course, she was small enough to slip through that porthole … if someone would just hold her drink for her …. And so here she was: stuck.

Inside the ship’s lounge, Moogbar stirred on the floor. He thought he might vomit, decided he would not. At least not yet. Through bloodshot eyes, he surveyed his surroundings and counted three other men on the floor. Passed out. Some party, Moogbar thought.

He heard a soft moaning, and sat up on the floor. The moaning turned into a voice: “Someone?” A high-pitched, girlish plaint.

Moogbar turned to his left and there it was. Jutting out from the bulkhead of the ship’s lounge, like a peach-colored corsage on a lapel, was the most enticing thing he’d ever seen — a perfectly shaped derriere. In a blue-denim skirt. A blue-denim miniskirt.

“Oh, my,” said Moogbar, to no one in particular.

Moogbar blinked and rubbed his eyes. He looked again at the fleshy protuberance in the bulkhead. To its left was a bank’s ATM. A metal plate affixed to the machine announced: DEPOSITS, WITHDRAWALS. Moogbar felt much better.

Sarah had nearly passed out again when she felt something touching the part of her person that was still in the lounge, not out on the deck. “Hello?” she said. No answer. But someone was fumbling with her skirt. “Oh!”

Moogbar wracked his brain, trying to recall the name of the movie. The Toxic Avenger, yeah, that was it. He had raised the girl’s skirt, yanked down her lacy panties. “My goodness,” Moogbar said, overjoyed with his good fortune.

“Oh!” said Sarah.

Someone else stirred on the floor of the lounge. It was an older gentleman, stooped and bald-pated. “Whuh?” he said. He saw movement near the ATM machine. The old gent blinked and tried to focus his eyes. Where the hell were his glasses?

A rhythmic motion at the wall; the idiot Moogbar seemed to be humping it. His sweaty ass was pumping frantically. There were red blotches on his rear. Pimples. The old gentleman looked away.

“Oh, please stop!” cried Sarah.

“Ooomph!” said Moogbar. “Ooomph Ooomph OOOMPH!” said Moogbar, and he collapsed to the floor.

The old man stared at Moogbar. Moogbar looked back at him and grinned. He had finally remembered the line from Toxic Avenger: “Always did want to corn hole me a white bitch,” he quoted. He smiled at the older gentleman and gestured to the bare buttocks protruding from the porthole. “Now’s your big chance, old timer.”

The older man gaped at the sight. He could not recall the last time he’d had sex. He would think of sex, look at his wife, and immediately lose interest. But now, as he ogled the shapely young peach just a few feet away, it seemed to beckon to him.

Why not? Who would ever know?

“Ahhhh!” said the old man.

“Oooooh!” said Sarah.

“Yaaahhh!” cried the old man. His old-man pants drooped to his old-man ankles. Keenly aware of Moogbar’s judgmental gaze, the old man thrust his bony pelvis as he hadn’t thrust it in years, deep into this gift from the gods.

“Ooooooh!” said Sarah.

“Boom-chucka, boom-chucka, boom-fucka Ohhhh!” cried the old man. Spent, the dirty deed done, he collapsed to the floor.

Moogbar laughed. “Enjoy that, old man? Not bad for such an old rooster. What say we go outside, see what she looks like from the other end?”

On the deck, outside in the dark, there she was, her long auburn hair partly obscuring her face. At the sound of footsteps, she looked up at them.

“Daddy!” she cried.

The old man gaped at his daughter, and his dentures fell out of his mouth and dropped to the deck.

THE END

Click here for the index of short stories.

11Jul

Tales From The Grouch: “The UFO”

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The UFO

by J.D.H.

Abdul, a wiry boy of 13, aimed his toe at the pink chunk of quartz on the ground and let fly with his right foot. The pebble took flight, clearing the gravel road, the adjacent ditch, and a line of scraggly bushes before landing somewhere out of sight beyond a small hill. Abdul glanced to his right at Chumley, also 13, for some sign of approval, but Chumley was still droning on …

“You’re a lucky one, Abdul, because you have a real father. You don’t have a stepfather who gets drunk all the time and hits you,” Chumley said, his eyes never leaving the gravel road.

Abdul, tiring of this never-ending complaining by his chunky friend, glanced over his shoulder at the two boys who were trailing them: Mugwump and Theodore. Lost in their own conversation, those two had also missed his NFL-caliber rock punt.

“You get to go home and everything’s normal for you,” Chumley went on. “You just watch TV and read your brother’s Playboys … and you don’t have to always worry that you might say the wrong thing. Or say anything.”

There was a brief cry from behind, and Abdul turned to see Mugwump and Theodore engaged in a tussle. This would not end well for Theodore, Abdul thought; Mugwump had a good 20 pounds and two inches on the smaller boy.

Abdul thought he heard a faint whirring sound, possibly from the other side of the small hill. He looked back at Chumley and decided to change the subject, get his fat friend’s mind off this depressing stepfather subject.

“Want to come over and look at Playboys? Klumil got the new one.”

“Oh, yeah?” Chumley’s eyes lit up: The diversionary tactic seemed to be working. “Maybe I can later, after we eat. What time is it, anyway?”

Abdul was about to answer when he heard the whirring sound again. Now it was coming from above them. He looked up and saw the UFO, a bus-sized mass of shiny metal, glowing orange and shaped like a gigantic Frisbee. It was hovering no more than 15 feet above their heads. As he watched, mouth agape and eyes wide, a pendulum-thing lowered from the belly of the ship and drew even with Chumley’s head.

WHOOOSSHH!

Chumley’s head, severed neatly at the neck by the pendulum-thing, sailed silently through the air, off in the direction of the quartz pebble. Abdul watched it land with a soft thud on the hillside, then roll gently down to the bottom of the hill, where it came to rest near a rosebush.

THE END

Click here for the index of short stories.

04Jul

Tales From The Grouch: “Rusty”

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Rusty

by J.D.H.

Editor’s Note: This is the debut of “Tales From The Grouch,” a series of short stories written by J.D.H. The tales will appear periodically in this space.

Rusty tossed and turned in the bed, unable to sleep. She rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling, at the thousands of little whirls and bumps in the off-white-colored plaster. Her insomnia was maddening. It was late, and so not a good time to do much of anything except lay here and toss and turn. Toss and turn.

She craned her neck and examined Bill, who lay beside her, exhaling softly in his sleep. Rusty could not recall the last time she’d heard Bill snore. But it was comforting to have him here, asleep beside her in the bed. He smelled good. Life was good between Rusty and Bill, but there were things she missed about their former life ….

Like when they lived in the city, and would go for late-night walks along the boulevard, just the two of them. Sometimes it would rain, an event that made both of them unhappy, but it was exhilarating to run with Bill back to the apartment. It was warm and snug in the apartment, and Bill would cook something good for them to eat. Happy times.

Suburban life was another thing altogether. Bill would leave for work in the mornings, and Rusty would be on her own for the day. There were the neighbors with whom she could socialize, of course, but they had youngsters, and Rusty, with no young ones of her own, felt like an outsider. She would be out in the back yard, near the clothesline, and hear the neighbors on the other side of the fence. They would exchange greetings, and then Rusty would go back to her isolated existence, there in suburbia, while Bill was at the office earning their keep.

Rusty tossed and turned in the bed. Tossed and turned. No sleep, but it was good to once again be sharing a bed with Bill. Recently, there had been trouble, but that was to be expected in any long-term relationship. There was a misunderstanding, something Rusty did not yet understand, but the result was that Rusty had spent several evenings in the guestroom across the hall, and Bill had stayed in the master bedroom.

And now she lay beside him, listening to the wheezing and thinking of all of the good times. The walks in the park, the smell of bacon in the kitchen as Bill made breakfast ….

“Rusty, is that you?”

Bill was awake but sluggish. Apparently he’d forgotten that their on-again, off-again sleeping arrangements were “on again.” It was dark in the bedroom, so Bill reached over and stroked Rusty’s thigh. He ran his hand through her hair. It felt good to her, and it made her feel secure.

In the morning, Rusty saw streams of sunlight filtering in through the Venetian blinds, and wondered how long she should lay there. Bill was a notorious late sleeper, not an early riser like she was, and so she left the bed, paused at the bathroom door, but then decided to go downstairs and to the kitchen. She was hungry, and possibly some of yesterday’s leftovers would appeal.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, she noticed that the back door was slightly ajar. She went to the door, peeked through the crack, nudged the door open, and walked out.

There was something in the far corner of the yard, something on the ground that had not been there the day before, she was certain of it. She knew every inch of the yard, spending as much time there as she had, and this was a foreign object. It was small and dark … and new. Part of it seemed to rustle in the wind. Rusty went to investigate.

Bill rubbed sleep from his eyes as he entered the kitchen. Bacon and eggs would be good; coffee would be better. He saw that the back door was open, and he noticed that Rusty was nowhere in sight. Bill went to investigate.

Rusty sat on the grass in the far corner of the yard, feeling sick to her stomach. She felt something rising in her intestines, and tried to keep it down. She’d had this sickening sensation before, many times, but it was never a pleasant thing. She leaned forward and up it came. She vomited onto the grass what was left of the bird she had just eaten.

From the kitchen door came Bill’s voice:

“Rusty! Bad girl! What have you eaten now?”

Rusty rolled onto her back, paws in the air, and gasped for breath. This was turning out to be a very bad week. On Saturday she had endured shots at the vet’s office. Now this.

THE END

Click here for the index of short stories.