#10 The Colonel of Corn

The Colonel of Corn
Jonathan Greer

The boy built a little log cabin from the bones of his daddy's famous pork ribs. He reached across with his greasy fingers for the last ear of corn. A hand, clean and wrinkled, firmly clutched his wrist. The boy gasped. He saw fire in those faded blue eyes.
-I joined up in ‘42. Said I was a year older so they’d take me. Caught my fair share of shit in France. The rest of that war I won’t even mention. After Korea, I led a company across the most Godforsaken swamps you ever saw. Vietnam. Then a military desk job for thirty years, all for some damned oak leaves. And you? You’re still shittin your pants, ain’t ya? Now get your grubby fingers off my corn.
The boy’s father came out from behind the barbecue and smiled.
-Is Grandpa telling you war stories again?
The old man chuckled.
The child released the corncob.

#9 The Four Poster: Part 4

The Four Poster
Part 4
Jonathan Greer

It was this that made him flaccid again, this that caused him to get out of bed. Not the way she would act towards him. He supposed that she couldn’t think any less of him. No, It was the image of his pillow on the floor. No matter how many times she vacuumed, dust-bunnies gathered together and pubic hairs seemed to sprout from the bedroom carpet. All of that filth smothering his face as he slept, and him breathing in the scuz and rubbish of that ancient apartment each night. No amount of pleasure would be worth his pillow on the ground. Even the thought made him shiver.
-No thankyou, he exhaled, masking his words with a morning huff.
Sitting on the toilet, panties in a wad around her ankles, she peaked her head around the corner.
-Nothing, he said to her sideways stare. Just a big yawn.

#8 The Four Poster: Part 3

The Four Poster
Part 3
Jonathan Greer

Then she turned and took a deep breath, said Shit, it’s morning, and sat up.

He thought about feigning sleep, letting her rise and walk to the bathroom. When her back was turned he might risk a glimpse. Not that he needed to. He had memorized those thighs and could pick that ass out of a million. But this was good light. It softened angles and turned her into another being entire.

So he stole a peek, felt himself stiffen, and wondered if he had time. His noise was not a problem. He could be silent as the grave. It was the threat of her returning unexpected. Standing in the doorway with a steaming cup of coffee. Her hand on the flesh of her hip. The look on her face, and way she would say Are you fucking kidding me? and throw his pillow across the room, storming away.

#7 The Four Poster: Part 2

The Four Poster
Part 2
Jonathan Greer

He spent a few minutes trying to relax, imagining his body was weightless and sifting like sand into the bed. Then he gave up. The young sunrise had given the room a magic light, and soon he was glad to be awake. He did not want to waste her silence.
He knew that when she awoke he would wish for this time back. This peace. To watch the stillness of her lips and soft turn of her body without interruption and argument. To stare at her fleshy breasts as they slumped towards the mattress. To have her, all of her, all to himself, and not have to hear her complain about her job or his job, her parents or his kids. This was living splendor. This whole moment, yet unshattered by the alarmclock. Beautiful. Decadent. Pure.

Outside, a cat crossed a fence, putting the neighborhood dogs into a barking frenzy.

#6 The Four Poster: Part 1

The Four Poster
Part 1
Jonathan Greer


He tried to fall back asleep. But he couldn’t. Didn’t know why. The bed was comfortable, and her steady breathing and warmth was like a lullaby. He even had his pillow over his eyes, the way he did when he meant business. The room was perfect. But he could not drift away.
At times he thought he might. He was giving it his best shot. Then just when he would find the thread of unconsciousness, the small pinhole that leads into a world of dreams, something would catch his mind’s eye and pull him back up. He was like a man treading upon a frozen lake, just ounces away from breaking through. He heard the shatterings of every footfall, and watched the shards of ice spread out below his steps. But somehow the thin layer of wakefulness held his weight, and he crossed the surface of sleep without plunging in.

#5 Pride and Joy

Pride and Joy
Jonathan Greer

“Poor people have a great passion for huge quantities of things” –Betty Smith

The front yard was littered with old tires. An old engine hung suspended from a tree. On the side of his Ford truck, the large 8 was peeling away.
He took off his Jeff Gordon hat and held it out to me.
-This here I got after Jeff won the Tallahassee Classic. One of the pit crew threw it in the crowd. Best day of my life.
No screen on the screen door. Just the frame.
Inside the trailer, he began to show me his collection. Fifty years’ of NASCAR memorabilia: beer steins, sunglasses, trading cards, authentic car hoods, driver-suited mannequins, signed posters of Yarborough, Petty, both Earnhardts.
-Yessir. My pride and joy.
A voice called from the kitchen.
-Not now, I’m busy! he shouted back.
-Who was that? I asked.
-That? Just my wife. Now here’s somethin you don’t see everyday- a full set of Jimmy Johnson poker chips.

#4 Overpass

Overpass
J. Adam Bedard

He puts the “Will Work for Food” sign down in the dirt at dawn, next to his daughter. The soiled child sleeps on the backpack he pinched from the dumpster of a convenience store. On the off-ramp of the freeway, cars file past in a funeral procession for his dignity. They have places to get to. He has only the place he has come from.
A young driver, perusing them, does not notice the green light. There is the blare of impatient horns. The little girl awakens.
“I’m sorry, Boo.”
“For what Daddy?”
“Losing my job. Letting cancer take your mom. Having you lie in the dirt.”
“It’s OK, I love you,” she says as she unfurls. “We’ll be OK. You can sleep now.”
She lifts the sign from the dirt. As she turns towards traffic and the morning sun, the family business passes from one generation to the next.

#3 Kung Pao

Kung Pao
Jonathan Greer

He’s never been out this like this before, Edna whined. Oh, I hope he’s ok. I should never have got Mr. Big de-clawed. What if he got into a fight?
A waiter began placing entrees on the table.
She began to cry. Barbara hushed her. Here, she said, Have more tea, it’ll cheer you up. Sir, would you bring more of that lovely tea?
The waiter nodded and left.
The food steamed in front of them. What did you get, Barbara asked, trying to take Edna’s mind off her missing pet.
Kung pao chicken. It’s simply divine, you must try it!
She took a bite, and grimaced. The sound of a breaking tooth was unmistakable. She spit out something hard and shiny into her napkin.
My word, said Edna, grabbing the metal object. Her face went pale. It was a small brass tag, etched with the words ‘Mr. Big.’

#2 Two Hundred Dollar Boots

Two Hundred Dollar Boots
Jonathan Greer

Two hundred dollar boots? Her voice went high-pitched and he bit into his taco. It disintegrated. Dammit, that’s the problem with soft tacos. They always fall apart. Yes. Two hundred dollars. Nice boots.
It’s just alot right now.
Really? You couldn’t go to any store in my mall and find shoes, shoes, for less than that. And these are boots. Boots.
You just bought a pair for one twenty five.
The man waved off the offer for a refill. He leaned in. Work shoes, yes. But those are orthopedic. And non-slip. I have to wear non-slips to work.
Mine are non-slip and orthopedic. And they cost thirty nine dollars. With tax.
A sour laugh. Orthopedic? You have shitty little inserts that say they’re Orthopedic. Orthopedic. Ha.
They feel good. And they didn’t cost two hundred dollars.
Boots, baby. Boots! Dammit.
Yes boots. Dammit. Two hundred dollars.

#1 The Tea Party

The Tea Party
Jonathan Greer

I shot the best dog I ever owned.
The child gasped. The old man continued. And it weren't no accident, nor was it the dog took sick and I wouldn’t pay to have him put down. No ma’am. It was because he disobeyed my command and went off chasing a rabbit. I shot him right as he broke away. I didn’t think twice.
The child’s chin began to quiver.
And wouldn’t you know it, he hobbled right back. That was the last time he thought better of not taking orders. Now pick up the crayons like I said, you hear?
A woman came into the nursery and smiled at the small table set with pink plastic tea cups. A tea party with Grandpa, how wonderful! she said. The old man chuckled, his long body crammed into the tiny chair.
Without a word the child began to collect the scattered crayons.

One hundred and fifty, dammit!

Ok, we all like to write. And we all haven't the time. It is the story of our lives. So what do we do?

We make it happen anyway. We sit down for twenty minutes and type out a story.

There is just one rule: it must be told in one hundred and fifty words or less.

Easy to write. Easy to read.

Now get started.