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500 Word Stories to Tickle Your Frontal Lobe
Copyright 2013.
Table of Contents
Just a Misunderstanding
Masterpiece
This is Your Brain on Drugs
Souvenir
No-Fly
Author's Notes
Just a Misunderstanding
"Walk the plank!" the Captain cried, brandishing his cutlass.
I crossed my arms. "Not without my safety harness. I'm not dying for my craft."
Laughter rippled through the ranks of my fellow actors. I wondered where the agency had found such realistic pirates; the Captain even had a peg leg and was missing several teeth.
"What's the point? If you won't walk the plank we'll shoot you. Now move, or prepare to have an eighth hole in your head." One of the men clustered around me pointed his gun at my forehead and cocked the hammer.
A horrifying suspicion crept up on me: these are actual pirates, not actors. I had just wanted to see my name in lights, but now it looks like I'm going to die.
I climbed up the steps to the plank and started to inch my way forward. The plank squeaked and moved up and down slightly with my every step. Behind me I could hear the murmur of the pirates speaking to each other. I kept trying to tell myself that this was just like the time I was dared into going off the high dive at summer camp. The closer to the edge of the plank I got the more it moved, and the more terrified I became.
I reached the edge of the plank and hesitated. The jeering behind me grew louder as they all called for me to jump. Screwing up my eyes and crossing my fingers, I stepped off the edge of the plank. It seemed like I fell forever before splashing into the ocean. I could feel fish brushing against my limbs as I struggled back toward the surface.
I gasped for air as I came up out of the water and looked around me. There were numerous shark fins sticking up out of the water. I could almost hear the theme from "Jaws" in my head. Just as I gave up hope I heard someone calling in a language I didn't understand. A small boat with several fishermen had arrived. They pulled me up out of the water and wrapped a warm blanket around my shoulders.
After we disembarked I was herded toward a small thatched building. After I was stripped and bathed, they brought some rope and tied my arms and legs together. I was dragged out onto the beach where I saw a big pot of bubbling water. The villagers were chattering happily as they threw vegetables into the pot. One of them came over to me holding a very large knife; he placed the knife at my throat.
The alarm on my waterproof phone went off.
The knife dropped away from my throat. One by one the villagers bowed to me.
It had been prophesied that one day someone with the voice of an angel would arrive and entertain the villagers thereafter. Every night I sing and dance to earn my supper. I never saw my name in lights, but I lived.
Masterpiece
The canvas tore with a satisfying rip as I slashed a knife through it. My latest "masterpiece" was nothing more than a waste of supplies. Unless something changes I will be homeless soon; without any artwork to sell I will not be able to make rent yet again.
I threw the shredded canvas onto the fire and watched it burn for a while. As I went to put the knife back in the kitchen, I tripped over a board sticking up from the floor and the board broke with a loud crack.
Looking into the hole created by the broken board I saw a tightly rolled piece of old canvas. I unrolled it just enough to see that it was a painting with the signature, "Claude Monet 83".
I was familiar with Monet's works, but I had never seen this one before. I had heard rumors that several of his paintings had been lost during one of the several moves he made during his life, but what would one of them be doing in an apartment in New York City? I called an old art professor of mine, and he put me in touch with Baptiste Audet, one of NYC's most talented painting restorers. Mr. Audet would know how to find out if the painting was a forgery; He agreed to meet with me tomorrow afternoon at his office. I sat my phone down on the kitchen table and stared at the masterpiece in front of me.
Behind me a spark from the fireplace flew out of the fireplace onto my wool rug. That one spark grew into two, those two sparks grew into four, and then before long my smoke detector was blaring. I grabbed my fire extinguisher, pulled out the pin, aimed it at the fire, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. I shook the canister, then squeezed the trigger again. Still nothing happened.
By now the fire had spread from my rug to my cheap IKEA couch, clearly this fire was going to be out of control soon. Giving up on putting the fire out myself, I ran out the front door.
I dug through my pockets for my cell phone, but it wasn't there.
I grabbed the door handle to my apartment and tried to turn it. The door was locked.
My super was walking down the hall toward me, carrying what turned out to be an eviction notice. I ran up to him and begged him to call 911 for me.
The firefighters broke down the door with their axes and I dashed in, before anyone could stop me, and scooped up the painting. Holding my breath, I ran back outside of my apartment. The painting was safe, but the apartment was total loss. Good thing I was being evicted, I guess.
With time Mr. Audet was able to verify that the painting was authentic; it sold at Christie's for forty million dollars. I bought my old apartment building and I charge no rent to artists.
This is Your Brain on Drugs
The deadbeat druggie I'd just shot in the head crumpled to the ground, falling toward me. I stuck my hand out to stop his forward momentum, and my hand connected with his forehead. The hole in his head closed, and the formerly dying man stood up. He wiped the blood off of his face, yelled obscenities at me, and threw a wad of cash down on the ground and ran away.
"I couldn't have healed that guy. I must have only grazed his head."
I drew my hunting knife from its sheath. Before I could lose my nerve I made a quick cut down my forearm. I watched in amazement as the cut healed. I could quit selling drugs and still make a lot of money with this ability, but I'd have to be careful. This looked like witchcraft, and witchcraft is punishable by death.
I spent several days pondering my dilemma; I couldn't just shoot people and then demand money to heal them. Finally I hit upon a solution: I could pretend to have had a conversion experience and set up as a faith healer.
I rented a field from a friendly nearby farmer. He and his sons even helped me assemble the tent. A large sheet of plywood served as a sign: "D.R. Foster's Amazing Miracles!" After a few weeks my tent, and the offering plate, was full every night. People came from miles around to hear me speak – and to watch me heal others.
One evening, in the middle of the service, several uniformed officers burst into my tent along with the deadbeat I'd shot weeks ago. The ex-customer pointed at me and cried, "That's him! He practices witchcraft!"
The trial would have been farcical if it hadn't been happening to me. All the news outlets attended; the prosecution paraded witness after witness in front of the jury, each one pointing to me when asked: "Do you see the person who allegedly healed you in this courtroom today?" Every time I was identified I could hear the gasps and murmurs of disbelief from behind me.
Finally the jury had made their deliberation. The verdict was: "Of the charge of witchcraft, we find the Defendant guilty."
My lawyers appealed the verdict, but it didn't make any difference. I made friends on death row, and cried like a baby every time one of them was taken away. Finally the time came to choose my execution date. I choose December 24, 2013. I had turk
ey and dressing for my last meal.
The needle slid into my arm almost painlessly. As the executioner injected the lethal concoction into my arm, I expected to feel something. Drowsy perhaps. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Two hours. The injection just wouldn't kill me. They finally had no choice but to unstrap me and take me back to death row.
Now the whole world worships me as a god. From ex-drug dealer to benevolent deity? Life is good.
Souvenir
I always keep souvenirs from the people I kill. This time I scored large wristwatch with several dials on its face. I decided to mess with it later; I had a date to get ready for. I will never find a wife if I spend all my time hip-deep in blood.
My date turned out to be ugly and ignorant. I tried to discuss the latest scandal in Congress and she said she doesn't believe in sexual congress before marriage. I returned home, blocking out the evening, and took a second look at the watch. There was a large button under all the dials. I pressed it, curious, and watched as my surroundings wavered and vanished.
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