SHORT STORIES

THE PUPPY

A farmer had some puppies he needed to sell. He painted a sign advertising the pups, he felt a tug on his overalls. He looked down into the eyes of a
boy Mister," he said, "I want to buy one of your puppies."
"Well," said the farmer, "these puppies come from fine parents and cost a good deal of money."
The boy dropped his head for a moment. Then reaching deep into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of change and held it up to the farmer. "£1 is that enough to take a look?"
"Sure," said the farmer.
And with that he let out a whistle,"Here,Dolly!" he called.
Out from the doghouse and down the ramp ran Dolly followed by four little balls of fur. The little boys eyes danced with delight.
As the dogs made their way to the fence, the little boy noticed something else stirring inside the doghouse. Slowly another little ball appeared; this One noticeably smaller. Down the ramp it slid. Then in a somewhat awkward manner the little pup began hobbling toward the others, doing its best to catch up....
"I want that one," the little boy said, pointing to the runt.
The farmer knelt down at the boy's side and said, "Son, you don't want that puppy. He will never be able to run and play with you like these other dogs would."
With that the little boy stepped back from the fence, reached down, and began rolling up one leg of his trousers. In doing so he revealed a steel brace running down both sides of his leg attaching itself to a specially made shoe. Looking back up at the farmer, he said, "You see , I don't run too well myself, and he will need someone who understands."

NEVER PUT OFF

A man stopped order some flowers to be sent to his mother who lived two hundred miles away.
As he got out of his car he noticed a young girl sitting on the curb sobbing.
He asked her what was wrong and she replied, "I wanted to buy a red rose for my mother.
But I only have 50p, and a rose costs 31"
The man smiled and said, "Come on in with me. I'll buy you a rose."
He bought the little girl her rose and ordered his own mother's flowers.
As they were leaving he offered the girl a ride home.
She said, "Yes, please! You can take me to my mother."
She directed him to a cemetery, where she placed the rose on a freshly dug grave.
The man returned to the flower shop, canceled the order, picked up a bouquet and drove the two hundred miles to his mother's house.


The Star

When the world started to end, you were ashamed of yourself for weeping bitterly in your bedroom for an entire day. You lay in bed with the blankets pulled up to your nose, crying, refusing to answer the door when your manager, your assistant, and finally your parents begged you to come out.

     After twenty-four hours, your father took the door off its hinges and dragged you down the stairs into your sunken living room with the white carpet and leather couches. You kicked and screamed until he had to pick you up and carry you over his shoulder. You called him a motherfucker and threatened to take back the Mercedes you'd purchased for him last Christmas.

     Your mother sat solemnly on the couch, her hands clenched into fists on top of the newspaper in her lap. She said it was all over.

     You glowered and glared; you asked what the hell is happening, and will you still be on Jonathan Ross next month?

     The television stations are all color bars and static. Your father says that the talk shows are all gone, and not to worry. He tells you that there are far more important things happening right now. How can you not worry? You were supposed to debut your new fragrance next month to coincide with the release of your latest album.

     Your mother tells you that the album isn't going to happen, and she clenches her fists even tighter than before. You can't believe what she's saying. How can she say that? There will always be an album, and there will always be television. You tell your parents they're idiots, and that this will all blow over in a few days.

     Your mother says that the world is ending. They dropped bombs, she says darkly.

     There are diseases and radiation poisoning spreading all over the country, your father says.

          Your mother holds up the newspapers one at a time. WAR is on the cover of each one, along with speculations on the doomed fate of the country. You feel sick, you're dizzy. You want to know what you did to deserve this, and how anyone could possibly do such a thing before you had a chance to accomplish the things that mean so much to you.

Two days later, your mother and father are discussing survival, and filling jugs with water from the tap just in case. Your father is worried about the electricity holding out. You sit in the living room wondering why all the staff quit the day before, and if your assistant is ever going to call you back. The only connection to the outside world is the radio, and it's hard to get real information between the crying and praying on almost every channel. On the pop station, the dj says over and over that it's only a matter of time. Your father tells you to switch to the AM band because they have more sense on AM, goddammit.

     You hear reports of death and destruction all over the country, and all you can think is that you hope London is okay. Even after reports of people dead in their cars, you imagine Notting Hill the same as it ever was, untouched by nasty things like war, sickness and death. How could a place as beautiful ever be destroyed? No one messes with London you say, and your father won't look you in the eye.

     When the electricity goes out that night, your eyes fill with frustrated tears, and you light the scented candles you'd been saving for a special occasion. The radio runs on batteries, but they won't last long. Your father tells you to conserve them, and stop leaving the radio on so much. You tell him to shut up, and that you can afford thousands of batteries. The man on the radio says that much of the south coast is destroyed, along with Brighton and Torquau. He says that the radiation is coming west at an alarming rate, and you wish you had a map so you'd know what that meant. Instead of worrying, you get out that limited edition pink nail polish and give yourself a pedicure. It isn't until you spill the bottle, and nail polish gets all over the carpet that you realize you can't stop crying.

     In the morning, your dad tells you that your mother is very sick, and he doesn't feel so well himself. You roll your eyes and tell them to take some pepto, but on the inside, you can't deal with the possibility of them dying and leaving you alone, so you go back to your room and sit in front of the window. Your yard looks the same. There is no death and destruction on your property, but you wonder what's changed outside of your front gates.

     In the afternoon, you bring your four gold records and three Grammy awards up to your room so you can look at them. Your finger traces your name on the awards over and over, and you can't comprehend how someone who has accomplished so much in such a short time should be allowed to go through something as horrible as this. You're a star, for God's sake, you deserve better than this.

     Your father is calling your name in the hall. He sounds sick. His voice breaks repeatedly, and he's gagging between words. You don't want him to throw up on the carpet in the hall, but you keep your mouth shut. If he does, the cleaning woman will take care of it tomorrow. You pull the blankets up to your chin and close your eyes. Your father's voice sounds farther and farther away now as you clutch the Grammy close to your chest and squeeze your eyes shut.

     Tomorrow you'll wake up and things will be better. Tomorrow you'll be on GMTV, and be as charming as ever. Tomorrow your agent will apologize for not calling. Tomorrow you'll still be a star.




TOO IMPATIENT

Grammar and my own impatience landed me in jail. If I had only turned the page, I would have seen my healthy ex-fiancee smiling for the camera on the day of her promotion, very much alive in the finance section.


 Instead, I took a single appearance of the past perfect progressive tense in the article about her to mean that she had died, and imagined the rest—my complicity in her early demise, the inevitable investigation, my imminent arrest. “Had been receiving treatment” for an undisclosed but life-threatening ailment, the story had said on its first page.


 That was enough to send me out of the café and into the night, hailing a cab and heading uptown to her parents’ home, where I’d always been welcome. I might as well have gone to the police. “I just heard about Christine,” I told them at the door. 


They seemed perplexed but let me in and sat me down with coffee. I’d never stopped loving their daughter, I told them, even after things between us had turned cordial. I’d thought that herbal meant safe, I said, that dosages were recommendations, and that if ancient cultures had used a substance for generations to improve relations, it surely should work for us. They only stared in disbelief and let me blather on. She’d never known what she was taking, I told them. And only after she had left me had I discovered the powder I’d been putting in her smoothies was probably killing her liver.


 Christine’s father left the room to make a call while her mother pretended to console me. Shortly after, I was read my rights, which turn out not to be much use when you’ve already confessed, even if nobody died, or should I say, if nobody “had been dying.”

HEAVEN AND HELL


A man and his dog were walking along a road. The man was enjoying the scenery, when it suddenly occurred to him that he was dead. He remembered dying, and that his faithful dog had been dead for many years. He wondered where the road was leading them.


After a while, they came to a high, white stone wall along one side of the road. It looked like fine marble. As he reached the wall, he saw a magnificent gate in the arch, and the street that led to the gate made from pure gold. He and the dog walked toward the gate, and as he got closer, he saw a man at a desk to one side. When he was close enough, he called out, "Excuse me, where are we?" "This is heaven, sir," the man answered. "Wow! Would you happen to have some water? We have traveled far," the man said. "Of course, sir. Come right in, and I'll have some ice water brought right up." The man gestured, and the gate began to open. "Can my friend," gesturing toward his dog, "come in, too?" the traveler asked. "I'm sorry, sir, but we don't accept pets."


The man thought a moment, remembering all the years this dog remained loyal to him and then turned back toward the road and continued the way he had been going. After another long walk he came to a plain dirt road, which led through a farm gate that looked as if it had never been closed. There was no fence. As he approached the gate, he saw a man inside, leaning against a tree and reading a book. "Excuse me!" he called to the reader. "Do you have any water? We have traveled far." "Yes, sure, there's a faucet over there." The man pointed to a place that couldn't be seen from outside the gate. "Come on in and help yourself." "How about my friend here?" the traveler gestured to his dog. "There should be a bowl by the faucet; he is welcome to share." They went through the gate, and sure enough, there was an old-fashioned faucet with a bowl beside it. The traveler filled the bowl and took a long drink himself, then he gave some to the dog. When they were full, he and the dog walked back toward the man who was standing by the tree waiting for them. "What do you call this place?" the traveler asked. "This is heaven," was the answer.


"Well, that's confusing," the traveler said. "The man down the road said that was heaven, too." "Oh, you mean the place with the gold street and pearly gates? Nope. That's hell." "Doesn't it make you mad for them to use your name like that?" "No. We're just happy that they screen out the folks who'd leave their best friends behind in exchange for material things."