Story Bytes Issue #23, March 1998 ================================= Very short stories from 2 to 2048 words with lengths a power of 2. Contents. * Rasputin's Reluctant Concubine by Glynn Sharpe 2 Words [Two words, two meanings... maybe.] * Mortality Part I - The Curse by M. Stanley Bubien 4 Words [Yes, Roy Baty said it best.] * Mortality Part II - The Blessing by M. Stanley Bubien 4 Words [There is no Part III. Unless it lies somewhere in between.] * Heroic Tragedy by M. Stanley Bubien 512 Words [A moment of passion could rob the world...] * The Other Called Great by M. Stanley Bubien 512 Words [Greatness, like beauty, is often in the eye of the beholder.] * The Popsicle by Glynn Sharpe 1024 Words [Sometimes, when you're not looking, despair can creep slowly in.] Story Bytes also appears online at Subscribe to the Story Bytes mailing list and receive stories either once or twice weekly via e-mail. To subscribe, simply send an e-mail message to the following address (the subject/body are ignored): Or enter your e-mail address at: You may contact the editor at: ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Rasputin's Reluctant Concubine by Glynn Sharpe Look deeper. ### 2 Words. Copyright 1998, Glynn Sharpe . ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Mortality Part I - The Curse by M. Stanley Bubien "I want more life..." ### Thanks to Rutger Hauer. 4 Words. Copyright 1998, Mark S. Bubien. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Mortality Part II - The Blessing by M. Stanley Bubien "I am so tired..." ### Thanks to John Lennon. 4 Words. Copyright 1998, Mark S. Bubien. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Heroic Tragedy by M. Stanley Bubien I tapped the score sitting upon my friend's table. His newest symphony, one which he had been poring over for several months. Notes caught my eye and I tilted my head. "A new direction for you, I see." He smiled, and his hair flew back with his vigorous nod. Laying one hand upon the score, he said, "Yes!" He turned it to read better, his grin becoming childlike. "I confess, Ferdinand," he directed a mischievous eye toward me, "I left this out hoping you would notice. It's so nearly complete, and I've wanted to share it with someone." "Let's have a look then." I stepped to his side and we both gazed upon his creation. Melodies cascaded within my head as he flipped the pages. A lengthy work, obviously conceived on a grand scale, it conjured to mind the life and death of someone deserving immense fanfare. "Done?" he asked, as he had countless pages before, and flopped the vellum to expose the one below. However, instead of the score's continuation, there sat, completely out of sequence, the title page. I first noticed at the bottom, "Luigi Von Beethoven," and then, at the top, "Bonaparte." "You've dedicated this work to Napoleon?" I asked. His stood straight, as if at attention. "Absolutely. He has restored order to France, making their wondrous nation the envy of all Europe once again. The people rejoice, for he is a hero. Yes! A hero!" I frowned. "You name the emperor of France a hero?" "Emperor," he scowled in surprise. "He is not an emperor." I realized then that this news had not reached his ears. "My friend," I said, placing a hand firmly upon his shoulder, "I am sorry to tell you this, but it is most unfortunately true. Bonaparte has declared himself an emperor." He did not cross-question me, nor did he try to deny my words---I believe he trusted my counsel implicitly. Etched upon his face, I could see the inner turmoil as his cheeks slowly began to burn and the scowl became solid as iron. He rested fingers upon the score's title and said, "Is he then, too, just an ordinary human being?" His question begged no answer, and his voice raised as he continued, "Now he, too, will trample upon all the rights of man and satisfy only his ambition." Seizing the page, he wrenched it from the table and cried, "He will become a tyrant!" And with that, he rent the vellum in two and cast it upon the floor. Clasping hands behind his back, he began pacing. Once or twice, he even trampled upon the leaflets as if he wished to be trampling upon the remains of Bonaparte himself. A cloud had descended and it refused to clear. I confess I fled from his flat at my first opportunity, and, once upon the street, I glanced within to see him fiercely pacing still. "What a tragedy," I mumbled amidst passersby, for I envisioned the remainder of his third symphony sharing the fate of the title page. "What a heroic tragedy." ### Based on a true story. 512 Words. Copyright 1998, Mark S. Bubien. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Other Called Great by M. Stanley Bubien "Where can I find the other called 'Great'? This one Diogenes?" I questioned of the shop-keep. His eyes went wide, recognizing my mail and the helm I bore within the crook of my arm. "Uh... Uh... Sir, yes," he stammered. "Diogenes. Yes." "Get to the point, man," I interrupted. "Sir, sorry. Diogenes. Yes. Turn the corner," he pointed a shaky finger down the street. "And look... Yes... Amidst the wine barrels." He bowed and fell to one knee. I hesitated in my response while the man jittered before me. The brief moment too much for him, he glanced up with one eye. "Your highness, sir, yes," he said and nodded toward the corner he had previously indicated. "Reward him," I commanded my second. "Give him whatever he asks." I strode down the street alone while my second scooped the shop-keep to his feet. Upon turning the corner, I shielded my eyes, confronted by sunlight reflecting from whitewashed walls. Squinting, I saw, just as described, a row of barrels, and there, resting against the centermost as though it were a pillow, was the robed figure I sought. My shadow engulfed the reclining philosopher as I towered over him. The only movement he made was to lift his chin lazily, examining me from boot to brow. "You are known as 'The Great,'" he stated matter-of-factly, chest-length beard wagging against his tattered garments. "Yes. And I have come as one great to another." A smile formed, half-buried beneath the tangles of his beard. He looked as if about to speak, to offer me a fleeting glimpse of wisdom, but instead he hacked twice, blew through his nose and, with a sniff, wiped from the hair below his nostrils the foul stuff that he'd ejected. I sniffed myself, a sympathetic reaction, and was forced to step backward as the scent rising from his unkempt body accosted me. "Diogenes of Sinope?" I asked, at once doubting my discovery. He nodded. "How---?" I began, but, sensing that I may not desire an answer to that terrible question, I changed tact. "Is there anything I can do to relieve you of this..." I clenched my fist over him, "this poverty?" He clapped his hands together. "You are Alexander, are you not? Conqueror of lands, ruler of nations, no? More powerful than any man before has dared, hmm?" I tipped my chin slightly in response. "Then certainly you can give me something. Yes. Give me the sun." "What?" I blurted. "Yes," he brushed his hand at me. "You can stand out of my light so I can see the sun." I glanced momentarily skyward to the blazing orb. When my flash-blinded vision cleared, I realized he was waving me aside, mumbling "hmm, hmm," all the while. My shadow moved off him as I complied. Instantly, clasping fingers together upon his stomach, he closed his eyes and sighed. I remained, watching, waiting. But soon, it became apparent that the gurgling and gushing sounds that rose from this one with whom I shared the title "great" were those of his snores. ### From a folk legend. 512 Words. Copyright 1998, Mark S. Bubien. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Popsicle by Glynn Sharpe Paul rarely took hot showers. Hot showers left his skin red and feverish. He preferred the luxury of warm water. Standing alone, incubated within the glass doors, he would close his eyes and let the warmth of the water caress him. Liquid words of encouragement whispered into his ears. His mind was freed of tangled thoughts as the water dissolved his uncertainty. He was shaken from his trance by the telephone. There was no urgency in answering it. He knew who was calling. It was Thursday night. Eric would be phoning to discuss their plans. Their Thursday evenings together remained fixed for the past several weeks. Thursday's were dedicated to alcohol. Together they would greet Friday mornings with regret and half hearted promises to abstain from such indulgences. They were never successful. Their weekly jaunts lately seemed to blend into one another. Nothing changed. The faces and questions remained the same. He wasn't at all interested in marginal friends inquiring about his career status. Everyone in this pathetically small town seemed to know about his job predicament. They didn't mean any harm in their attempts to make small talk, but their questions stung his fragile pride. He hid his embarrassment behind shields of wit and quick laughter. They were oblivious of his pain but shared mightily with his jokes. The reality Paul knew was no laughing matter. He never imagined leaving the university and not being able to find a job. He wanted his freedom from his parents and their claustrophobic control of his life. He suffered the indignity of eighteen months of resumes and job applications and dead ends. His days were unbearably long and filled with wasted time. He fell into the trap of going to bed late. He had to force himself out of bed before noon. Mindless routine had a strangle hold on his life. His parents offered a torrent of job hunting tips that bordered on the ridiculous. They were infuriatingly scripted pep talks that left Paul resentful. Every morning he could hear the alarm and know his father was off again to a job that he hated so he could provide a better life for Paul. And he did. The noise was a momentary distraction from his remaining hours of sleep. Paul would often ponder his future while at school. His daydreams were safe ones. He rarely considered anything too extravagant. He harbored a secret wish to be ordinary. A Government employee maybe. An entry level position with promise. No more. His friends at school would often boast about their inflated plans. They painted a future that was virtually unattainable. Their schemes were destined for failure. It didn't matter now though. He severed all ties with them the day he graduated. Paul escaped the idealistic world of academia and was thrust into an economy poisoned by recession. He was forced to return home and live the humiliation of being a university graduate who still lived under his parents roof. It was disastrous. He wondered how long the cool water had been running down his shivering body. His hand shook as he turned off the tap. As he stepped out of the shower, he could see his naked body in the full length mirror. He ran his hand down the length of his body and felt his muscled chest and stomach. He had lost twenty pounds of college flab in the past few months and was in the best shape of his life. Exercise eased the nervous tension he was drowning in. He would run late at night when the winter air was its coldest. All he cared to hear was the pounding of his pace through the snow and hidden ice. He was a lone, solitary figure penetrating the deadlock silence of winter. Paul could hear Eric's car in the driveway. He flicked his light to let him know he was on his way. He left his parents the note he'd written on his dresser. The envelope was unsigned. His parents were very particular about details and it pleased them that he always took the time to leave them a note about where he was going and what he planned to do. He would not disappoint them. Not tonight. He licked the envelope. Eric was a drinker and a philosophical drunk. This night would not be unlike their last Thursday or the Thursday before that. The two friends laughed together in the uncomfortably hot bar and were pleasantly inebriated by closing time. The clouds of smoke irritated Paul's eyes. He reeked of alcohol and fading cologne as they left the streaking neon lights of the bar and headed for a late night trip for greasy food. Paul had fries. They were a treat he rarely had. He didn't want to spoil his diet. Eric dropped him off at his door. Paul caught a snowflake in his mouth as he walked through the darkness. Paul tiptoed through the unlit house. His mother was a light sleeper and he didn't want to wake her. The note he'd left was on his dresser unopened. He signed it and placed it on the polished night stand. He stretched out on his bed without taking off his clothes. He folded his hands under his head and fell into a light sleep. The watch his parents gave him for graduation clicked loudly in his ears. Each passing second sounded like a gong. Eyes open. Paul could feel the warmth of the water as it dripped from his bedroom ceiling. Soon his face and hair were soaked with it. He could hear a low gush as the water bubbled up beneath his floor. Like a warm hand, it crept up his legs and immersed his entire body. His head bobbed just above the gentle current. He was alert and focused. His hands danced above his eyes. Every etched line and hair were magnified in glorious detail. The swaying hand abruptly stopped. Paul smiled. The hand reached under his bed for the shotgun he placed there earlier that evening. He slipped the cold barrel into his mouth. It stuck lightly to his lips. Like a Popsicle. ### 1024 Words. Copyright 1998, Glynn Sharpe . ------------------------------------------------------------------------- The following Copyright notice applies to all stories: The author(s) hereby *grant* the right to electronically distribute this story via e-mail, ftp, and/or usenet news for non-profit purposes provided the story, title, authorship, and copyright (including this notice) remain in their original form, without modification or deletion. In other words, you can e-mail it, ftp it, post it, or put it on a Web Site for free. Just make sure you (1) don't change the story and you (2) include the above Copyright notice. 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