Still Pool

A god and a goddess sat on a park bench. In front of them, on another bench, sat a man, facing away from them. He watched his lover, who played with their child in the field beyond.

The god and goddess whispered to each other. Each watched the man: the god watched his head and saw his thoughts. Though fleeting and coiling in among themselves, as thoughts tend to do, they were tinged with hope, respect, curiosity, even wonderment, tempered by thoughts of how he might improve the lives of his loved ones. The god saw, too, worry and concern appear and then dissipate like sudden bursts of steam leaking from the valves and joints of a mighty engine.

The goddess watched the man's heart and saw his feelings. She saw the gentle pull of physical attraction, deep calm love, not just for his mate but for the child and all the other people around them. She saw compassion and grace, all tempered by a sense of humility. Around the edges hovered flickers of fear, like tiny flames unable to find sufficient tinder.

The god and goddess, lovers themselves, giggled and whispered and seemed to come to an agreement. Each pointed to the man, the god to the man's head, the goddess to the man's heart, and slowly drew their fingers toward each other until they touched.

At that moment, the man's thoughts merged with his feelings and a great sense of focused contentment and acceptance replaced the wildness of his thoughts and feelings. All fear, all disappointment, all concern left him. He felt unified and capable of facing any challenge. He sat very still, the better to contemplate this moment, which seemed to him like a deep pool grown calm in the aftermath of a life-long storm.

With this, the two gods rose, linked arms, and wandered off in search of new adventures.

Isn't It Grand, or Ten Hundreds

1
It's not writer's block. For that, I would have to want to write. True, I enjoy words when they flow like a river, or move like a panther, with their own will. I enjoy it less when, as now, they are forced from me by an invisible pressure on my mind, as if an invisible gangster held a gun to my temple and whispered in my ear, "Write something."

Fingers hovering over the keyboard, unable to move for lack of direction, I might whimper back, "Write what?"

"You know what," he whispers back, a malevolent glint in his invisible eyes.

2
Zen tells us that the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. But that's only part of the story. I can tell you that the journey isn't a real journey until you've walked the first hundred miles. Then you can think about what it's going to be like to walk that nine more times.

The gangster in my head throbs. Maybe he's only a headache, or some sort of vitamin deficiency. "I'm not going away," he whispers. "Keep writing."

"Why?" I ask. I'm feeling bolder.

"Shut up. I want ten chapters. No more, no less. Got that?"

3
It occurs to me that he's testing me. Will I revolt? Walk away? Phone for a pizza and turn on a game show on TV? But what if I can't shake him? If he's inside me, in my head, what then?

But he's annoying me. What kind of man am I if I don't try to regain control of my life?

"Leave me alone," I say. I say it out loud, as if he were a real person standing behind me, just beyond my peripheral vision.

"Ain't gonna happen," I hear in my mind. That soft intimate voice, so close.

4
I can't stand it. I throw on my jacket, put my cell in my pocket, and head out the door. Away from my laptop and hopefully away from that voice.

Out on the sidewalk, I flip open my phone and call Sarah. My lifeline, she is. My friend. Maybe my best friend. Hell, maybe my only friend, so I try not to intrude on her too much. But this, I've got to do something.

"Hi Sarah?" I say when she answers. She's at work. "Yeah, it's Mark. Got a minute?"

She does, but only just. I pace while I talk.

5
"I'm in a little bit of a pickle," I say. "I've got this thing," But wait. I can't tell her I have a voice in my head, with a gun, for cryin' out loud. That's just crazy. And what could she do about it? "This, uh, problem. What? Well it's hard to describe. Wait, never mind, okay? It's nothing, never mind. Bye." I can't go on. I don't know what to tell her. I flip the phone closed. Hang up on her, something I've never done before. I look down at the phone, dumbstruck. I turn back toward home.

6
Settled back on my laptop, fingers over the keys. What else can I do? I can't just do nothing, which is what I've done for so long now that I can't remember the last time I wrote anything worth half a read. Why can't I write? It's more than just my dissatisfaction with myself. That's easy to deal with, as long as I can afford pizza and ice cream. It's this new thing, this pressure and the gun. It's life or death now. Squeeze something out or have my brain blown out.

I go to the fridge, get out ice cream.

7
"What are you waiting for?" whispers the voice. I feel the gun pressing harder now.

I whimper, sitting back down and spooning ice cream into my mouth as fast as I can. "I don't know what to write."

"Just make something up! That's what you always do. Something out of nothing, isn't that the creative challenge?"

"Uh," I say, ice cream dribbling down one side of my mouth.

"What's the problem?" There's a gravely edge to the voice, an impatience that frightens me.

"I need something. Structure. Boundaries. Constraints. Otherwise the canvas, so to speak, is too broad. Too white."

8
I feel the voice in my head shaking, not in anger now, but in amusement. "Structure? That's easy. Here's structure for you. Give me a thousand words. Exactly. Tell a story, a real story, in exactly a thousand words. Not a word more or less or I'll end it for you. Got that?"

"Uh huh." I say. "Yeah. Let me think."

I start typing: "Sarah was a sweet thing of twenty. She stared at me intently as I unbuttoned her blouse."

I look at what I've written, consider where this might go for a moment. Then I erase it all.

9
I run out the door, damn the voice, damn the gun. It isn't fair, this making me write about Sarah, or about anything. What am I to stories, or stories to me? Must I be held hostage to them, to the damnable flow of words? Must I die for them?

On the sidewalk, surrounded by the building I live in on one side, tall fences on the other. There's no way out. A fine day, though, I think. A fine day to die, if die I must.

The voice is still there, I can feel it. A gentle flutter within.

10
Feeling calmer, I walk back. Sit at the laptop. Gaze at the still empty page.

"It's all good, Mark. You're fine, my son. Fingers on the keys, empty your mind. Now, give me a thousand words, ten chapters of exactly a hundred words each, please."

All tension drained, I feel I can do this. I type: "Sarah stood still before me..."

"Don't write her," the voice said quietly. "You. Write who you are. What it means to be a writer."

I blank the page again, then write, "It's not writer's block. For that, I would have to want to write..."

Daddy's Girl

Debbie pulled her aging Old's 88 to the curb across from the two story clapboard, once white, now a mottled, weathered, gray. She was assaulted by the familiar odor of rotting leaves masking the smell of garbage and rotting shingles. Her sister stepped down from the porch of the house they were raised in and walked across the street. "You gonna come in this time?" 

"How is she?" Debbie spat the words. 

Dark hair tumbling across Megan's face couldn't hide her expression. Mad. She had a right to be, Debbie knew. But she'd be damned if she'd admit that to her sister, or to her mother. She could see the glow of a cigarette just behind the screen door opposite. It was a standoff. Her mother wouldn't come out, and Debbie hated going in, to admit she'd chickened out. Ran away. 

"Look, don't do this," Megan said. "It's dad all over again." 

Debbie turned off the motor, gripped the steering wheel with both hands and lay her forehead on her knuckles. "I'm not like dad!" she said in a low growl. "I'm not!" 

"Then come inside. She doesn't have any of the old bite left, I can tell you. She's mom, and she's tough and she won't be sweet. But dammit, she really needs us both right now." 

Debbie sighed. She hesitated, then opened the door. "Shit," she said, climbing out. "Shit."

(9/26/2012 - Lascaux Flash Fiction contest entry)

Cicada and Hummingbird

Cicada and Hummingbird fell in love

Because their wings made the same sound
each mistook the other for a mate

So they dressed up to the max
and went out to dinner and a movie

They don't speak each others' language
but who needs talk when you're in love

when romantic foreignness and
odd looks and inflections
says it all and they'll always have

that moment when her wings
answered his, song for song

Butterfly Woman and Other Tales

Available in two e-book formats, each $2.99 or less.

Kindle format. If you don't have a Kindle, try the excellent Kindle Reader, available for PCs, Macs, and mobile phones!

Paperback version and EPUB format, from the Lulu Store. Looks great with the free Adobe Digital Reader. This book is now available for iPad and iPod too.

"A bit of magical realism, a taste or two of natural realism, even a bit of fantastic hilarity. Author Michael Robertson presents a sampler of short stories, the perfect length for a morning's read after breakfast, or an afternoon's relaxation on the deck or beach of your choice.

"'Butterfly Woman', the title story, gives us a glimpse of a woman who turns kisses into insects. Or spend a few moments with a woman in Hawaii who longs for her youth as a surfer beyond the beaches of Waimea. An artist who loses words and gains world fame. A shocking moment in the life of the president of a small coastal country.

"We enter the minds of a drug dealer with a big heart, a former aid to a powerful Russian bureaucrat, a boy hiding in the winter woods of the Ozark hills, and a young man who has lost his past but discovers his future. And more. This little book presents a medley of portraits of real human beings in defining moments.

"Whatever your taste in fiction, this little book will whet your appetite and tease your imagination."

How My Parents Met

Mark met Melanie online, through a friend. It wasn't a romance. Not even close. The connection was professional. Or at least creative. Both were writers of fiction. They exchanged some Facebook comments about their work and eventually shared their stories with each other. Their conversations were funny, flippant, sharp and clever, but only mildly flirtatious. Each needed feedback from the other about the craft and effectiveness of his or her work. Each agreed to become beta-readers for the other's new stories.

They lived in different states. All of this was on the Internet. They hadn't met in person. When Melanie came to Mark's town to visit old friends, they agreed to meet in a local coffee shop, finally in person, each with a laptop, each ready to write as well as exchange ideas.

Mark knew what Melanie looked like from her Facebook icon, assuming it was a recent photo and more or less accurate. It was, but Mark was surprised when Melanie walked in, briefcase in one hand, books in the other. It wasn't that he was expecting anything. It's just that, well, she looked great. He knew she was smart--very smart, judging by her stories. He knew she had a great sense of humor. Everything she did and said expressed that. What he hadn't expected was how incredibly sexy she was.

That, of course, was a problem for him. How could he concentrate on writing, on creating a new story on the fly while sitting here next to her? How could he keep his head down and keep his eyes off of her amazing face and body and concentrate on the craft of writing?

He tried. After a bit of chatter and slightly embarrassed smiles, they both sat quietly, eyes on their laptop screens, considering. Listening to the muse that would start their respective short stories. Or so it seemed. Finally Mark looked up at Melanie and was surprised to find she was looking at him too. He waited for her to speak first.

"What?" she said.

"What? What do you mean?"

She said, "I'm sorry, it's almost like you're thinking out loud. Is it your story? What's bothering you?"

"My story. Yeah." He glanced down, considered for an instant. Realized it was not going to be possible, and would be pointless, to try to fool her.

"Okay, yeah," he said, looking back up at her. "Here's the thing. I can't think about my story right now."

"Why?"

"It's, uh, embarrassing. I'm embarrassed to admit why."

"Well, tell me. We're here to write, right? Let's talk through whatever is blocking that, if possible. Then let's write."

"What's blocking that for me is you."

"Me?" she said, brows furrowed. "Why me? I'm not doing anything."

"See, I told you it was embarrassing. I don't mean you really. Me. It's me. I just didn't expect you to be .…" He stopped.

"What?"

"So attractive. So damn good looking. So sexy."

She held his eyes but said nothing for what seemed a long time to Mark. "Okay," she finally said. "Thanks. I get it now. You're distracted." They both glanced away and nursed their coffees for a moment. "Can you just get over it so we can get down to writing?"

Mark said, "Maybe. I don't know. You can. Maybe I can. I know I should be able to anyway. Direct this energy into my story somehow."

"Right," she said. "Okay then."

They each turned their attention to their laptops for a few minutes. After typing a bit, Melanie looked up again. "Hey. For what it's worth, I'm having the same problem."

That's all she said. That's all Mark needed to hear. He pushed his laptop cover down out the way, stood halfway up, leaned forward, and kissed Melanie on the lips. Slowly. Gently. Lingeringly. She didn't pull away, didn't resist.

The rest is history.

Serena's Cape

This is a story of epic proportions, a mythical historical drama, featuring a powerful evil villian and an heroic female protagonist who thwarts him, with a smile and great attitude, and a single sentence. All of this in 175 words. I hope you enjoy. ~Mike

---

"Forgive me mistress, but you must know you'll die if he finds out. We all will!"

Serena continued weaving, eyes and hands steady. She looked only at her work and remained silent in the face of her servant's entreaty. Then she said, as she had said the day before and the day before that, "You've distracted me, Melanie. Now I've found a mistake. I must tear out this day's work and start again."

As her mistress began tearing out thread after thread, Melanie ran from the chamber, weeping.

The next day, the lord master of the realm arrived with his vast army. He came immediately to Serena's chamber, accompanied by the still weeping Melanie.

"What? Not finished? When will you deliver me my Impervious Cape?" Rage and impatience flamed up in his eyes. "I return to battle this day. I must have it!"

Serena looked up at him with a grim smile. "You've distracted me, your Lordship. You've caused me to make a mistake. I must tear out this day's work and start again."