"Gimpy Brown"

Once, while I was taking a creative writing course at UCLA, the class was assigned to write a short story.  We didn't have to write a complete story;  we just had to come up with a good beginning, meaning one with an intriguing "hook".

So I thought about it a bit and came up with what I thought was a pretty promising premise for a humorous story:  it was to be about a man (named Jones I think... this was a long time ago and I don't have the manuscript any more) who died after having led what might generously be described as a moderately dissolute, though not particularly evil, sort of life in the fictitious town of Narrow Bend, Alabama -- then came back to life at his own funeral, to the shock of everyone.  Here I had the town doctor, who'd pronounced Jones dead, say it was "the most unusual thing he had seen in ten or twelve years" (I'm rather fond of this bit of understated hyperbole, if that makes sense;  it sounds classic American to me, not too unlike the signature style of... Mark Twain(?!) (please forgive the awesomely daring impertinent comparison!)).

Naturally everyone was curious to know what, if anything, Jones remembered about his experience while he was dead.  And yes, Jones had a story to tell -- boy, did he!  Indeed a whopping astounding yarn!  The moment his soul was unburdened of its mortal coil, said Jones, it dropped straight down into Hell (rather as expected by the good townspeople), but it turned out that Hell -- overseen, by the way, by manager Mr. Scratch, who was a fat black fellow with a multicolored bowler hat, a scraggly beard and a hearty booming laugh -- was not nearly so bad a place as it had been made out to be in Bible class, not by a long shot.  In fact he'd found that it suited him just fine precisely because it was chock-full of all the things and practices that were considered bad and immoral in this life, such as gambling, poaching, cussing, loose women (of course), and even deliciously greasy diner food!  Vice was the currency of Hell.  What a "life" he was set to enjoy for eternity, until somehow his damn ticker decided to start ticking again!

And that's as far as I got with the story.  I never tried to finish writing it, because, well, I kind of felt I'd bitten off more than I could chew, at least at that stage in my training and life experience, and was afraid I might finish by botching up what started out as a decent beginning.  I put it away, thinking vaguely that I would some day return to finish it -- but other things in life got in the way, and over the years I sort of forgot about my would-have-been career as the next O. Henry.  Oh well.

One thing that I do remember, though:  Jones had a best friend, a man whom everybody knew as Gimpy Brown.  I didn't think it was a particularly clever nickname;  after all, I'd envisioned the character as actually having a bum leg -- it was something of a throwaway detail -- but for some reason my classmates seemed to find it quite amusing and even witty.  Maybe they thought I would come up with a funny backstory to explain his limp^

Which brings me to the real point of this post.  I had just added a new batch of cicada skins to my cache

when I noticed that somebody had lost a leg.

Normally I don't keep such seriously damaged shells, but as there was no way to find out which one it was, I had no choice but to just throw the leg in the jar, too.

Maybe that's why that one individual was reluctant to join the others in the jar...

Anyway, all the foregoing about the short story I was reminded of, by the mental image of a brown bug missing one leg.  Alias "Gimpy Brown".

Place of honor along with my other treasures

My Untitled Tragic Short Story About The Sad Downfall Of A Sorcerer's Apprentice

A long time ago, I wrote a short story about a modern day disciple of a real-life sorcerer.  I never submitted it for publication and the original draft has been lost, but here is the gist:  the guy manages to hack his master's computer (but of course -- think Micky Mouse in Fantasia putting on his master's hat) to obtain secret knowledge of methods for summoning spirits from other dimensions, which, of course, he dares to do, even though "he wasn't ready".  Well, as you might well imagine, something goes terribly wrong, and he ends up being "infected", or should I say "infested", by uncounted sub-human spirits from a lower realm that visibly take him over, in effect turning him into a monster whose entire body is made of stupid, animalistic and demanding faces of the spirits.  In despair he goes to a hammermill shredder and throws himself into it, thereby ensuring that no one will ever know what happened to him.

Compared to all those other sad stories about interactions with spirits or elves or whatever, where the human almost invariably ends up being shortchanged by superior beings who promise wealth or longevity, etc., I think my story stands out for featuring spirits that are actually less intelligent and less capable than humans.  Pretty positive, no?^^

'A Year And Nine Minutes' (an A-to-Z story)

(O.K., all you would-be critics and kibitzers -- I happen to love me some good cheese, so there^^)

“All you need is love –“ insisted the Beatles on the radio as Calvin got up off the couch.  Bring in the torch of romance, sure, and light up your dingy hole – he thought, as a bitter smile crossed his face.  Clicking off the radio, Calvin grabbed his jacket, slung it over his shoulder and set out.

Darkness had settled over the street, and with it had come the first soft rain of the spring.  Even though the chill, damp air on his bare forearms was uncomfortable, Calvin chose to ignore it.  Facing the night alone, an idiot should be uncomfortable – it seemed fitting somehow.

Grim thoughts chased each other in Calvin’s head as he walked on aimlessly.  Had he done this or that differently, would things have turned out differently?   It was a pointless exercise in self-torment, Calvin knew, and anyway it was months too late, but he could not help reliving the events of the past year – so long ago, it now seemed – and recognizing that, at every critical juncture, he had made exactly the wrong choice.

Jovial regulars singing a tipsy tune in a corner booth;  Kamchatka Vodka in a frosted glass on the counter;  lemon zest and beer foam spilled on a table;  Maryann in her short uniform with the frilly apron, zigzagging across the crowded room with a trayful of glasses.  Now she turns, sees him and smiles –

Only after he turned the last corner and saw the garish neon sign did Calvin realize that he had wandered over to Quincy’s.  Probably it was nothing more than the force of habit, he told himself.  Quincy’s, after all, had been his favorite hangout long before Maryann had come to work there.

Raging at Maryann, accusing her of two-timing him, of playing him for a fool;  squeezing her slim arms as ugly, hurtful words come pouring out;  tears streaking her pale face.  Underneath the garish neon letters –

Vague apprehension filled Calvin as he made himself push open the door, step inside and look around.  Within, everything was the same as he remembered.  Xeroxed counterfeit bills displayed by the door, signed photographs of semi-celebrities on the wall, the cheesecake beer ad posters – all were there.

Yes, and Maryann, too.  Zigzagging across the crowded room with a trayful of glasses, she turns, sees him -- and with an aching deliberateness, she says "Calvin...".


Related Post:  The theme of the 'Return';  The World's Shortest Horror Story

The World's Shortest Horror Story

Boyfriend:  "Omigod, what in God's name was that?  Are you a witch?  A werewolf?  A mutant?  What IS that horrible thing you turn into?"

Girlfriend:  "Well... I don't turn into that thing... IT TURNS INTO THIS."