Category: Old Stories

At some point, it should be understood that the silly stories with surprise endings are the ones I wrote when I was young.

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Science Officer Harris made his report directly to Lieutenant Morgan: “I have that recheck you wanted, sir. Everything is exactly as I said at first,” and then more officially —  “On behalf of the science department, I request that you give permission to reroute this expedition.”

But the lieutenant had already made his decision based on the previous report. “Do whatever you think is right, Officer Harris, and I’ll take full responsibility.”

“Yes, sir!”

If this decision turns out for the better, the lieutenant thought, I’ll get a promotion. And if it doesn’t, I’ll have saved time waiting for an answer. So either way, I’m set.

The original mission had been to investigate the possibility of life on planet Peregrin — named after the founder and commander of this expedition, Walter G. Peregrin. But now it seemed, after much careful testing and observation, that the next planet toward this sun had an infinitely better chance of having life — and thus a much better chance of intelligent life. The reason Peregrin was chosen was because a scout ship, nearly three years ago, had examined the planet — but had not detected this new planet because they had been on opposite sides of the sun at that time.

This new planet had conditions so close to their home planet it was unbelievable, but so as not to startle the natives (if there were any) they would not land — but would teleport two specimens up to the ship to bring back home. So the ship began its preparations…

The science department created a device which could measure learning capability. They reasoned that a specimen with great learning capability would have picked up a great deal of useful knowledge throughout its lifetime.

The day had come. Two specimens were picked up — and the expedition headed home.

Several months later, the expedition arrived back at their home planet — disillusioned. Their specimens had refused to cooperate, and had only given them trouble. Plus, the specimens had died shortly after their arrival on board the ship. This raised serious doubts, akin to fears, these people had had for many years — whether or not they themselves were the only truly intelligent race in the universe. Nevertheless on the expeditioners home planet, Partesiss, that day of contact would be remembered as the first (and possibly last) attempt to contact an intelligent race. But several months voyage away, on Earth, the day would be remembered as the day two infants disappeared from St. Joseph’s Hospital maternity ward.

Another story from my youth — with a disappointing number of (corrected) misspellings 🙁

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At decreasing intervals, the shrieks of a woman could be heard from the upstairs room. Though all in the downstairs hall hoped for the best, they knew that with no practiced midwife, the chances of both mother and child surviving the ordeal were scant. Even with a midwife, the chances were not much better. The shrieks came increasingly often, until finally they gave way to a continuous moan. Then there was silence.

After a time, the inn mistress came down the narrow stairs crying and smiling at the same time. Expectant faces turned toward her. “The mother is dead,” she announced, solemnly, confirming their fears, “but the child is a strong, healthy boy.” There were mixed emotions at the news. None thought to blame the inn mistress, who undoubtedly did her best to save the mother.

All knew the stories behind the fathering of the child. How a demon, maybe the devil himself, had raped a young farm maid. Much speculation had come up about whether the child would be human.

An old soothsayer from the same village, who had cared for the maid while she was carrying the child asked the unspoken question: “Is it — normal?”

Heads turned at the inn mistress’s delay in answering the old woman’s question. “Yes,” she said unconvincingly, “except that, it’s dark… black as the night,” she confessed in a rush.

The soothsayer excused herself to look at the baby and, as she mounted the stains, a loud crash was heard from above. Everyone rushed up the stairs to the room — only to find the window open and unbarred, and both mother and child missing. A howl could be heard in the distance.

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Many years later, when the memory of that night was forgotten, and those witnesses scattered by time — a hooded figure slipped in through the back of a small, seldom-visited tavern, and took a seat in a dark booth.

The coins were already on the table when the tavern master approached, and what drink the dark figure did order was left untouched. Soon, another slid into the booth across from the hooded figure and, studying his dark shape, also ordered — but did not drink.

The newcomer, a cunning looking man in his early thirties, had an animated conversation with the other, and then left —  leaving the figure alone with its thoughts. The figure sat for a time and, when the tavern master looked again after serving other customers, the booth was empty — with a few more coins on the table.

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A war soon broke out and, though fought for only a handful years, it left the surrounding principalities devastated. A huge ebony-skinned warrior took part in the battle — though it was hard to tell which side he fought for — if for any.

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Years past, civilizations rose and fell — and in their histories, many legends sprang forth about a black demigod who shaped the destinies of men.

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Many more years passed until finally this demon-spawn grew tired of trifling with short-lived men. He sought cure for his restlessness and, through the aid of a powerful sorcerer, projected himself into the past in the search of his father. He had never really known who his father was, and had always wondered about his own longevity. Now he would know.

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Upon arriving in the past, he searched the countryside around his birthplace for traces of his father. In his travels, he chanced upon a young maiden who he became enchanted with — and, one night, he came to her and lay with her. Afterwards, he recognized in her pale, frightened face — the face of his mother who, as one of the undead, had nurtured him through infancy. He laughed heartily at the irony, caring not as the maid slipped away into the night.

He had not only followed in his fathers footsteps, he had made them!

“He appears to be sleeping,” whispered one of the visiting scientists, a young man from Tel Aviv with something like awe in his voice. The twelve scientists grouped around the table represented the scientific elite from around the world. Prone upon the table was a normal appearing man who seemed to be about thirty years of age. His longish face was strong and untroubled, and was framed by a few weeks’ growth of beard.

“He certainly does,” confirmed Processor Stone, one the twelve scientists who had been called together to witness the awakening of the man before them.

“The time has nearly come.” a voice from somewhere above their heads began. They knew this gentle voice to be the artificially-produced speech of the Goldwin-Oknelhiemer Device — a vast intelligence which controlled nearly every aspect of life in the civilized world. The voice continued, “First, I shall give you some brief background on the Jenetic Clone.”

The men in the room all smiled when the name was said, because they knew the story of how a somewhat ignorant newspaper reporter had mistaken ‘genetic’ for the proper name ‘Jenetic’. The name had stuck, and now appeared misspelled in every scientific journal.

“The Jenetic Clone is really a phenomenal individual. He has 48 ‘parents’, one for each of the chromosomes in the human cell. Each individual parent was chosen for a single inheritable trait, and the corresponding gene was spliced into the first cell of the man before you.”

“А carefully chosen mother carried the fetus through gestation, and the Mosenkeld technique was used to bring him up to his present age — considered by some to be the physical prime.”

“He is a man, but much more than a man.” There almost seemed to be pride in the voice of the artificial creator of the Jenetic Clone.

“He has been taught standard English, even though today will be the first time he will be awakened.”

“Gentlemen, I give you my son.”

The room was silent, as the man opened his eyes, sat up, looked about calmly, and spoke.

“Peace be with you,” he said to them.

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This is what happens when you’re raised religious, but are a bit nutty and creative.

I have two versions of this story: the one above, and a longer (less religious) one with more details. I’m not sure which I wrote first. I don’t know if I decided to make a religious version from the more-detailed version, or the other way around. My guess is that latter: that I was trying to genericize the story into something potentially more readable and interesting — but I like the weird direction and brevity of the version above.

This must have been for a high school class. I was 17. It didn’t come back with a grade, or a comment from the teacher like ‘Good job’. All the teacher wrote on it was ‘OK!’

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He had waited eagerly all his life for the time when he would become a full-fledged adult. He had seen how his brothers had begun the transition, patiently preparing themselves for their last sleep before awakening to the status of adulthood — when they would spread their wings and leave home for greener pastures and a new life.

Now he felt ready, so he began to prepare himself for his last sleep of youth. He tucked himself in and closed his mind to his surroundings…

When he awoke, he knew the change had taken place. He felt completely different — more alive than he ever had before. He crawled from his cocoon and looked upon the world with new eyes. He stretched a bit, then started off on his journey.

And the butterfly sailed away.

What exactly is wrong with me? Another silly story (hopefully) also written when I was young.

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“I’m sorry.” I said to her tears. We sat across the room from each other — I, on the sofa we had bought shortly after we were married. She, hiding in the wicker chain that her mother had given her five or six years back. The late-afternoon sun poked its way through the curtains. Outside, a bird was singing.

“It’s not your fault… I don’t think,” she replied, unsure of herself. I could see that she was trying very hard to be brave — as she sat with her back straight, her mouth set, beneath her frightened eyes.

I studied her closely — examining her features, and realizing how much I had taken for granted over the years. She still had those same two eyes, that single delicate nose, and that lovely little mouth below it all. I touched my own face. I had two eyes, one nose, and one mouth also — what a coincidence. How about ears? I leaned to the side to get a better look. Two. Two for me, also, thank you.

I looked at her and realized how much I still loved her, possibly more than I had on our wedding day. Leaving would not be easy.

“You realize that I have to leave soon… for good?” I hoped that I was not the one to break the news to her — that someone had already told her.

Today marked an important point in my life. Today I was declared legally insane for the first, and hopefully last, time. Several men were waiting for me right now, outside, in their little white van. I was permitted this one last visit with my wife of eleven years.

In answer to my question, she merely averted her eyes.

Over the past couple of years, I had felt that something was different about me, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. When the explanation of insanity was brought up,  I instinctively knew that was the answer. I voluntarily had myself psychoanalyzed, and I could barely conceal my satisfaction and pride when the doctor told me that I had done the right thing — that I was indeed insane, but the best case of ‘functioning insanity’ that he had seen in years.

I had asked him whether it would be best to have myself committed, or to continue as I had been — a normal appearing stock market analyst. He advised me to have myself committed, telling me that it was the best thing for both me and my wife.

I looked up again and found to my delight that I could make the room rotate about the axis of my neck just by by turning my head. I stood up to see if this amazing ability also worked in different positions.

She stood up too, and I moved the room so that she was directly in front of me.

“I guess I’d better go,” I observed. She ran to me, threw her arms around my waste, and  squeezed me tightly.

“I love you,” we both said at the same time. I tried it again to see if it would work twice, but my second “I love you” fell dead, alone, in the still air. 

“Listen,” I told her, “I want you to forget about me, and remarry. Divorce me if you have to — I don’t know If it’s necessary, or even automatic — this is my first time.”

She looked at me, not wanting to agree, but not wanting to disagree either.

“Remember,” I added, “our little boy needs a father.” I was referring to the baby asleep in the next room.

She bit her lip to hold back tears, and I kissed her on the forehead — and then left her there, speechless, as I opened the door and stepped out into the night.

I must have written this when I was fairly young. There were quite a few misspellings, plus the story itself is quite silly.

Interesting that I used Google Keep to scan my hand-printed text into typed characters. It needed some tweaking, but it definitely saved me time.

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Dwyspedd motioned for silence. All eyes turned obediently toward him, but some with a little reluctance because, although he was respected for his great skill and strength, he still lacked experience enough in battle to add anything of value to their plans. But, like all the others, he was given his opportunity to speak in turn.

He was an impressive figure — standing tall and broad — and his youthful features and resonant voice added to the captivating power of his speech.

“My fellow Xaymacans,” he began, “you are all well aware of our present situation.” There were murmurs of agreement at this that died quickly — so that Dwyspedd could continue.

“We are being driven back by the Turenniens toward the Spotted Bluffs where many an army has fallen because of the sheer drop to the Calico Sea far below. Our situation is desperate, if not hopeless — and reinforcements are not expected for three more weeks. I realize this is the last session of the council that will be held unless, by some stroke of providence, we are snatched from the impending jaws of doom. Much is riding on a victory here, and we have put too much effort and lives into this war to give up now. This is what I propose…

The next day dawned bright and clear, a sharp contrast to the heavy gloom of the day before — and the Xaymacans took it to be a good omen. Dwyspedd’s plan had been a radical one, but it was decided to be the best proposed. The plan was extremely simple, and would give the Xaymacans a decided advantage over the Turenniens — possibly enough to hold them off for a time, or even enough to win the war. No one knew. None of the elders had ever seen or heard of anything like it and, stubborn as they are, they refused to put much hope in it. Most of the elders just sat staring, making amends for their lives, and waiting for the end.

The Turenniens were apopcoachiig — as could be told from their footsteps, and the dull clank of their armor. The Xaymacans rose to meet them with Dwyspedd leading the young warriors — wanting to be the first to try the new strategy. The time was now. Dwyspedd called out in Xaymacan to his comrades “Now! With your eyes open!”

They won.

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You see — up until that ending, they fought with their eyes closed…

Another story from freshman year of college (also has a date on the page). I don’t know if I wrote this freshman year, or if I just submitted something previously written. As I mentioned elsewhere, I oddly took enormous class loads during college, and sometimes cut corners to meet course obligations.

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“Vroom. Vroooommm.” The little boy sat under a tree in his backyard amid his collection of toy army pieces. Soldiers — both on foot and with parachutes, tanks, jeeps, mortars, airplanes, fences, barricades, and bridges were all divided equally between the gray German soldiers and the green Americans. The bird bath at his side contained several PT boats spilling over with men.

He picked up one soldier and walked him over to another standing behind a barricade. The second one was the leader, the boy decided.

“Sir,” the child began in a husky voice, “the Germans have camped about two miles to…”

“…camped about two miles to the southeast. They are about equal to us in men and artillery.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Major Lowen said, “that will be all.” The lieutenant saluted and left. Major Lowen stared out into space, while his mind shuffled through various tactics in an effort to avoid a frontal assault. After a time, he called together the officers that would be implementing his plan.

“Here it is. We are going to attack…”

“…are going to attack from the… back.” The boy picked up handfuls of American soldiers and dumped them behind the German lines. Regrouping them quickly, the battle began. He touched the German soldiers, knocking them over as he made machine gun sounds. American tanks blasted those of the Germans. The entire battle lasted less than a minute, until all the Germans — and most of the Americans — were dead. One soldier stood up from the group of survivors and surveyed the chaotic scene before him.

“What a mess,” the boy began, “we almost didn’t make it. We might not be so…”

“…might not be so lucky next time. But we did good, and I’m proud of you men.”

“Thank you, Major Lowen,” one man found the voice to say.

Major Lowen turned wearily away. “Let’s pull back and regroup.”

I wrote this freshman year of college when I was 19. Might have been for a creative writing or mythology class, since the paper has a date on it.

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Crinamin. The city of dreams. Where fantasies come true and reality surpasses imagination. Where beauty flourishes and knowledge makes its home. 

Crinamin. The city of magnificent buildings and exotic people. Where flowing fountains and wide streets gleam in the sun. Where lavish markets and colorful vendors make the city a center for commerce. And crime.

Crinamin. Where fortunes are made and fortunes are lost. Where dark cluttered alleys and secluded basement taverns harbor those who deal in crime. Thieves and highwaymen call the less respectable sections of the city home. Murder makes itself known — not only in the lower-class district. Other upper-class iniquities include: adultery, embezzlement, resale of stolen merchandise.

Crinamin. A taste of everything.

Now the city knew fear. All remained indoors during the dark hours because of the horror that stalked the night — brutally slaying five or six citizens a night, regardless of caste. All stayed indoors except two: the murderous beast, and a rider from another land who seemed ignorant of the danger. After an evening of ale and wenching — as well as unheeded warnings — he stumbled out into the night.

His name was Ramsey, and he vainly considered himself the greatest swordsman alive. Perhaps he was. But that was not the reason he took the chance. He knew the beast. It was his brother.

A month ago, he had seen his brother transformed into a shambling monstrosity by a wizard they were battling. The creature had immediately fled, and it was not until two days ago that Ramsey had come across reports of his brother’s whereabouts.

So he now walked the deserted streets of Crinamin with a short bow and sword — hoping that the creature might pause in recognition long enough for Ramey to incapacitate and, if necessary, kill it. Ramsey hoped to seek his brother’s restoration — but if it became necessary to kill the creature, he vowed he would not stay his hand.

He had not long to wait. Out of the night, the creature raced toward him. He quickly took aim with his bow, paused, and shot purposefully off mark — and an arrow sprouted from the beast’s shoulder. The next instant, the thing was upon him — stealing his life with a single sweep of its claws. Ramsey’s body fell back, his face now visible in the light from a nearby lantern.

The creature let out a piercing wail of sorrow that echoed throughout the city — causing many a heart to shudder. The beast ran blindly through the city howling its despair.

It was the next day that the body of the beast was found on the altar in the main temple, a sacrificial dagger plunged deep into the creature’s heart.

Though the circumstances were never fully determined, the stranger was hailed as a hero (his arrow was identified) and beast and hero — brother and brother — were buried side by side in the temple yard.

Crinamin. A taste of everything.