Four Tales About Plaid Shirts by MangyCat

Here's the weekly challenge from CleanPlace.net:

The names you choose for your characters can say a lot about them. A name can even be a jumping-off point to create a character. This is a fun, short exercise to show you how changing a name can change the story.

Finish four shorts stories, not to exceed 500 words total. Begin each story with "The plaid shirt..." and name each character for each story as follows: Ashley, Fanny, Tab, and Maurice.




Four Tales About Plaid Shirts
by MangyCat


Ashley
Word Count: 129

The plaid shirt hung from the girl’s shoulders like wraiths’ clothes. Ashley held the long sleeves around her, long enough to tie around her back. She didn’t care how ridiculous she looked, huddled with her knees to her chin, sitting on the front porch for all to see as they drove down the street and pulled into their garages. The neighbors looked the other direction when they saw her, moving on with their lives like nothing happened.

But shirt smelled like him. She imbibed her father’s fragrance and rubbed her cheek against the worn nubs of fleece on the collar. She never wanted to forget this scent. He would never wear this shirt again for they laid him in the ground that afternoon wearing his blue blazer and red tie.

******

Fanny
Word Count: 140

The plaid shirt flew off the clothesline and across the highway. Fanny dropped her basket of wooden pins, scanning for traffic as she hurried up the rise. Clyde would be none too happy if she lost another work shirt to the Iowa wind.

She glanced cautiously up and down as the shirt rolled east like tumbleweed. A bend behind the trees fifty yards out didn‘t make safety easy. Her hearing wasn’t nearly as good as it used to be, and she sure didn’t want to meet her Maker because of Clyde’s shirt.

Fanny ran across the road. A windy wake blasted her into the ditch. She clutched the shirt, rolling onto her back. A semi-truck rushed away, horn blaring. She coughed against the exhaust but smiled as she rose and hurried back to the house. “Not today, You don’t, Lord. Not today.”

******

Tab
Word Count: 119

The plaid shirt lay in pieces. Tab blinked at the mess, unsure of what had just taken place. He sat beside the flannel fragments, staring at them as the sense of pleasure receded from his chest.

Sound. Garage. Happiness burst into Tab’s heart, and he jumped to his feet, running for the door. She’s home! He stood with his nose pressed up against the doorknob and felt the cold against his skin.

The door opened, and he leapt for joy at the appearance of Anna. The woman whisked past him, then made a low noise. Tab laid flat on the floor. His tail stopped wagging.

She turned on him with hard eyes. “Dog, what on earth have you done with dad‘s shirt?”

******

Maurice
Word Count: 112

The plaid shirt stared at him pathetically, as if to say that it was not the type of thing a gentleman should wear on a date. Maurice shed the garment and went for a white shirt and green blazer instead. His dour reflection granted a disapproving grimace.

What was he? A leprechaun?

The man ran his meaty hands over the sparse hair and wide forehead to shine up the Brylcreem. His heart skipped at the feminine rapping on his apartment door.

Maurice threw the blazer aside, opting for the brown jacket instead. He rushed to the front room, took a deep breath, and with a whispered prayer for a new wife, opened the door.

Original Short Story: Fishbowl

This was the assignment on my teen writers forum: Take something ordinary and make it scary. Craft a story in which something horrifying happens, but ground it in reality. Try to create something that is visceral and frightening, without going over the top or relying on gore.

Genre: Contemporary
Goal: To scare us silly!
Word Count: 800-1000 words

Fishbowl
By MangyCat
Word Count: 844

The plastic bag burst open below Taan’s hands. Cold water spilled into the glass bowl, sending its inhabitant swirling around the spherical prison. Blue gravel bounced up in slow motion, then slowly sank as the goldfish examined its new surroundings.

Taan leaned over his desk, arms folded under his chin, to get a better look at the new decoration. “Welcome to my office,” he murmured between clenched teeth.

The goldfish turned and waved its tail back and forth. For a second, Taan was sure the fish wore a questioning expression. But it turned again, and the fantasy passed.

He dropped a few fish flakes in and leaned back in his brown leather chair. Taan pushed his fists up, stretching his arms. Five days in his new office with a new title on his new door, and this place already felt like home. The firm had been busy that week, but Taan did not begrudge the work. Neither would be begrudge the higher salary that went into effect this pay period.

Splashing sounds caught his ear. Taan glanced at his new desk ornament. Streaks of water beaded on the lacquered wood and created a path from the glass bowl to his keyboard, where the goldfish flailed and contorted across the alphabet in wild gyrations.

Taan scooped up the fish and dropped it back into the bowl. He cursed as he assessed the damage to both the desk and computer. Positioning his sleeve to wipe the surfaces, he thought better of it and got up to grab the tissue box from an end table by the couch.

Just as he stuck his fingers inside the box, a wet, smacking sound drew him back around. The fish was out again and flopping on his keyboard.

“That the--”

Taan raced back to his desk, dropped the tissue box in his chair, and scooped the fish up once more. He tossed it back in the water, more forcefully this time.

“You have a death wish?” he snapped, yanking tissues from the box.

The fish leapt from the bowl on cue, but before she could flop the distance to his computer, Taan grabbed the bowl, put it below the edge of the desk, and wiped the fish into it. He placed the tank on the floor behind him.

Taan muttered under his breath as he mopped water. He balled up three tissues and carefully dabbed his keyboard. Tiny puddles filled the indentures on several keys. He swabbed them up, absently looking at the screen to see if his document was still in tact.

Taan’s hand froze. His brows furrowed, then his eyes opened wide. He turned around and regarded the goldfish with a new curiosity, heart pounding with uncertainty. Could he really be seeing what he thought he saw?

The fish remained stationary in the unsteady water. Taan moved closer, lowering to a squat. He picked up the bowl and held it at eye level.

“What the devil are you doing?” His voice was barely a whisper and scared him.

The goldfish stared back through the glass, then swirled the bottom of the bowl and launched through the surface. It hit him in the face, and Taan fell backward unexpectedly. The base of his head hit the hard edge of the desk, and consciousness left him as he crumpled into a heap.

The fish landed beside him and flopped into Taan’s curled palm. It lay gasping, its whole body inflating and constricting while it desperately fought for life in the open air.

When Taan came to, he felt the motionless goldfish in his hand. He dropped it on the carpet and scrabbled to his feet. Running his fingers through his hair, he turned back toward his computer. The document was still open.

He bent to read the words again. The last line of the client letter he‘d been typing read:

“For consideration of the facts that?/lkhmkjy ffffrreee meee freeeee mee fffrresaEE ME../ FREE ME FREE ME FREE ME”

Taan looked back at the fish. After a moment’s consideration, he picked up the carcass and carried it out. The light in the hall reflected unnaturally on the orange scales of the creature cradled under his fingers. He went into the bathroom and entered a stall.

Staring at the goldfish, Taan wondered if the thing had actually tried to communicate with him or if the letters typed were some bizarre coincidence. He dropped the small body into the toilet with a plop.

He pulled the handle to flush, and the water began to circle clockwise, yet the fish wiggled, then moved counterclockwise. Taan blinked and dropped to his knees. Was it swimming in the opposite direction? Before he could formulate an answer, the goldfish went straight down the drain.



the end

The Question

I started an online teen writers' group in May 2005. Every week, we post writing challenges. This is the one from January 1-7, 2009.

CleanPlace Squabblings Challenge: Write a story using the opening line: There was a boy named Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it. Taken from: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, by C.S. Lewis
Requirements: Contemporary Fiction, 500-1,000 words

“The Question” by MangyCat
Word Count: 800

There was a boy named Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it. His beady eyes, messy black hair, and bottle cap glasses certainly didn’t help him much either. The kids called him the teacher’s pet mercilessly, but he didn’t care one bit. There would be no other woman for him ever in his life other than Miss Candy Anastasia Francis.

Miss Francis had hair like the golden down of the tabby cat next door. Her eyes were blue as the rocks in the bottom of his fish tank. And her voice, oh, her voice! It was like the sweetest song the wind ever played against the chimes on his grandma’s porch. When she talked about the sun being a gigantic nuclear furnace, he became a star about to go super nova. He never wanted 6th period 5th grade science class to end.

“Eustace?”

“Yes, Miss Francis?” he replied, always at rapt attention.

Miss Francis leaned forward on her desk, nudging the stack of homework papers under her folded hands in the slightest. “Was there something else?”

Eustace went red in the face as heat rushed to his cheeks. He glanced around at the classroom which had emptied without his notice. “I-I guess so.” Standing up, Eustace pushed his chair back, sending the chilly scritch of metal on dirty tiles through the quiet room. He winced at his 11-year old awkwardness as he picked up his backpack.

With one hand, he reached inside and pulled out an orange. Eustace approached Miss Francis’ desk and laid the ripe fruit a few inches from her fingers. His pinky brushed her knuckle. “That’s for you, Miss Francis, for being the greatest teacher there ever was.”

She smiled, and the world exploded into symphonic splendor with a full choir of angels spouting Handel’s Messiah. “Citrus aurantium,” she said, picking up the orange. Miss Francis examined the skin and rubbed the textured surface with her palm. “Thank you, Eustace.”

Beads of sweat formed on the back of his neck. “You’re welcome.” He remained in front of her desk, mute to the question he wanted to ask. She probably thought he was just another kid in her class, but he couldn’t stand waiting any longer. He had to know what she would answer.

Miss Francis flashed another smile that blinded him with loveliness, then got to her feet. She glanced at Eustace for he had not left. “Did you have a question?”

His heart soared on a trapeze. How had she known the deepest desires of his soul? They had to be meant for each other. “Miss Francis...” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “I do have a question.”

She stopped straightening papers and crossed her arms. “Was it about today’s lesson?”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” he replied. “You make everything so clear, and I know science better than anyone in my family now. Honest.”

Miss Francis’ lips closed over her teeth, and the smile became a thin line. He had to act fast or he might lose her.

“What is it then, Eustace? What can I do for you?”

If only the words would come out of his mouth! Eustace chewed on his tongue. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. His sneaker kicked at the leg of her desk, making a dull thudding noise.

Miss Francis glanced at the clock as she picked up the stack of homework papers. Her eyes turned toward the door when she put the students’ work under her arm. She looked back at Eustace, the smile had gone completely. “I have an appointment with Dr. Kelsey in the school office. Maybe you could email me if it’s a hard question.” She came around the desk and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll have an answer for you tomorrow. Okay?”

Tingles shot through Eustace’s arm, and he wished he’d worn a short-sleeved t-shirt instead of this practical green sweater. He swallowed the question that pushed at the back of his teeth and nodded.

Miss Francis granted him one more million-watt smile and even winked one of those sea-blue eyes before walking out into the hall where she weaved between students who were fully unaware of the beauty in their midst.

Eustace Clarence Scrubb sighed heavily. He pulled a clean sheet of paper from his backpack and wrote four words on it, then signed his name. He carefully folded the note into a square and placed it on Miss Francis’ desk.

As Eustace left the classroom, the words he’d written played over in his mind. He would rather have said them aloud, but maybe it was better this way.

Will you marry me?

It was a big question, and she would need some time to think about it. Hopefully five class periods would be enough.