
Story Bytes Issue #23, March 1998
=================================
  Very short stories from 2 to 2048 words with lengths a power of 2.
  <http://www.storybytes.com>


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.]


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Rasputin's Reluctant Concubine
              by
         Glynn Sharpe
      <tcurwen@stn.net>


Look deeper.

###

2 Words.
Copyright 1998, Glynn Sharpe <tcurwen@stn.net>.

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Mortality Part I - The Curse
             by
     M. Stanley Bubien
     <bubien@ucsd.edu>


"I want more life..."

###

Thanks to Rutger Hauer.
<http://www.storybytes.com/images/ah-sounds/more-life.wav>
4 Words.
Copyright 1998, Mark S. Bubien.

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Mortality Part II - The Blessing
               by
       M. Stanley Bubien
       <bubien@ucsd.edu>


"I am so tired..."

###

Thanks to John Lennon.
<http://www.storybytes.com/images/ah-sounds/so-tired.wav>
4 Words.
Copyright 1998, Mark S. Bubien.

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 Heroic Tragedy
       by
M. Stanley Bubien
<bubien@ucsd.edu>


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.

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The Other Called Great
         by
  M. Stanley Bubien
  <bubien@ucsd.edu>


"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.

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  The Popsicle
       by
  Glynn Sharpe
<tcurwen@stn.net>


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 <tcurwen@stn.net>.

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