My latest micro-fiction offering began as a walk on the three block “downtown” section of my small, rural town. I find walking one of the best habits for my writing. Probably a quarter of my novel that I’m revising was written while hiking.
So I begin with someone walking past businesses in a small town. What developed from there owes some debt to a conflation of two Twilight Zone episodes. Mr. Dingle, the Strong is about a hapless man who is the butt of jokes at the bar he frequents. Hocus Pocus and Frisby is about a country bumpkin who is a renowned teller of tall tales. Both use aliens for comedic stories. As I scanned through IMDB to make sure I had the correct episode names, I was entranced by the feelings that so many episode titles brought up. There was definitely some amazing story telling in the original series.
The setting for this story is a tavern in a small, rural town. I was tempted to put it in a pub in Great Britain because I believe you would find more of the atmosphere I was looking for. But I didn’t feel confident I could pull it off. In my drinking days, I never encountered a situation like what’s in my story, but if it is unrealistic I hope that readers can experience a willful suspension of disbelief.
Story Hour
Toby was the first to spot him. “Here he comes, right on time.”
Gary followed Toby’s eyes out the window. “He’s hurrying too. Must be a good one.”
Chuckles reverberated throughout the little tavern. Bobby—affectionately known as Booby—was a treasure, of a sort. He showed up daily at happy hour. His wild tales were delivered with utmost sincerity. And when challenged, which he usually was, he would double down with a greater twist. Near fatal accident, cow with unearthly malady, family illnesses, UFO, localized tornado, encounters with government agents. The stories all had the same end, though. “Can one of you spot me a beer?”
And they did—after the desultory needling. Every man in there had. It was the cultural epitome of life in the small town.
All eyes were on him as he pushed through the door. Bending over and huffing, hair unusually disheveled, he pointed backwards.
“You were right, Toby. This will be a whopper,” someone said.
“Look how red he is,” said another. “He’s really into it.”
Bobby sputtered as he fought to catch his breath. “Chasing...chasing me…” He coughed and reached for a chair to support himself. “Think I lost it…” He let himself fall into the chair, looking wide-eyed at the amused faces surrounding him.
“I’ll bet he’ll tell us he lost his wallet,” Gary said. Toby punched him playfully.
“Now, now,” Ryan said from behind the bar. “Have some compassion. Look at the poor man. He’s been running for his life. My guess is the wife was trying to get him to do some work.”
Laughter filled the room.
The loud crash of the shattering bay window silenced the laughter and the room was drenched in the overpowering stench of death.
I hope you enjoyed this little micro-delve into the horror genre. I welcome reactions—good and not so good—in the comments.
I enjoyed your story too. You would definitely find that kind of character in a pub where I am in Australia.
I like it, Richard. Twilight Zone is a great source of inspiration! In my (as yet unpublished) book, I refer to the episode called “The Bewitchin’ Pool.” I look forward to reading more of your micro fiction. ☺️