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Eleven Ducks All in a Row; Short Stories 2

Eleven Ducks All in a Row; Short Stories 2

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Eleven Ducks All in a Row; Short Stories 2

111 pages
1 heure
Dec 1, 2019


An eclectic mix of mostly very short stories. The themes vary widely from "Why Writers Write" to somnambulists to the 42 meanings of the word "fuck." Given the breadth, there should be something in here most anyone could like and something most anyone would find atrocious.

Dec 1, 2019

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Eleven Ducks All in a Row; Short Stories 2 - Simon Smithfield

Eleven Ducks All in a Row

Short Stories 2

Simon Smithfield

Copyright © 2016 by Simon Smithfield. All rights reserved.

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Dreams of the Somnambulist - Obligatory Entrails Number Three

He woke just before dawn and immediately recognized that he wasn’t in his own house. He had no idea whose house this was, didn’t recall being there previously and didn’t know how he got there. He felt eerie in the opaque gray silence. The semblance of diffused light meandering through the room’s one unadorned window didn’t enlighten, but served to accentuate the drear of the damp, early spring morning. It did nothing to dispel his vague feeling that something ominous was waiting.

Worse, the room was devoid of his small, but rare book collection. He would have to attempt to survive the day without referring to Tertiary Aspects of Pre-Columbian Eroticism, Lionel Model Prices as a Precursor to Apocalypse, Thirty Fun Things to do with a Washing Machine on Legs, and The Bilderbergers are Pissing in your Soup.

Though the rational side of him suggested that he remain exactly where he was, something compelled him to get moving; possibly a function of his being American. He rose and sat at the edge of the brass bed, proud of his accomplishment, and encouraged that nothing had yet struck in the tiny room devoid of clocks. Taking advantage of this almost confident feeling, he briskly walked out the open door and entered a dark hallway. The uneasy feeling returned and he ran to the front door and opened it to the soft morning light.

He thought he heard a cowbell, but didn’t see the cows or the one who rang. He walked down the garden path to discover that it led him back where he had started; the front door. Feeling dizzy, he got off the path, squashing a few dandelions in the process.

He approached two people who were apparently trying to do something to or with a willow, which had little to say in the matter. They had nametags pinned to their shirt pockets which said Emmanuel Tweak; PhD Forestry and Raashan Blind, PhD Physics. As he felt a need to protect his property, he attempted to engage the two interlopers in a polite conversation, which would basically say; Get the hell off my property. However the two with the tag things next to their nerd packs paid him no mind and continued with their own heated discussion. Apparently they were trying to measure the tree and were debating the proper way to do that. Emmanuel insisted that the roots should count in the measurement and offered a plan derived from other willow excavations to estimate their length. Raashan was adamantly opposed to that, taking the position that If it is not seen it is not there. He was amenable to digging up the willow to establish that indeed the tree did have roots, but Emmanuel had a problem with that saying that it would probably kill the tree.

The sleepwalker we know as He is compelled to step up for the good of the tree which belongs to him, but realizes that he doesn’t even know whose property he is on. Besides, the two with the credentials were only listening to each other, if that, so he continued on his non-path.

On the other side of the front horse fencing a person was using a screwdriver in an attempt to separate the mailbox from its weathered post.

He yelled; Hey. Get off my mailbox.

Ain’t yours.

Yeah, right. But ain’t yours either.

Soon it will be. Just a few more turns of the screw. These are valuable collectors’ items.

Abounding banalities say only trite things.


Drop dead. He walked on.

A thin, jovial man was grinning affably in the middle of the yard. He seemed very normal other than the tail which appeared to protrude from somewhere near the middle of his ass. May I be of any assistance? What is it you wish?

I want to be awakened.

With the lights out it’s less dangerous. Um, sorry, bro, can’t handle that one. But, I can get you a dinner with Jon Procalm.

What the hell are you talking about?

Hey, give me a break. Some jerk told me that Jon was going to be the next big thing in Bizarro. ........ Well, he didn’t lie. ........ Hard to tell. Jon may well be the big thing, but Bizarro has about five followers. So, I sprung and now I’ve got like 200 of these things to get rid of, no takers, and the jackass is going to get killed in about a year.

Oh, that’s awful. Maybe I’ll take one, but it’s got to be a package deal. Who or what is going to kill him?

Those poisonous little bacterial fuckers which grow on well used butt plugs. Colostomy bag and the whole trip ain’t gonna help. Those little bastards move quicker than a scalpel.

Colostomy bag?

Yeah, I mean it won’t be all that long. And they make ‘em better now. The things just don’t burst open like they used to.

Yeah, yeah. I heard that about the water beds. I think I’ll pass on that one.

"Smart man. Just as

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