Here is an excerpt from a mainstream short story:
The Horseman
The commotion over at the Harrisons’ started as Jerry was finishing his dinner of chili and crackers. At the first shouts he turned the TV down, took his bowl and spoon to the sink, and eased his door open a few inches to spy old Mrs. Harrison and her son Cal out near their barn, going at it.
He’d heard them arguing a few times before, but never with such heat. The woman sounded like she was trying to take her son’s head off, while Cal threw every swear word in the book right back at her. You’d think a guy who was what?—at least twenty-five, probably—could be a little more civil to his own mother, even if she was a screaming old bat. It wasn’t as if he had to spend that much time with her. He showed up every few months and hung around a couple of days before taking off again to wherever he went. The only time Jerry had met the man was a few months back when he walked over to pay the rent on his trailer. The guy had seemed half drunk when he came to the door. Rude, too. Didn’t even say “thank you.”
It wasn’t all that clear what the argument was over. They were shouting at each other about money, responsibility, room and board, horses, being a good son, being a good mother, all kinds of stuff. It quickly got boring. Jerry closed the door, retrieved a beer from the refrigerator, and looked for something worth watching on TV. Trying to ignore the ongoing battle outside, he settled on a comedy show. Maybe a joke or two would help take his mind off things.
Things, things, things: what a week it was turning out to be. First there were those test results on Monday. The doctor had tried to explain to him what they meant, but he hadn’t understood all that well. Did it mean he was supposed to have the operation or not? The doctor said it was his decision. But how was he supposed to decide?
The very same day, there was that email from CarrieSweety6. For almost two months they had been talking on the computer every night. He’d thought there was something special between them. He’d even started thinking that maybe they should try to find a way to meet for real. But in her email she said she had found someone online who lived closer to her. Man, what timing! Just when he wanted to talk to her about the operation, how the idea sort of scared him, and see what she thought about it. But she not only said “goodbye,” she changed her screen name so he couldn’t even contact her anymore.
Then there had been the notice on the bulletin board this morning—that blahdeblahdeblah about cutting costs and the company keeping its competitive edge. What bullshit. And that’s exactly what somebody had written on the bulletin in magic marker, too. The bottom line was that a lot of workers were going to get cut back, Jerry included. He would drop from forty hours and sometimes a little overtime, to probably no more than thirty-five. Fifty bucks less a week after taxes. At least.
Jerry took a swig of his beer. Life. Why was it so easy for some people and not for others. he wondered for the thousandth time. For one thing, how did men and women get together so easy? Everywhere he went there were couples—young, middle-aged, old, it didn’t matter, everybody had someone but him. And here he was, thirty-two years old and never had a girlfriend since that Charlotte in the eleventh grade. How much better would life be with someone to talk to and cook for him? Not to mention sex. But how do you find a woman when you don’t know how to talk with them? Or when you’re not an athlete or real good looking? Not that he was exactly ugly. He had spent over a hundred dollars on a professional photograph to put online when he first joined that matchmaking site, and the photographer had made him look pretty good he thought. CarrySweety6 had said he looked nice. But it didn’t matter if you froze up with women. Even on the computer it was hard sometimes to think what to say.
As for work, that wasn’t so easy either. He’d been there for over a year now, and it wasn’t too bad. At least they paid for part of his health insurance. That was one good thing, especially if he decided to have that operation. But work itself was tough sometimes, getting along with people. Some were all right, but others didn’t treat him with much respect. Andy, his sometimes line supervisor, had told him more than once that he was stupid, or a moron, or some such. It pissed Jerry off, but he couldn’t say anything because Andy was his boss. But his boss was wrong. Maybe Jerry wasn’t a genius, but he wasn’t any moron. He sometimes liked to watch shows on TV about nature, for example. He was at least smart enough to do that. And he was at least smart enough to know he wasn’t a genius. But maybe that’s what you need to be in this world, a smart guy. Maybe being smart was the secret to an easier life.
Whatever it was, he thought as he went into the bathroom to take a leak, he wished his life wasn’t so Spartan. He remembered someone online having that in his profile—“Sometimes life can be Spartan”—and he’d IM’d the guy to ask what it meant. The guy had said it meant something like “skinny.” Life can be skinny. That was so true. There was no meat on the bones of life. Not his life, anyway.
He went to the tiny kitchen to get another beer and noticed the racket outside had finally stopped. They had probably taken the fight inside.
Three steps took him back to the living room, where he decided the comedy show wasn’t doing much to take his mind off his troubles. He knew what might do the trick. He sorted through his DVDs, picked one, and put it into the machine. He had loved Roadrunner cartoons since he was a kid. If anything could relax him, it was the Roadrunner and the Wiley Coyote.
He chuckled as he watched the always-confident bird escape the coyote’s clutches again and again at the last minute, while his adversary repeatedly ended up smashed by a boulder, blown up by dynamite, or at the bottom of some cliff. He liked the cartoons’ simplicity. Life was easy there. No complications. Even the banged-up coyote was always as good as new for the next cartoon. And he liked the wide-open spaces where the action occurred. Watching the animals running all over the deserts and mesas and canyons always made him want to be inside the cartoon, with all that space to roam around in. No restrictions. No barriers. No problems.
The heavy knock startled him. He turned the TV down and opened the door to see Cal’s heavy, unshaven face, almost orange in the light of the low summer sun.
“Hey bud, how’s it going?” Cal said. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Cal Harrison. From over there in the house.”
“Sure, I remember. We met before.”
“Mind if I come in so we can talk for a few minutes?”
“No, sure, sure,” Jerry said. “Come on in.”
The floor of the trailer creaked as Cal stepped through the doorway.
“You’re Jerry, right?”
“Yeah, Jerry’s me. That’s right.”
“Can we sit down for a minute, Jerry? Here at the table? I’ve got a proposition for you.”
“A proposition? What do you mean? Oh sure, sit down. Would you like a beer? I’ve got a couple left I think.”
“Hey, a beer sounds good.”
Cal sat his bulky body down in one of two wooden chairs at the round table as Jerry squeezed behind him to get to the refrigerator. Cal took the can from Jerry’s hand.
“I’ve got mine right here,” Jerry said as he stepped over to the coffee table in front of the TV and retrieved his beer. He turned the cartoon off, then took the other chair and waited for Cal to say why he was there. . . . . . . . . .
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Here is a selection from a romance novel in progress:
Guest Ranch Rendevous
. . . . . . . . . .
Wearing jeans and a short-sleeved white shirt, Susan stepped off the front porch into warm sunlight. A spotless blue sky rose over the green foothills to the west. Behind them stood the jagged peaks of the mountains, still snow-covered in mid-May.
What a glorious view! This was the first time she had really appreciated it, though she had visited the ranch twice before. That was soon after Aunt Caroline and Uncle Bart had bought it, the summers of her sixteenth and seventeenth years. On both visits she had been sure she was in love, each time to a different boy. She had spent most of each holiday on the phone to her current boyfriend, barely glancing at the beautiful scenery.
After that, her busy life had left her no time to return to the Idaho ranch. First it had been college, then graduate school for an MBA. Then she had landed a good job in Boston with a major development company. Over the past five years, she had risen to the position of senior marketing specialist. After Uncle Bart died in February, she had made reservations to fly in for the funeral, but a huge snowstorm had grounded air travel from the Northeast for several days.
The thought of Boston and her life there made her think of Todd. Why was it that every time she came to Idaho, she thought she might be in love? This time it wasn’t with a high school boy, but with one of her co-workers. Todd Johnson was the company’s chief accountant, and she had been going out with him since Christmas. He was a great guy—good looking, intelligent, thoughtful, dedicated to his work. But was it love? Sometimes she hoped so. It was time for her to find the right man, to settle down and start having kids. She wanted at least three. And Todd would probably make a good father.
But she wasn’t sure how she really felt about him. Often, he seemed more like a brother to her than anything. As for being a lover, he wasn’t yet, because so far she hadn’t gone to bed with him. He had been patient and understanding, which made her appreciate him even more. As a friend. As a brother.
That was the second reason Susan had jumped at the opportunity when Caroline called and told her of the fix she was in. The first reason was simply to support her aunt, whom she loved dearly. But helping Caroline would also give her time to get her head together about Todd.
She had asked her company for a three month leave of absence, not sure she would get it. But higher management, treasuring her as an employee, had granted her request. She had managed to quickly sublet her centrally located apartment for three months to a woman scholar visiting from Denmark. Two days later, she was on the plane. Todd, of course, had supported her decision to go help her aunt. He had even wished her bon voyage with a small gift at the airport. That was just like him.
Now here she was, in the midst of the Idaho mountains, determined to help Aunt Caroline get her new guest ranch off on the right foot. And also hoping to figure out her romantic future.
She walked across the yard to the stables, where the big doors stood wide open. The sweet smell of fresh hay greeted her as she entered. Four stalls stood along each wall, with five of them occupied. Three quarter horses and two calicos stirred in their enclosures, a couple of them leaning over to observe this new person as she passed by.
Susan heard someone whistling and found a trim, sandy-haired man with a big broom cleaning out one of the empty stalls. She introduced herself and found that the man was Sam Walker, the hired hand Caroline had mentioned. He told her he was about to turn the horses out to pasture. Then he would furnish the stalls with fresh water and hay. He seemed like a quiet young man, industrious and capable. He returned to his whistling as Susan went on to view the tack room just beyond the stalls.
After she briefly inspected the saddles, harnesses and supplies, she retraced her steps. Near the entrance to the corral she found Ben, the foreman. He was shoeing a sixth horse, a chestnut mare with a white mane and tail. She vaguely recalled Ben from her previous two trips to the ranch. Only a few inches taller than Susan, he was muscular, with a barrel chest. He offered a friendly smile from beneath a graying handlebar mustache and welcomed her to the ranch. “I remember your other visits, Miss Susan. But as I recollect, I didn’t see you outside all that much.”
“I guess I was going through growing pains back then.”
“Well, that’s something we all did as teenagers. It’s good to see you back here. Sure hope you can help us get Caroline’s new operation up and running.”
“I’m going to do my best, Ben. I’m sure we can make it work. But what a pretty horse this is.” She stroked the horse’s neck as the animal turned and nudged her arm. “What’s her name?”
“This is Clementine. She was a wild horse, rounded up with some others in the eastern Oregon desert. Bart bought her at auction three years ago for a few hundred dollars. Broke her in myself. She’s the sweetest horse you’d ever want to ride.”
“I haven’t been on a horse for a long time. I hope to do some riding when I get the opportunity.”
“You just let me know when you’re ready, Miss Susan. Clementine would be a good horse for you. And I can see that she likes you.”
“Thank you, Ben. I’m looking forward to a refresher course in riding.” She stroked Clementine’s neck again. “And I’ll see you later, Clementine.”
The horse nodded and whinnied.
Outside, Susan walked to the five new cabins on the other side of the main house. For privacy, they were spaced at generous intervals along a cold stream that found its way down from the mountain snows. Made of new logs, the structures included both one- and two-bedroom sizes. As she inspected the interiors of the cabins, her heart sank. There was so much to do! The interior carpentry was in various stages of completion. The bathrooms were a mess. The toilets weren’t even in! And she found only two workmen, both doing something with an interior wall in one of the cabins. How in the world could two workmen finish all of this in the next few weeks? And then there was the decorating to do!
For a moment, anxiety gripped Susan. In talking to Caroline before arriving, she had learned that her aunt would be in serious trouble if the guest ranch wasn’t successful this summer. The cabins and remodeling the house were costing much more than expected. As a result, Caroline had missed several payments on the big loan that she and Bart had taken from the local bank to help start the guest ranch. The bank’s president, a family friend, had been working with Caroline. He had given her to the end of the tourist season to catch up. That was mid-September. By then, she would have to become current in her payments or risk foreclosure.
How terrible that would be, to lose this ranch and its wonderful views! She knew that Uncle Bart and Aunt Caroline had always had trouble making a go of it with the ranch. Part of the reason was that it was small compared to other ranches in the area. Its size limited the number of cattle that could be raised. That was another reason the guest ranch had seemed such a good idea. But now all but a couple dozen cattle had been sold off, too. So almost everything was hanging on the success of the guest ranch.
Susan raised her jaw and tossed her hair in a way that her co-workers back in Boston had come to understand and appreciate. It signified one thing: that she meant business. Well then, she thought, there was nothing to do but to do it! Maybe she didn’t know much about guest ranches right now. But she would learn. And she would bring all the knowledge and skills she had gained in college and on the job to bear on the problem. One way or another, she and Caroline would make it a success!
A car was pulling into the gravel driveway, and Susan went to one of the windows of the cabin to see who it was. A large maroon SUV was stopping near the main house. She couldn’t see the dark-haired male driver very well. He was just sitting in the vehicle as if pondering something. After a moment, he donned a brown western hat and opened his door. As he got out, she could see only his back. He was wearing dark brown slacks and a sleek, medium-brown leather jacket. He was tall, standing about six foot two in boots.
He turned and gazed around him as if surveying the sky to see what weather the day might bring. This gave Susan her first look at his rugged features. He had a tanned, slightly weathered face, with a strong chin, high cheekbones and a Roman nose. A shock of wavy black hair escaped from beneath the front of his hat. A broad chest and shoulders filled out the jacket, under which he wore a white shirt with a brown striped tie. And then there were his eyes. Even from this distance, his eyes seemed to the strongest feature in a strong face. He wasn’t even looking directly at the cabins, but still they seemed piercing.
How could a pair of eyes seem so powerful from twenty yards away? Were they brown? Blue? For some reason, Susan felt she had to know immediately. She walked to the cabin’s open door and into the sunshine to see who this tall dark stranger might be. . . . . . . . . .
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Excerpt from a long short story in the science fiction genre from a few years back:
The New Samaritan
“Your leg is mending well, Mr. Chernov,” said Physician First Honor Rafael Newman as he clicked his patient’s cast shut. He rose and walked to the sink, where he removed his gloves and began washing his hands. “We should be able to get you out of that wheelchair and onto crutches next week. After a couple of months and some rehabilitation, you’ll be as good as new.” He pulled a towel from a slit in the wall, then turned as he dried his hands. “At that point, I hope you’ll resist jumping right back up on that polo pony. At your age, it would probably be prudent to focus more on your golf game.” A big smile erupted onto his handsome, olive-skinned face as he tossed the used towel into the sink.
Instantly, a small silvery creature scurried out of an unobtrusive alcove in the wall, scrambled down the sink’s side, hooked the towel with an agile claw, then began climbing up again, pulling the towel behind it. In a moment it would be back in its modest home, where it would quickly devour and digest the paper while extracting a bit of energy, then fit its metallic little butt into the recycling hole in the wall and excrete the remains. Afterward, it would settle down again to wait patiently until somewhere in the sink area the next bit of refuse fell like a loaf from heaven.
The examination took only a few minutes,” Newman said, “but the gov will pay for up to an hour on this appointment, and it would be wasteful not to take advantage of the entire allocation, don’t you think?”
The grey-haired man in the wheelchair gruffly remarked that since the gov was using his hard-earned taxes to pay the bill, it would be crazy not to squeeze every possible dollar he could out of the liberal blockheads, by God. And anyway, his chauffeur had gone off on an errand for his wife and wasn’t due back until the hour was up.
“Excellent,” said Newman. “Then why don’t we retire to the patio, where we can enjoy a few refreshments and I can apprise you of some of the hospital’s services. I recall that when I first treated you last Friday, you remarked that the only other time you had been in a hospital was the day you were born, and that you have an aversion to medical facilities. But I think you may find that attitude to be inappropriate in the case of New Samaritan. At any rate, it’s all the more reason for you to learn of some of the salutary services that are available to you during your treatment period. So what do you say? Are you up for a cup of tea?”
That seemed like a good idea to Chernov, though he would prefer something a little stronger than tea. Just a snifter.
“Certainly,” Newman said. He snapped his fingers, then spoke into the air: “Marie, would you be so kind as to bring a pot of tea out to the garden for myself and our guest, as well as that bottle of good brandy – along with the necessary cups, glasses, and other accoutrements.”
The soft voice that replied seemed to flow from all directions in the room: “I’d be happy to, Doctor.”
Newman took up a position behind his patient’s chair. “Allow me to do the honors,” he said, as he began wheeling the man toward a sliding glass door through which a sun-washed profusion of colors beckoned.
Outside, the patio was a cozy tiled square, five meters to a side, bounded by flowers, lush plantings, and several small, feathery trees. Newman parked his patient by a round wooden table, then made himself comfortable in a chair on the other side.
Through the trees, many similar patio areas could be seen abutting other offices along the interior ground floor of the hospital. Together, they formed the perimeter of a great square courtyard consisting of a small park with meandering walkways, an outdoor café, and a central fountain.
Rising above the green space on all four sides was the immense New Samaritan Hospital building, which swept powerfully up out of ten belowground levels that comprised the hospital’s core facilities – labs, operating rooms, ICUs, kitchens, laundries – to thrust high above the courtyard for forty stories. Most of the structure’s aboveground floors were devoted to wide-windowed patients’ suites and physicians’ offices, many with broad balconies, but the tenth and twenty-fifth levels consisted entirely of shops and restaurants, and on several floors large open areas stood above the courtyard, their interiors and possible delights only barely glimpsed.
Adding to the building’s magnificence and grand use of space were half a dozen arched skyways that crossed from one side to another at various levels, and lush hanging gardens consisting of enormous genetically engineered plants that clung to the structure at several heights. In addition, dozens of two-meter-wide balloons, their movements determined by computer-controlled currents, drifted lazily over the courtyard between the second and top levels, punctuating the air with bright, piquant colors whose apparently random movements seemed to spell out a message of carefree, adventurous optimism.
Capping it all was a cornflower blue artificial sky and a false sun whose emulation of an early summer afternoon was perfectly expressed in the limpid light washing down over the courtyard.
Newman smiled as he saw Chernov craning his neck: “In case you were wondering, the sky and sun track the twenty-four clock – so there will be stars out tonight. Maybe even a moon, though I’m not sure how that’s programmed. As for seasonality – it’s always mid-June here.” He took a moment to appreciate the scene himself, as he had a thousand times before, then continued, “It’s a fabulous atmosphere in which to practice the medical arts and sciences. I’ve been in this office for over twenty years, and I’m still impressed when I sit back and take it all in.” He grinned: “Must be still a kid at heart.”
Marie, a slim, fifty-something woman with short brown hair and the yellow sash of the Nurse First Honor girding her standard uniform of tan trousers and white blouse, brought out and poured the refreshments. “She’s a gem,” said Newman after she had gone. “Achieved First by thirty, which is remarkable. I was fortunate to have found her soon after I set up practice.”
He took a sip of tea. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you about our services, and especially about the physical rehabilitation facilities up on the fifth level. They’re outstanding. They include various aerobics and weight rooms, three pools, several dedicated SAMSA’s – specialized appendage mobility and strenghening areas – and all the certified personnel you could hope for to help you get the most out of the various venues. As soon as you go on crutches, I can set you up with a personal trainer, a light SAMSA regimen, and a schedule amenable to your own – to make sure those leg muscles don’t atrophy.
“Then, once the crutches come off – see that open space up there on the third floor, near the northwest corner? – that’s the dance rehabilitation area, where you and your guest will be welcome to join the festivities any day from nine a.m. to midnight. It has two small resident jazz and pop groups that play afternoons and evenings, as well as several certified dance rehab attendants. It also has a light-fare restaurant: just show them your patient card if you want to order anything and sign the check with your gov id.”
Newman leaned forward: “Listen. The sound blotters must be off. I think I can hear one of the bands now. Sounds like that Discord-Repro number that’s so popular, the one by Mistresses Za and Zi. In the event you don’t appreciate D-Repro, by the way, I can ask Marie to adjust the garden’s air perimeter to absorb the sound.”
Chernov swirled his brandy as a sign to let the music roll on. He had been scanning the surroundings while Newman talked, and it was clear from his expression that he approved of the building, the atmosphere, and the services that the physician was describing. An accomplished businessman himself, he was always curious about what factors led others to succeed in various walks of life. Now he wondered aloud how Newman, who was at most in his late forties but who had said he had been there for twenty years, could have managed to land in the most exclusive hospital in the District Medical Cluster at such a young age, especially with an office on the interior ground floor, no doubt the choicest real estate in the complex.
Newman laughed. “I’d like to say it was entirely due to hard work, but I have to admit there was a bit of luck involved.
Chernov’s raised eyebrows indicated that he wanted to know more.
“Well, it’s actually quite an interesting story – or at least I think so. It’s just the account of my first few hours as an intern – of how I barely escaped disaster and instead managed to set my career in motion at New Samaritan. Glad to share it with you if you’d like.”
Chernov wanted to hear.
“Happy to oblige,” Newman said. “But first I think I’ll pour a small glass of that brandy for myself. “After all, I’m a firm believer that one or two modest drinks a day can have salubrious benefits.” He winked at Chernov. “Not to mention helping to lubricate the vocal chords.”
He poured two fingers of brandy into a glass, took a sip, felt the sweet burn in his throat, then sat back for a moment and watched the balloons slowly rise and fall as he formulated his words. He always enjoyed recounting the story of his first day as a physician, and he felt that over the years he had become steadily better at it – better at honing in on the key elements, inserting enough detail to insure color and credibility, and pacing the story for suspense and for maximum surprise at the end. Long ago he had decided that when it came time to write his memoirs – not so long from now if he followed through on his plan to retire at fifty – the account would make the perfect lead in.
And not just because the story was exciting. To Newman it also had taken on the character of myth: the mission, the journey through stygian darkness, the emergence into a strange and frightening land; then the escape, the return to expected ignominy, and the final crucial test that leads to triumph.
There was even a temptress, a siren whose charms had almost caused him to lose everything. Of course, that same woman had also been instrumental in his escape, which was an irony that detracted somewhat from the mythic structure of his tale. Not to acknowledge her help was not an option, for Doctor Newman believed in truth, but over time he had learned not to emphasize the irony. Still, the account needed some sharpening at that point. Perhaps a way to do so would come to him on this telling.
Newman cleared his throat. “There’s probably no real lesson to be drawn from the story other than perhaps something about the importance of never giving up, or of being prepared when opportunity knocks. But I’ll let you be the judge of that. So, here goes.”
And he began:
It was commencement day. After two intense years of burying myself in classes, books, and cadavers – no pun intended – in the Physicians Accelerated Training Program, I was about to escape with a degree in General Medical, with a specialty in Pulmonary and a minor in Ortho. I had done pretty well: fifth in my class of thirty-eight. Within a couple of hours I would change my plain white coat for one with a red arm band and assume the lofty position of Physician Third Honor . . . . . . . . . .
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