Showing posts with label Troy Manning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Troy Manning. Show all posts
Golde’s Mine
By Troy Manning
Just as she’d half-intended, Golde Lokken found herself fully lost in the Norwegian woods.
Supposing the opening at the base of the frosted mountain to be some sort of mine, she cautiously stepped inside. Though the entrance was dark, she could see further on that, There’s light in there. She shouted out and hearing only her echo--Wasn’t it?, she proceeded until entering upon a family’s living quarters. “Hello?!” she again called out. Golde then wandered the rooms of what was evidently no mine--diamond or otherwise.
Her flight from what she considered a very undemocratic living arrangement had begun nearly two days prior, and now, she told herself, I just want to die. Her hunger, however, prevailed upon her to seek out any available food. While the kitchen’s pickings were rather meager—to one, anyway, who cringed, I deplore porridge--she did manage to scavenge some berries and nuts. Feeling fatigued, Golde started toward the bedrooms. En route, a home office with three computers caught her eye, and she decided, Hmm, Maybe I should unload some of my stocks. She was glad to find the passwords posted on a shelf nearby.
The code on the screen before which Golde sat was all but indecipherable. Moving to the next computer, she almost felt insulted by what amounted to cyber baby talk. She tried the third and the words that appeared read, “Just write.” And that was invitation enough for Golde to begin to trade her day and self away.
Working on a laptop in his multimedia class, the emergence of a notification that “SB is now online” surprised Spebarn Bjorn. Guessing that, Moder is getting in my business again, Spebarn Bjorn quickly sent a probing message.
Although her interlocutor maintained anonymity, Golde, with a near giddy abandon, provided him with her mother’s maiden name, as well as those of her favorite pet and team--For good measure.
It was Spebarn Bjorn’s fader who had informed him about identity theft, as his moder was virtually computer-illiterate. And Spebarn Bjorn now understood enough to see that, This jente wants to lose herself—both by her disclosure of personal information and, more especially, through her breaking into a den of polar bjorns. He closed the laptop and pondered how to proceed. Though Spebarn Bjorn was a common enough name, he still found it curious that should be the name of Golde Gunnhild Lokken’s favorite pet. He waited until recess to call Fader, as Hallefjorden High confiscated cell phones used during class.
Fader Bjorn was grateful for the information, as he had forgotten to bring his lunch to work. He thought, Maybe I could run home for a quick bite of her before returning for my afternoon meeting.
“Could I have her for my eighteenth birthday present?” begged Spebarn Bjorn.
“We’ll see.”
Spebarn Bjorn knew his Moder must have gotten home before he returned from school, as Golde sat in the family room tied up with a red ribbon and sported a white bow atop her head. He started for his parents’ bedroom to find his moder without first saying to their visitor, “Hi, I’m Spebarn Bjorn.” Not seeing her there, he entered the den’s office where Moder Bjorn sat at her computer. “Hi Moder!” he said cheerily.
She turned and regarded him with a quizzical expression, Moder? “Hi, I’m Golde Lokken.”
Spebarn Bjorn tried desperately to make her agree, Even stealing Golde’s identity doesn’t really make her Golde. It saddened him to think his moder could so easily lose the distinction between the virtual and the actual. Finding his efforts futile, he slouched back into the family room and asked the girl in the chair, “Are you my moder?”
“Don’t be silly, my precious spebarn,” she said. “You know I’m your moder, and that you’ve always been my favorite.” After wincing from the ribbon’s chafing, she smiled warmly, “Now please, come open your present before your fader gets home.”
- - -
Troy Manning is a graduate of Westminster Seminary California. He has recently been taking literature classes at Cal State University, San Marcos where his stories have been published in the creative writing program's Cat Ate My Chapbook, Fierce Notes 1 & 2, and the Spring & Fall, 2010 issues of Oh Cat.
By Troy Manning
Just as she’d half-intended, Golde Lokken found herself fully lost in the Norwegian woods.
Supposing the opening at the base of the frosted mountain to be some sort of mine, she cautiously stepped inside. Though the entrance was dark, she could see further on that, There’s light in there. She shouted out and hearing only her echo--Wasn’t it?, she proceeded until entering upon a family’s living quarters. “Hello?!” she again called out. Golde then wandered the rooms of what was evidently no mine--diamond or otherwise.
Her flight from what she considered a very undemocratic living arrangement had begun nearly two days prior, and now, she told herself, I just want to die. Her hunger, however, prevailed upon her to seek out any available food. While the kitchen’s pickings were rather meager—to one, anyway, who cringed, I deplore porridge--she did manage to scavenge some berries and nuts. Feeling fatigued, Golde started toward the bedrooms. En route, a home office with three computers caught her eye, and she decided, Hmm, Maybe I should unload some of my stocks. She was glad to find the passwords posted on a shelf nearby.
The code on the screen before which Golde sat was all but indecipherable. Moving to the next computer, she almost felt insulted by what amounted to cyber baby talk. She tried the third and the words that appeared read, “Just write.” And that was invitation enough for Golde to begin to trade her day and self away.
Working on a laptop in his multimedia class, the emergence of a notification that “SB is now online” surprised Spebarn Bjorn. Guessing that, Moder is getting in my business again, Spebarn Bjorn quickly sent a probing message.
Although her interlocutor maintained anonymity, Golde, with a near giddy abandon, provided him with her mother’s maiden name, as well as those of her favorite pet and team--For good measure.
It was Spebarn Bjorn’s fader who had informed him about identity theft, as his moder was virtually computer-illiterate. And Spebarn Bjorn now understood enough to see that, This jente wants to lose herself—both by her disclosure of personal information and, more especially, through her breaking into a den of polar bjorns. He closed the laptop and pondered how to proceed. Though Spebarn Bjorn was a common enough name, he still found it curious that should be the name of Golde Gunnhild Lokken’s favorite pet. He waited until recess to call Fader, as Hallefjorden High confiscated cell phones used during class.
Fader Bjorn was grateful for the information, as he had forgotten to bring his lunch to work. He thought, Maybe I could run home for a quick bite of her before returning for my afternoon meeting.
“Could I have her for my eighteenth birthday present?” begged Spebarn Bjorn.
“We’ll see.”
Spebarn Bjorn knew his Moder must have gotten home before he returned from school, as Golde sat in the family room tied up with a red ribbon and sported a white bow atop her head. He started for his parents’ bedroom to find his moder without first saying to their visitor, “Hi, I’m Spebarn Bjorn.” Not seeing her there, he entered the den’s office where Moder Bjorn sat at her computer. “Hi Moder!” he said cheerily.
She turned and regarded him with a quizzical expression, Moder? “Hi, I’m Golde Lokken.”
Spebarn Bjorn tried desperately to make her agree, Even stealing Golde’s identity doesn’t really make her Golde. It saddened him to think his moder could so easily lose the distinction between the virtual and the actual. Finding his efforts futile, he slouched back into the family room and asked the girl in the chair, “Are you my moder?”
“Don’t be silly, my precious spebarn,” she said. “You know I’m your moder, and that you’ve always been my favorite.” After wincing from the ribbon’s chafing, she smiled warmly, “Now please, come open your present before your fader gets home.”
- - -
Troy Manning is a graduate of Westminster Seminary California. He has recently been taking literature classes at Cal State University, San Marcos where his stories have been published in the creative writing program's Cat Ate My Chapbook, Fierce Notes 1 & 2, and the Spring & Fall, 2010 issues of Oh Cat.
Out There
By Troy Manning
Rubbing out the last granules of sleep, Allen picked up the electrical cord near the picture window and lit up the world. He watched as several birds flew by and a few fish swam past. He sat in his recliner with a gaping yawn, and considered the repetitive nature of the events unfolding before him.
He looked on as a flower opened and ejected a pygmy vampire turtle. “The world is positively polluted with them,” thought Allen. In truth, however, this one in particular was of a less common variety.
An elderly neighbor, Larry by name, retrieved the daily paper, while his dog Kendall waited patiently at the doorstep to receive it from him.
Several children, lunch pails in hand, approached a corner near Allen’s home to await their ride. “Couldn’t it be late just once?” Allen asked himself. Like clockwork, the boys and girls had barely reached the curb when the long, yellow submarine arrived.
Allen began to nod off. He dreamt he held a remote that could change the channel, sending all the boys and girls down a tributary of no return.
Though sleeping the day away sounded appealing, he entered the kitchen to brew some tea. He was startled at the sound of a knock at his door. “That’s strange,” he thought.
He opened the door to a timid young man lugging a satchel.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, sir,” he began. He quickly withdrew a book from the bag and held it out to him. “May I give you this?”
“Is that a Bible?” asked Allen.
“Yes, sir, do you already have one?”
“A book about God coming to this world as a man and dying for sinful people then being raised from the dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve all heard it a thousand times, why do I need a book about it?” He closed the door and started back toward the kitchen.
Allen’s irritation with his intrusive visitor became more acute as he realized the vampire turtle had flown inside. As he owned no dog, he had no newspaper with which to swat it. It repeatedly flew against the window before falling to the floor stunned.
“How could you possibly want to go out there?” asked Allen as he stepped on the turtle. Seeing no answer would be forthcoming, he unplugged the world and returned to his recliner.
- - -
Troy Manning is a graduate of Westminster Seminary California. He has recently been taking literature classes at Cal State University, San Marcos where his stories "Edgar's Telegram" and "Head Knowledge" have been published in the creative writing program's Cat Ate My Chapbook and the Spring 2010 issue of Oh, Cat!
By Troy Manning
Rubbing out the last granules of sleep, Allen picked up the electrical cord near the picture window and lit up the world. He watched as several birds flew by and a few fish swam past. He sat in his recliner with a gaping yawn, and considered the repetitive nature of the events unfolding before him.
He looked on as a flower opened and ejected a pygmy vampire turtle. “The world is positively polluted with them,” thought Allen. In truth, however, this one in particular was of a less common variety.
An elderly neighbor, Larry by name, retrieved the daily paper, while his dog Kendall waited patiently at the doorstep to receive it from him.
Several children, lunch pails in hand, approached a corner near Allen’s home to await their ride. “Couldn’t it be late just once?” Allen asked himself. Like clockwork, the boys and girls had barely reached the curb when the long, yellow submarine arrived.
Allen began to nod off. He dreamt he held a remote that could change the channel, sending all the boys and girls down a tributary of no return.
Though sleeping the day away sounded appealing, he entered the kitchen to brew some tea. He was startled at the sound of a knock at his door. “That’s strange,” he thought.
He opened the door to a timid young man lugging a satchel.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, sir,” he began. He quickly withdrew a book from the bag and held it out to him. “May I give you this?”
“Is that a Bible?” asked Allen.
“Yes, sir, do you already have one?”
“A book about God coming to this world as a man and dying for sinful people then being raised from the dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve all heard it a thousand times, why do I need a book about it?” He closed the door and started back toward the kitchen.
Allen’s irritation with his intrusive visitor became more acute as he realized the vampire turtle had flown inside. As he owned no dog, he had no newspaper with which to swat it. It repeatedly flew against the window before falling to the floor stunned.
“How could you possibly want to go out there?” asked Allen as he stepped on the turtle. Seeing no answer would be forthcoming, he unplugged the world and returned to his recliner.
- - -
Troy Manning is a graduate of Westminster Seminary California. He has recently been taking literature classes at Cal State University, San Marcos where his stories "Edgar's Telegram" and "Head Knowledge" have been published in the creative writing program's Cat Ate My Chapbook and the Spring 2010 issue of Oh, Cat!
Three Blind Doctors
By Troy Manning
Marcus returned from space with a severe cold. At first the physicians he consulted were flummoxed as they had never seen a bacterial infection quite like his. Because of the top-secret nature of his mission, he was unable to tell them which planets he had visited. However, even if he did say for instance, “I visited Saturn and Mercury,” it probably would have made little difference. The samples they took revealed a cheese-like substance that was slowly eroding, as though being eaten by an invisible rodent. In the previous century, such a discovery would have been evidence that Marcus had been on the moon. Today it was far less obvious where the cheese was.
Dr. Bartholdy quickly yet studiously severed the cheese sample with his scalpel before it disappeared completely. It wasn’t exactly jack and neither was it Swiss, but shared their coloration. He wondered if it was even cheese, but Marcus assured him the effects it had on his body were quite the same as those he experienced when consuming more than an ordinate amount of said substance.
The less convinced Dr. Evans secured another sample and set it before Brenda. Brenda was one of his more finicky lab mice who would settle for nothing less than the finer cheeses and wines. She eagerly consumed the entire sample then fell into a severe sneezing bout. After several futile efforts to stabilize Brenda, Dr. Evans finally obtained favorable results with a 2004 Petite Sirah.
The physicians entered into vigorous debate as to how best to proceed with Marcus. As Marcus was a former alcoholic, Dr. Bartholdy feared that by prescribing wine, they would only be exchanging one disease for another. He suggested instead that the cheese disease would soon run its course and disappear, given how quickly it seemed to erode without interference.
Ever the skeptic, Dr. Evans took another sample and increased the microscope’s magnification. While this didn’t make the actual culprit more visible, it did distinctly show the marks of incisors that were gnawing into the cheese. He solemnly surmised that when the cheese was gone, the invisible creature would start in on Marcus’ pancreas. When Dr. Bartholdy asked him why the pancreas, Dr. Evans replied that he was just throwing that out as an example.
A further complication arose when they discovered that, while cheese would disappear from one locale in Marcus’ innards, more would inexplicably appear in another area. The doctors agreed that such seemingly indeterminate behaviors were more characteristic of quantum physics than biology, even if the specimens were clearly more like cheese particles than cheese waves. They concurred that another specialist should be recruited for the project.
Dr. Beatriz Fuhrmann was a reputable experimental physicist. In lieu of Nobel Prize-winning physicist Hadrian Lothar’s still being on sabbatical, she was the next to be recommended. Dr. Fuhrmann, though ghastly fearful of mice, consented to the assignment since the repulsive pink tail would be invisible anyway.
Having secreted more than a liter of mucous and engrossed in the current issue of The Daily Planisphere, Marcus remained sufficiently occupied, if rather light-headed. He did notice, though, that Dr. Fuhrmann wore no wedding ring and that behind her rather gargantuan lenses was a woman possessing more than a pedestrian beauty. While Marcus, given his prestige as an astronaut, was generally quite unafraid of initiating discussions with women, he knew the fact that rodents disgusted Beatriz didn’t bode well for him. He immediately regretted having begun his conversation with her by asking if she thought he mightn’t be able to just pass the rat and cheese. She replied very formally that the series of appearances and disappearances they were detecting suggested that his body was riddled with rats and cheese, and that they wouldn’t be so easily moved. Still, by crying, Marcus was able to somewhat soften the bespectacled object of his interests.
Marcus was quarantined for several weeks while the doctors undertook their endless series of tests and experiments. By this time, the sneeze had vanished and the cheese had long since been devoured. So had an appendix that was due for removal anyway. Drs. Bartholdy and Evans placed indiscretionary bets as to which organ was next to go. Meanwhile, Dr. Fuhrmann had unexpectedly bonded with Brenda as she discovered they shared many of the same tastes in wine. And as a result, she became increasingly accepting of the rodents Marcus housed.
To Marcus’ great relief, these too eventually passed. And when they did, the pretty physicist stood right at his side, fanning the electrifying air.
- - -
Troy Manning is a graduate of Westminster Seminary California. He has recently been taking literature classes at Cal State University, San Marcos where his stories "Edgar's Telegram" and "Head Knowledge" have been published in the creative writing program's Cat Ate My Chapbook and the Spring 2010 issue of Oh, Cat!
By Troy Manning
Marcus returned from space with a severe cold. At first the physicians he consulted were flummoxed as they had never seen a bacterial infection quite like his. Because of the top-secret nature of his mission, he was unable to tell them which planets he had visited. However, even if he did say for instance, “I visited Saturn and Mercury,” it probably would have made little difference. The samples they took revealed a cheese-like substance that was slowly eroding, as though being eaten by an invisible rodent. In the previous century, such a discovery would have been evidence that Marcus had been on the moon. Today it was far less obvious where the cheese was.
Dr. Bartholdy quickly yet studiously severed the cheese sample with his scalpel before it disappeared completely. It wasn’t exactly jack and neither was it Swiss, but shared their coloration. He wondered if it was even cheese, but Marcus assured him the effects it had on his body were quite the same as those he experienced when consuming more than an ordinate amount of said substance.
The less convinced Dr. Evans secured another sample and set it before Brenda. Brenda was one of his more finicky lab mice who would settle for nothing less than the finer cheeses and wines. She eagerly consumed the entire sample then fell into a severe sneezing bout. After several futile efforts to stabilize Brenda, Dr. Evans finally obtained favorable results with a 2004 Petite Sirah.
The physicians entered into vigorous debate as to how best to proceed with Marcus. As Marcus was a former alcoholic, Dr. Bartholdy feared that by prescribing wine, they would only be exchanging one disease for another. He suggested instead that the cheese disease would soon run its course and disappear, given how quickly it seemed to erode without interference.
Ever the skeptic, Dr. Evans took another sample and increased the microscope’s magnification. While this didn’t make the actual culprit more visible, it did distinctly show the marks of incisors that were gnawing into the cheese. He solemnly surmised that when the cheese was gone, the invisible creature would start in on Marcus’ pancreas. When Dr. Bartholdy asked him why the pancreas, Dr. Evans replied that he was just throwing that out as an example.
A further complication arose when they discovered that, while cheese would disappear from one locale in Marcus’ innards, more would inexplicably appear in another area. The doctors agreed that such seemingly indeterminate behaviors were more characteristic of quantum physics than biology, even if the specimens were clearly more like cheese particles than cheese waves. They concurred that another specialist should be recruited for the project.
Dr. Beatriz Fuhrmann was a reputable experimental physicist. In lieu of Nobel Prize-winning physicist Hadrian Lothar’s still being on sabbatical, she was the next to be recommended. Dr. Fuhrmann, though ghastly fearful of mice, consented to the assignment since the repulsive pink tail would be invisible anyway.
Having secreted more than a liter of mucous and engrossed in the current issue of The Daily Planisphere, Marcus remained sufficiently occupied, if rather light-headed. He did notice, though, that Dr. Fuhrmann wore no wedding ring and that behind her rather gargantuan lenses was a woman possessing more than a pedestrian beauty. While Marcus, given his prestige as an astronaut, was generally quite unafraid of initiating discussions with women, he knew the fact that rodents disgusted Beatriz didn’t bode well for him. He immediately regretted having begun his conversation with her by asking if she thought he mightn’t be able to just pass the rat and cheese. She replied very formally that the series of appearances and disappearances they were detecting suggested that his body was riddled with rats and cheese, and that they wouldn’t be so easily moved. Still, by crying, Marcus was able to somewhat soften the bespectacled object of his interests.
Marcus was quarantined for several weeks while the doctors undertook their endless series of tests and experiments. By this time, the sneeze had vanished and the cheese had long since been devoured. So had an appendix that was due for removal anyway. Drs. Bartholdy and Evans placed indiscretionary bets as to which organ was next to go. Meanwhile, Dr. Fuhrmann had unexpectedly bonded with Brenda as she discovered they shared many of the same tastes in wine. And as a result, she became increasingly accepting of the rodents Marcus housed.
To Marcus’ great relief, these too eventually passed. And when they did, the pretty physicist stood right at his side, fanning the electrifying air.
- - -
Troy Manning is a graduate of Westminster Seminary California. He has recently been taking literature classes at Cal State University, San Marcos where his stories "Edgar's Telegram" and "Head Knowledge" have been published in the creative writing program's Cat Ate My Chapbook and the Spring 2010 issue of Oh, Cat!
Billy's Hearing
By Troy Manning
Billy’s hearing was set for the eighteenth. Until then he would have to make do with his other senses.
It was a good thing that Billy could read lips, as palm-reading had fallen on hard times of late. And though possessed of a remarkable sense of smell, he found it nigh impossible to hold down a nose job.
The most touching thing about Billy, according to his wife Irene, was his recently acquired taste for fine jewelry. Why he initially had been so resistant to her piercing his tongue was difficult for her to fathom.
Though Billy sounds more like a kid’s name, he was actually turning fifty-one and a half this month. Irene was throwing him a party, with a tattoo artist for the children and a plastic surgeon for the parents.
The party’s guests marveled at the surgeon’s alternative methods. He was dressed as a clown and used helium for the augmentations. A few of the boys had to get out their b-b guns to bring their mothers back down to earth.
“Ear-Boy” was the hearing-ear dog Billy received at last month’s party. Billy now noticed his frantic dog barking toward the sky.
Irene knew that at fifty years of age she had no business thinking about a lift, yet here she was. Drifting heavenward, she was regretting her decision never to allow their children so much as a slingshot.
Billy wondered how in the world he might save his wife, seeing she was already out of range of the boys’ guns. Just then, a baby began to wail in an unusually high-pitched voice after the surgeon finished with a still nursing mother.
Billy recalled his wife’s teasing him about his flat posterior and quickly butted in line. “Fill ‘em up,” he demanded. And so Billy took off after Irene, flying by the seat of his pants.
By the time Irene reached France, she had lost a great deal of altitude due to malicious bites from local mosquitoes known as Parisites.
Billy might have sailed on past Byzantium if it weren’t for the Eiffel Tower. He used the stud from his tongue to release enough air to facilitate his descent.
After several days, he caught up with Irene in a smoky café in the Latin Quarter of the Left Bank. He sat opposite her, causing the remainder of his cushion to deflate.
But it wasn’t until he suddenly started at the snap of his wife’s fingers for a waiter, that Billy realized today was the eighteenth.
- - -
Troy Manning is a graduate of Westminster Seminary California. He has recently been taking literature classes at Cal State University, San Marcos where his stories "Edgar's Telegram" and "Head Knowledge" have been published in the creative writing program's Cat Ate My Chapbook and the Spring 2010 issue of Oh, Cat!
By Troy Manning
Billy’s hearing was set for the eighteenth. Until then he would have to make do with his other senses.
It was a good thing that Billy could read lips, as palm-reading had fallen on hard times of late. And though possessed of a remarkable sense of smell, he found it nigh impossible to hold down a nose job.
The most touching thing about Billy, according to his wife Irene, was his recently acquired taste for fine jewelry. Why he initially had been so resistant to her piercing his tongue was difficult for her to fathom.
Though Billy sounds more like a kid’s name, he was actually turning fifty-one and a half this month. Irene was throwing him a party, with a tattoo artist for the children and a plastic surgeon for the parents.
The party’s guests marveled at the surgeon’s alternative methods. He was dressed as a clown and used helium for the augmentations. A few of the boys had to get out their b-b guns to bring their mothers back down to earth.
“Ear-Boy” was the hearing-ear dog Billy received at last month’s party. Billy now noticed his frantic dog barking toward the sky.
Irene knew that at fifty years of age she had no business thinking about a lift, yet here she was. Drifting heavenward, she was regretting her decision never to allow their children so much as a slingshot.
Billy wondered how in the world he might save his wife, seeing she was already out of range of the boys’ guns. Just then, a baby began to wail in an unusually high-pitched voice after the surgeon finished with a still nursing mother.
Billy recalled his wife’s teasing him about his flat posterior and quickly butted in line. “Fill ‘em up,” he demanded. And so Billy took off after Irene, flying by the seat of his pants.
By the time Irene reached France, she had lost a great deal of altitude due to malicious bites from local mosquitoes known as Parisites.
Billy might have sailed on past Byzantium if it weren’t for the Eiffel Tower. He used the stud from his tongue to release enough air to facilitate his descent.
After several days, he caught up with Irene in a smoky café in the Latin Quarter of the Left Bank. He sat opposite her, causing the remainder of his cushion to deflate.
But it wasn’t until he suddenly started at the snap of his wife’s fingers for a waiter, that Billy realized today was the eighteenth.
- - -
Troy Manning is a graduate of Westminster Seminary California. He has recently been taking literature classes at Cal State University, San Marcos where his stories "Edgar's Telegram" and "Head Knowledge" have been published in the creative writing program's Cat Ate My Chapbook and the Spring 2010 issue of Oh, Cat!
