Category Archives: Fiction

The Kingdom Belongs to Children

Max crouched down, squished himself in between two other six-year olds and waited eagerly, like a compressed spring about to uncoil, for his turn.  He looked up at his older cousin, Alexandra, and whispered, “What’s a sin?”

He was a little embarrassed and hoped no one other than Alexandra had heard him. She had seen what was going on between him and the other boy. She would understand that it wasn’t Max’s fault he hadn’t been completely listening to Miss Becca, his vacation Bible school teacher.

He thought it was nice that some of the married teachers, including Miss Becca, didn’t always want to be called Mrs. So-and-So. Miss Becca let you call her by her first name, as long as you added “Miss” beforehand. Max first met Miss Becca in church. She sat next to him a couple times during worship service, and every now and then she taught his Sunday school class. Max liked the way she paid attention to him when he talked with her. She looked him right in the eyes and didn’t seem bothered by any of his questions.

Today, she asked that everyone call her Lady Becca. All the lady teachers, the girls, and she were strolling around like royalty, with their chins up and heads high. When she spoke, she didn’t pronounce words like she normally did. Everything she said seemed more proper and formal, and to top that off, she taught the boys how to bow and the girls how to curtsy.

“Too bad for them,” Max thought. Bowing was so much better. It didn’t require practice like the girls were doing. Boys were way more cool. They could pretend to be brave knights defending a kingdom. He was glad that his mom knew about the medieval theme and let him take a toy sword to the summer program. Swords weren’t normally allowed at church. Max figured this week would be fun.

When Lady Becca had explained what a sin was, Max was distracted by his new friend, Aidan, who kept trying to take Max’s sword away from him. “Just for a minute,” Aidan had pleaded, but Max knew better than to give up his plastic weapon. He might never get it back! It was no wonder he missed some of what his teacher had said. He was lucky just to have caught the most important part: only one person in all of history has never sinned. “But what exactly are my sins?” he silently worried.

Without hesitating, Alexandra simultaneously answered the question he asked out loud and the one he was thinking. She said, “A sin is anything you do that’s wrong.”

“Thanks, Alex,” he softly replied.

Alexandra preferred to be called “Alex.” That’s what her mom called her, what her dad called her, and what Max called her, usually. Alex was pretty smart…and she paid attention. Or, she paid attention…and was pretty smart. One way or another, she seemed to know about God’s son who came down from heaven to be with people. Alex was fourteen and old enough to be Lady Becca’s youth helper. All the teachers had at least one of the older kids to help teach the younger children about the stories in the Bible.

Lady Becca described Jesus as both God and man but a man like no other. She gave examples: He had never lied; never cheated; and never hit his brother, not even once. She said, “Lots of people liked Jesus because he was good at fixing things. Many people hated him because they didn’t know him very well.”

For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many." Jesus' words as recorded in Mark 11:45 (NIV).    Photo by Kelly Bixby

“For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.” Jesus’ words as recorded in Mark 11:45 (NIV). Photo by Kelly Bixby

Alex added, “Other people had no feelings whatsoever about him, because they had never heard of him.”

Max took the piece of paper that Lady Becca held out to him. He noticed that it was shaped like a hand, so he held the paper up and compared it to his own. His palm fit inside the paper’s edges almost perfectly. It was as if Max had spread his fingers wide, plopped them upon a single sheet of paper, pencilled up and down, around and around, and then cut along all the lines to end up with the paper he was now holding. Max followed Lady Becca’s instructions and wrote his name in crayon on the front of it.

Lady Becca’s red velvet gown swept the floor as she continued moving about the room, passing from person to person, with the goal of giving everyone their own hand-shaped sheet of paper. She wore a stretchy silver fabric band around her head. It had one lone ruby-colored jewel in the center and wasn’t meant to look like a more elaborate, richly adorned crown. After all, she wasn’t “Queen Becca.” But she was dressed like someone who belonged in a castle.

When Lady Becca walked towards Lily, the tallest girl in the class, Max could see Lily’s eyes widen in anticipation. He didn’t think it was the paper she was excited about, however. He saw that she longingly eyed the bejeweled, golden scepter in Lady Becca’s left hand. The decorative staff was just slightly taller than Lily herself, who was about four-feet tall. Purple and gold ribbons streamed from the top of it to halfway down. Max guessed that each girl in the class was hoping for the opportunity to run around waving the fancy stick in the air and making the ribbons fly.

“Get rid of all the frilly stuff, and that stick just might come in handy,” Max muttered to himself. Then he heard the girls collectively sigh when their teacher tucked the prop under one arm so she could finish passing out sheets of paper.

Lady Becca said that everybody except Jesus sins. Max thought that didn’t make sense, because everybody knows the only things babies do are eat, sleep, cry and poop. Sometimes they smile too, but that’s just when they have gas. (He had heard that from Alex, who was too polite to say, “fart.”) How could they do anything wrong? They’re babies. Maybe Lady Becca didn’t know what she was talking about.

After thinking more about it, though, Max realized that Alex couldn’t be completely right either. Max was able to make Alex’s baby brother, Theo, smile just about any time Max tried. All he had to do was look Theo right in the eyes and make a big and wide smile first. A lot of times, he also made Theo giggle by doing that. There wasn’t gas at all.

It was nearly Max’s turn to stick his sheet of paper onto the Styrofoam cross that leaned against a makeshift wall inside the classroom. The paper was meant to represent one of Max’s sins, and the cross represented the real, wooden one Jesus died on. Around the top hung a crown of thorns similar to the one Roman soldiers had used to jab into Jesus’ head to torture him and make fun of him. This was serious.

Over 2,000 years ago, Jesus sacrificed himself so that people’s sins could be forgiven. Couldn’t God just change the rules? God can do anything He wants! Why did God want Jesus to die? Max was beginning to see how little he understood sin.

Max wasn’t quite certain if he was wrong by not sharing his sword with Aiden. “He should have brought his own. This one’s mine, and that kid might ruin it,” Max reasoned. Yet somehow, deep inside, he didn’t feel very good.

Max thought Aiden looked kind of sad. He remembered feeling that way himself just last week when Alex rode her bike over to visit. She brought an ice-cream sandwich. It was Max’s favorite and she knew it. She hadn’t given him even a tiny bite and ate the whole thing in front of him!

Lady Becca encouraged the class to study the Bible whenever they had questions about how God wants them to behave. She assured them that God wants what is best for them. She said, “God wrote a really long love note and sent his Word for all people. Sometimes it might seem confusing, but the more you read the Bible, the more you’ll come to understand how God wants you to live.”

Max thought, “Alex should take a look at what the Bible says about sharing.”

A moment later, Max surprised Aiden by lending him his sword. Then, the brave-hearted knight, Sir Max, approached the cross and let Jesus take away his sin.

Undressed

In the past few weeks, I’ve been taking an hour out of my day to develop several meet-cutes. A meet-cute is a term used in the movie industry illustrating how the main characters in a romance meet for the first time in a funny way. You can see the full definition on dictionary.com under the idiom for cute.

Generating story ideas for future projects can be daunting. A meet-cute is a fun way to jumpstart the creative process. What follows is one of the ideas that came out of this brainstorming.

 

"Die Geheimnisse Der Liebe", Harper’s Bazaar Germany, October 1996 Photographer : Pamela Hanson Models : Valeria Mazza & Jason lewis

“Die Geheimnisse Der Liebe”, Harper’s Bazaar Germany, October 1996
Photographer : Pamela Hanson
Models : Valeria Mazza & Jason lewis

“You’re not going to school dressed like that!” Sierra Pierson couldn’t quite understand what she was seeing. She blinked a few times, trying to clear the vision of her 15-year-old daughter baring more skin then a whore in a heat wave. Penelope, her sweet, innocent daughter, the daughter that still sleeps cuddling her Teddy, who still asks for a kiss good night, stood in the hallway wearing a skirt so high and tight that if she sat down the action would expose her to all of the free world. And the top…Sierra didn’t even want to think about the image burned on the back of her eyelids.

A curse upon her family was early onset Boobitis, and unfortunately, Penelope had grown into said curse in the last year.

“Penelope Olivia Pierson,” Sierra said, pointing to her daughter’s room. “Go change right now.”

Poppy stiffened. Her mouth just started to open as a knock sounded at the front door. They both looked down the stairs.

“Go!” Sierra said. She wondered who would come knocking so early in the morning.

“Mom!”

“No Poppy. I don’t have time for this.” Sierra shook her head and pointed to her daughter. She could tell Poppy was eager for a fight. “I’m late. Why did this have to happen on the first day at the new office? She thought. Dammit!  She huffed in exasperation. “Please go change.”

Sierra started to turn for the stairs. The knocking got louder.

“Just a minute!” she yelled. Poppy hadn’t budged.

“Can I at least wear the shirt?” she whined.

Sierra rubbed her temple where a headache started tap dancing, looked up at the cracked ceiling and sighed. The house needed a lot of work and so did Poppy’s sense of decency. Eyes back on Poppy, she gave her her best evil eye that would melt the paint off an icy flagpole. “Only if you keep on your hoody.”

Sierra watched Poppy smirk. Oh, she thought she could get away with something. Not this time.

“You better keep it zipped. I’ll know if you don’t. I have eyes and ears all over this town, even at your school.” She crossed her arms under her own ample breasts.

Her daughter squinted, gave her the lip-curl and looked like she was going to snarl her displeasure, but decided against it. Good thing otherwise Sierra would have to remind her, what a crazy mother could do to embarrass said daughter. In a swirl of thwarted slutdom, Poppy left Sierra to answer the persistent knocking. Sierra ran down the stairs and yanked the door open as her mind whirled with all she had yet to do to get ready for her new job. “What!”

****

Detective Lawrence (Low) Renicki rolled up to the two-story prairie style house in his pick-up truck and pulled to a stop.  Why his best friend, Burk, couldn’t deliver a package to his sister himself, he would never know. But he owed him, and this was the payoff.

Low reached over, grabbed the small brown box and winced.  He slowly sat back up and took a couple deep breaths controlling the pain that snuck up on him. It wasn’t as bad as a couple days ago; it was enough to dampen the line of his brow and upper lip though. He’d be dead if it hadn’t for his best friend and partner, Burk, tackling a suspect who’d pulled a weapon and got off a shot.

Low had been recovering for a few weeks now, but it would be a few more before he got back to work. He’d rather be sitting watching a ball game then out running errands, but he owed his friend big time. And this was easy compared to what Burk could have asked for. Walking with a shortened gate, he knocked on the front door.  There was no immediate answer but he did hear some yelling. He looked to the side through the narrow window but couldn’t see much through the thin curtain. It sounded like an argument. He lifted his fist and knocked again, his side throbbing with each bang. Low thought he should just go. He needed to get this done and get back home. Before he could knock again, the door opened in a flourish and he almost dropped the small package but his jaw dropped open instead.

“What!”

All Low could do was stare.

Burk’s sister leaned on the solid wood doorframe, one arm above her head, the other fisted on her hip, the fabric of her very tight, very sheer white camisole, stretched to within an inch of its life. Barely hiding her lace bra, also white, it left little to the imagination. And thank the fashion gods for that, he thought, because they had blessed this woman with the most luscious breasts he’d had ever seen.

“Uh, uh?” Low stammered.

“Well? What do you want?” Sierra questioned with an irritated snap.

Clomping of shoes snapped his eyes to the sound coming down from the second floor. What was her name? Poppy, that was it, Low thought, she was the exact duplicate of her mother, blond hair, blue eyes, a little less curve in the hips, still growing into herself. He guessed, just getting a good hold on her teenage years, maybe.

The girl smiled, looked to her mother and he couldn’t help but look back at Sierra, caught again by all her curves. His fingers twitched to smooth them under the hem of the slick pencil skirt that she had paired with the camisole. He would wrinkle it up as he peeled back the fabric that hugged her hips. Low licked his lips.

When the daughter started laughing, his head snapped up. The woman’s eyes glanced over her shoulder, and then quickly down at where Poppy pointed and laughed. Sierra’s eyes came back up to his and he smiled. He couldn’t help it.

“Oh, shit!” Faster than a cheetah, Sierra disappeared up the stairs. “Just a minute,” she yelled down.

Low chuckled.

As Poppy turned away and walked through an open doorway toward the back of the house, Low thought he heard her say, “Well, that was fun.” And for the life of him he couldn’t remember why he even stopped by. Oh right, he remembered, the package, and laughed again, waiting for the very sexy Sierra to come back down.

His morning just got a whole lot better.

A Clown Conspiracy

2015-03 PicAuthor’s Note: Every once in a while I like to publish a writing prompt on Twitter (@sueremi).  I like the challenge of coming up with a short statement that fits the size of a Tweet, yet, still offers something that inspires a story.  For this month’s blog, I used one of those prompts to experiment with flash fiction.  The prompt I chose is the first sentence of the story that follows.  If after reading that sentence you decide to write your own story, I’d love to know what you wrote.  Also, please share your insight – did I succeed in producing a story that meets the standards of flash fiction?  Why or why not?  In the words of Bill Gates, “We all need people who will give us feedback. That’s how we improve.”  I welcome all your comments!

Edgar stood sweating and certain that only a clown could like the outfit his mother picked out for him.  Today being class picture day, his embarrassment would soon be eternal.  Once the picture goes up on the wall, the sting of the teases and taunts from his two older brothers would haunt Edgar every time he looked at the photo.  His stomach flipped a little just thinking about it.

The line snaked down the hallway to the multi-purpose room where the photographer set up shop.  Kindergartners stood at the front of the line, followed by first graders, second graders and then Edgar and his fellow third graders.  The older kids hadn’t been called to the hallway yet.  The principal instructed everyone to keep quiet while waiting.  That, of course, had everyone itching to talk to each other.

At first, Edgar tried not to look at anyone, as if by not seeing he could not be seen.  Soon boredom overcame him and he started looking around.  Both girls and boys combed their hair and put the tools away only to pull them out moments later to go through the process again.  A few of the older girls had lip-gloss that they carefully applied while checking themselves in little pocket mirrors.  Boys were smoothing out their shirts or picking at things that had fallen on the fabric during breakfast.

A heavy sigh brought his attention to the person standing behind him.  Amy Myers looked down at her solid pink dress.  She scrunched her mouth and nose in a way that left no doubt she didn’t like the outfit.  Looking up she whispered, “Isn’t it just awful, Edgar?”

Edgar shrugged, “It looks okay to me.”  The line moved down a few feet.  Amy and Edgar followed automatically.

“I wanted to wear my sweater with the butterflies and ladybugs, but Mom said it was too busy for a class picture and put me in this plain old thing.  What does ‘too busy’ mean anyway?  She wouldn’t even let me wear my striped tights or put a butterfly clip in my hair.”  Amy crossed her arms and let out a harrumph.

“At least you’re not wearing a bowtie,” Edgar flicked the edge of the bow with his finger, “with polka dots to boot!”

Amy started to giggle.  “Oh, great,” thought Edgar.  “The girl who likes wearing striped tights and butterflies on her clothes is laughing at me, too.”

“Is it a clip on?” Amy asked.

“So what if it is?” he snapped back.  Shhhh… came from the principal down the hall.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, Amy said, “I’m sorry I laughed.”

“My brothers were laughing at me all morning, why not you, too?”  Edgar shrugged again.

Though they were already whispering, Amy cocked her head down and toward Edgar and spoke in a softer, conspiratorial tone.  “Have you thought about taking it off?”  Her eyebrows rose as she finished.

Edgar thought about it now, so deeply that the skin on his forehead crimped in deep folds.  “It sounds easy.  Who’s to stop me?  It will be a few months before Mom sees the pictures.  Maybe she won’t even remember how she dressed me.”  Then he got another idea.  Down his head went and he whispered to Amy, “Do you think it would look good on your dress?”

Amy squealed with delight, mouth closed and into her hand to muffle the noise.  “Yes, I think it will.”  Edgar undid the clip and slipped the tie to Amy who quickly snapped it into place right in the middle of her boat neck collar.  “How does it look?”

Edgar sighed with relief to have the tie off.  “A lot better on you than it did on me.”  Amy beamed a smile so wide he almost felt embarrassed – almost.  He smiled back.  “Don’t forget to give it back to me when we get back to class.”  Amy nodded as they moved to the door to be next in line for pictures.

When the photographs came a few months later, Edgar’s mother scolded him royally for taking off the bowtie.  Though angry, she still put the picture up on the wall.  Instead of feeling the sting of taunts or even his mother’s wrath, Edgar remembered Amy back in the hallway and smiled every time he looked at the photo.

Witchy Woman

Crows circled the house as my footfalls cracked branches and dirt sank between my toes. The old house was my safe haven, the darkness my hiding place when the light seemed too oppressive. Weeds clung to the worn slats of siding, vines crept up the walls, their small fingerless leaves reaching for the light and overgrown trees and foliage blocked the sun like living gravestones. I looked up to the ominous birds again, and asked, “Why do you circle crows? You shouldn’t be here.”

I walked faster, my steps uncharacteristically thoughtless. My worries were my own here in the dense woods, as I wandered outside the walls of my secret world. Then a tinkle of laughter filled my ears. I turned my head to listen closer. The delightful but abrupt sound echoed inside the abandoned house off its walls as I drew closer. I stopped, my throat closing in anger. This was my place. Unsheathing my dagger, strapped to my chest, I prepared to defend what was mine.

I listened for the sound again. Not hearing anything, I moved up onto the back concrete porch where the backdoor was wide open, broken from its hinges long ago. This time, I entered without a sound, my eyes scanning for any disturbance in the familiar landscape. I wondered what the humans were like who had lived here. Did they eat their meals together and talk about their day, or did they find the nearest pub to paw up the skirt of a wench. My long hardened fingers clenched and released.

I heard the laughter again, and sucked in a painful breath. I would have to find another place to go to for solitude. My shoulders slumped low, my fists clenched and my chin fell nearly to my chest, my mood slowly moving onto rage. I didn’t get very far. My name seemed to come to me on the wind from the next room, making my skin prickle and shiver with need.

“Silas Anastad,” the voice said joined by her tinkling laugh. “Do not leave.” The feminine timber singed my body. I turned to the voice unwilling to leave but my feet carried me closer.

“I’ve waited too long to meet you.” I smiled again as she spoke. “Come to me, male of the Sidhe.” That got my attention even more. How did the female know I was of the Fae?

“Because silly, I’m special.” She continued to laugh, the wonderful sound finally dropping off as I walked through the grand archway into the core of the dilapidated home. I held my weapon firm.

What greeted me was nothing less than astounding, the most beautiful human woman I’d ever laid eyes on. She seemed to glow from the inside out, her warmth radiating onto my dark, flesh, like a soft caress from her lips. I closed my eyes and felt it sink into my soul, opening a part of me that had been stuck in an abyss of hate. My body swayed forward.

Blinking my eyes open, I couldn’t help but stare. Her cerulean colored eyes were luminous. They glowed as if they were jewels filled with laughter. Soft plump lips, painted a glossy crimson, curled up in a mischievous smile. Her dark chestnut hair lay in soft curls winding down and over her full pale breasts that a black lace and blood red satin corset hugged so lovingly. Her lush hips flared out draped with more red satin accentuating her full figure so well, I wanted to grip those curves bring her hips flush with mine. When I trained my eyes on her feet, they were bare, her small delicate toes adorned with black paint on her nails, just as she’d done to her fingernails.

I cleared my dry throat, but the word stuck. I tried again. “Hello.”

She waved and looked at me coyly from under her lashes, her skirt twirling back and forth.

“Hello, Silas.” She stopped moving, her stature growing as she straightened to her full height, which was still much shorter than my six foot four frame, but no less commanding. She seemed luminous in her confidence, her age somewhere in her twenties, belying the number. It was amazing to watch the transformation from the shy but excited female to this more regal woman who stood before me.

I cleared my throat again, “How do you know my name?”

“I’ve seen you,” she tapped her temple, “up here, since I was very young.”

She was so beautiful, I lost track of what I was going to say. I shook my head to clear the confusion of her appearance, and finally asked, “But how? You’re human. How do you know about my kind?”

Her lips twisted up at one corner and her head tilted to the side, as if to tell me I was an idiot. I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I returned my dagger to my harness. She seemed so excited to see me, but I shook my head. “I don’t understand,” I said.

She started to twirl in a circle and hummed to a tune I couldn’t hear. I finally had had enough and quickly moved toward her, grabbing her by the shoulders, bringing her to a standstill, or so I thought. But she swept me up in her joy and my arms easily wrapped around her, one hand going to her little waist and the other gripping her nape at her hair, and we started to dance around the grand room. The music I hadn’t heard suddenly flit across the room as it transformed into something wild. The chandelier above us sparkled anew and the floor became a polished marble, the walls a rich tapestry of  fabric, as the magic emanating from her touched us both, carrying us in the dance. Her head went back, she smiled through her laughter, and all I could do was hold on.

“Finally,” she kept saying, “Finally.”

When the music dwindled and we came to a stop, she looked up at me and the world came to a sudden halt as our heads came closer together. She lifted a hand to my face and brushed her slight fingers against my cheek, up, over my pointed ear, and down my jaw, stopping on my lips. Her fingers touched me, where her eyes focused on my lips, in a lazy back and forth motion. Her tiny pink tongue swept across her own lips making them wet and I groaned. My head bent down to hers and…

I snapped my head up, but still held her close, my hand twining in her soft hair, tipping her head further back, not loosening my controlled grip. “You’re a witch.” It was a statement of fact and she gave another one of her tiny coy smiles. But there was nothing really coy about her. Her eyes flared with sexual heat and power that made my body stir as only a males could. I leaned in again, her lips parting, her breath hot, and my blood pumping hard as I leaned in once again. “What’s your name?” I whispered so close I could almost taste her.

“Analise,” she said, her voice a shiver across my skin, as her body started to tremble with a need as strong as mine, her scent sharpening as I breathed her in.

“Who are you?”

“I am yours.”

Hungry for a Short Story

WARNING: May cause cravings for Spanish tapas and short stories.

A meal of Spanish tapas is similar to the reading of short stories. Imagine different flavorful dishes served one after another – combinations of vegetables, fish, cheeses and more. Dinner guests suffice with a few bites of each dish. Add dates, sherry and marinated olives to the next round of tapas. Still hungry? Order again from the menus – hot or cold – with different ingredients, seasonings and sauces. Want more? Then turn the page for the next short story in an anthology because reading these tasty bites are just as delicious.

Like tapas, short stories come in many different forms and structures. Longer stories might be structured as miniature novels. The reader travels at warp speed through the character arch or hero’s journey. A short story, however, might give a glimpse into only one aspect of a longer story. In The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Writing Flash Fiction, one of the contributing writers, Nathan Leslie, categorizes flash fiction into five basic types: the monologue, the tale, the scene, the snapshot story, and the experiment. Leslie states the individual scene is the most common. The scene format worked for my first short story which I entered and placed in a contest. Since a novelist already thinks in scenes, this style is an easy transition to short stories. Likewise, in a tapas restaurant, an order might begin with the more familiar food items and progress to the more experimental.

The waiter brings the tapas and proudly says the name of the dish. We have ordered several tapas. Perhaps if the restaurant were not so loud, or our Spanish were better, or less of the sangria had found its way to our glasses, we would know what was in front of us. Nevertheless, part of the fun is guessing the dish. We sniff for the garlic and look for the pimento. And then, someone sees the olives and knows it is definitely the beef. A novel prolongs the guessing of who “done it” or “will do it.” Guessing games frequent literature, television shows and even childhood playtime such as Hide and Go Seek; Animal, Vegetable, Mineral; and Hangman. Short stories are guessing games on steroids. The form compresses the timeframe and eliminates unnecessary details or facts. The reader must parse through subtle gestures and implications to arrive at the theme and decipher hidden clues, meanings and flavors.

When I mention tapas, I also speak of menus, waiters and restaurants because it is far easier to eat tapas at a restaurant with a bevy of chefs, cooks and busboys. Similarly, short stories are a treasure to read and analyze yet very difficult to write. The challenge is to determine the most concise presentation of the theme and then the best way to reveal the story.

Now I have to decide which theme I want to write next. Which one of these will it resemble?

QUESO DE CABRA CON NUECES – goat cheese rolled in caramelized pecans, served with poached pear in red wine, grapes and toast points

CAZUELA DE PULPO – marinated octopus with sweet peppers and sherry vinaigrette

CAZUELA DE POLLO SALTEADO – casserole of sautéed chicken with garlic, chorizo, mushrooms and amontillado sauce

PINCHO DE SOLOMILLO A LA PIMIENTA – grilled beef brochette rolled in cracked pepper, served with caramelized onions and horseradish sauce

If you’re tempted by these tapas, stop at Emilio’s Tapas in Chicago for any of the menu items above. Take along an anthology of short stories by Spanish authors. Or practice your Spanish and read Colombian short story writer, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.