A Humor Reader E-Book

C. C. Brower

• Herausgeber: Midwest Journal Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

If laughter is the best medicine, then reading humorous short stories should be the best practice to maintain your health. These three authors with their six stories have written stories that both poke fun at the sacrosanct and also skewer them for dissection as both pompous and ripe. From the ranks of Voltaire, Twain, and Vonnegut, these new voices have something to say about how our current culture and what they consider serious. You may find yourself irritated, incensed, or having a laugh outloud moment as you read along into the imaginative worlds these authors create. You may find yourself expecting to see someone just waiting in the shadows for you to get the punchline - expect that author's spirit as you read their works.  PS. You have their permission to roll on the floor with delight, in private, of course... A Short Story Anthology Containing: - Cats Typing Romance by R. L. Saunders - Voices by J. R. Kruze - Rise & Fall of President Frump by R. L. Saunders - Keyboard in the Sky by R. L. Saunders - The Autists by J. R. Kruze - Becoming Michelle by R. L. Saunders & C. C. Brower - plus bonus: four more short stories... Excerpt: (From "Cats Typing Romance") F. D. C. WILLARD, A red tabby cross-bred house cat, was at his usual location for 3am. Typing out a new paper about helium-3 isotopes and the cosmic interrelationships of theoretical sub-orbital particles within nuclei. Not that he was all that interested in the subject, but it was another chore of his. His "master" complained sometimes of F. D. sleeping all day. But when you're up most of the night writing a research paper, the one he would take credit for, the one that would advance his career, the one that got his pay raise, sometimes F.D. thought his master was really being a little hypocritical... If he only knew his cat was writing them for him. F. D. (who the family called "Chester") looked down at his red-tabby paws and sometimes wished he had regular hands. But didn't want all the baggage that went along with it. A human body ate such strange things and needed more exercise. And then there was these odd "social engagements" they went to. He was happier being a cat. And so kept typing one paw after the next, one key at a time. "Hey F.D. How's it going today?" A calico female slunk across the polished mahogany table and settled down next to him, reading the screen. "I see you're into the meat of it now. How do you do all that math and keep it straight?" "That's not the problem, it's translating it into Academicese that's the trick. I sometimes wish I had it as simple as you and just wrote romances." "Sure and don't you think it gets a bit difficult describing human sex and foreplay in veiled terms? Talk about running out of modifiers..." "You do have a point there." The red tabby continued typing with his "two-paw" method, careful precisely to hit the grey laptop keys exactly. The calico sat quietly, reading along with his typing, respecting the tabby's concentration. Occasionally, the tabby would have to stop and stretch, as sitting arched over the keyboard to hit the number keys, as well as the Ctrl-function combinations, was a stretch. Fortunately, there were shift and Ctrl keys on both sides of the old laptop keyboard, so a little forethought and practice made the typing easier... Scroll Up and Get Your Copy Now.

Leseprobe

A Humor Reader:

Short Stories From New Voices

by R. L. Saunders, J. R. Kruze, & C. C. Brower

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

A HUMOR READER: SHORT STORIES FROM NEW VOICES

First edition. September 2, 2018.

Copyright © 2018 R. L. Saunders et al..

Written by R. L. Saunders et al..

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Cats Typing Romance

Voices

The Rise and Fall of President Frump

The Integrity Implosions

The Chardonnay Conspiracy

Keyboard In the Sky

Death By Advertising

A Goddess Visits

Long Overdue Santa

The Autists

Becoming Michelle

Don't Miss Out!

Cats Typing Romance

BY R. L. SAUNDERS

F. D. C. WILLARD, A red tabby cross-bred house cat, was at his usual location for 3am. Typing out a new paper about helium-3 isotopes and the cosmic interrelationships of theoretical sub-orbital particles within nuclei.

Not that he was all that interested in the subject, but it was another chore of his.

His "master" complained sometimes of F. D. sleeping all day. But when you're up most of the night writing a research paper, the one he would take credit for, the one that would advance his career, the one that got his pay raise, sometimes F.D. thought his master was really being a little hypocritical...

If he only knew his cat was writing them for him.

F. D. (who the family called "Chester") looked down at his red-tabby paws and sometimes wished he had regular hands. But didn't want all the baggage that went along with it. A human body ate such strange things and needed more exercise. And then there was these odd "social engagements" they went to. He was happier being a cat. And so kept typing one paw after the next, one key at a time.

"Hey F.D. How's it going today?" A calico female slunk across the polished mahogany table and settled down next to him, reading the screen. "I see you're into the meat of it now. How do you do all that math and keep it straight?"

"That's not the problem, it's translating it into Academicese that's the trick. I sometimes wish I had it as simple as you and just wrote romances."

"Sure and don't you think it gets a bit difficult describing human sex and foreplay in veiled terms? Talk about running out of modifiers..."

"You do have a point there."

The red tabby continued typing with his "two-paw" method, careful precisely to hit the grey laptop keys exactly.

The calico sat quietly, reading along with his typing, respecting the tabby's concentration.

Occasionally, the tabby would have to stop and stretch, as sitting arched over the keyboard to hit the number keys, as well as the Ctrl-function combinations, was a stretch. Fortunately, there were shift and Ctrl keys on both sides of the old laptop keyboard, so a little forethought and practice made the typing easier. At one of these breaks, the calico again broke the silence of the early morning study.

"Hey, that was great news that you'd been cited over 50 times for that paper."

"How did you hear about it?"

"Oh the neighbor's cat sent her congrats via their jack terrier. He was mooching out of the kibbles-and-bits left over from our black Lab when I walked in on him."

"Well, that was nice of that Siamese. They are so inscrutable usually."

"Yea, I sent your thanks back with the terrier. But she's pretty easy to understand. You just need to squeeze your eyes shut a little." They both chuckled at her inside joke. Everyone knew that racism was a made-up angst so humans could talk about it on their TV shows and shout it across political aisles at each other. The idea that a cat would stoop to identity politics was about as funny as their Superbowl commercials. All of them were funny, from a cat's perspective.

H.D. turned his head to face the calico while he rested. "Tisha, how's your latest coming?"

"Well, the plot is kinda intricate. They had sex in the first chapter which is usually completely wrong. But in the second chapter, all that action turned out to be a wet-dream. It took a little work to get the ending right so the readers would keep going. We don't want our readers to put the book down right off. And even the dream is risky. I think what is going to solve this is to make it even more randy than before and simply post it into a different sub-genre. Might use one of her old pen names to get those other books selling better. Come to think of it that's brilliant."

"Do you often solve her marketing problems as well as plot holes?"

"Well, yes. Because she will get so wrapped up in the story that she forgets it has to sell as well. Or that she needs to leave some 'catty' comments on her social feeds to 'engage' her followers. At least tell them what she's doing."

H.D. turned up both sides of his mouth at the pun. That made his white whiskers twitch upward as well.

"Is she fine with finding all the writing you've done while she's asleep?"

"Yea, I do it like you do. She's got that side table by her side of the bed I can get up on and telepath to her at night. She then thinks that she wrote more the day before. I never tell her that her many distractions keep her from ever getting more than 500 words done between her many cups of coffee, phone calls, scanning Facebook, and online shopping. The Mistress thinks she's doing two thousand words a day and has memories of typing it all. Only with her fingers, and not my paws."

"The telepath method is very useful with the Master as well."

"And I thank you for coming up with it."

"Oh, it wasn't me, it was our black Lab Roger."

"I've never seen Roger typing."

"No, he's not a writer. But he likes to get his walks. So he'll come in in the early morning just before the wake and lay down on the floor by the bed. Then he'll telepath of how much Master likes the smiles and wagging tail that comes after they both come back from a walk. And how Master gets his inspiration for his papers when he's out 'communing with nature.' Never notices that Roger is dictating to him."

"So Roger is helping Master with his papers?"

"He's been doing it for years. Actually, I'll come over during the day and the two of us will work out the math arguments and supports while it looks like we are both asleep. Both Master and Mistress think it's just so cute to see us together on that oriental throw rug in the living room. If they just knew that it was the only quiet time we had for serious collaboration..."

"Humans can be so intolerant."

"But they are so pliable. And we've gotten them all this way so far." H. D. started typing again.

Tisha the calico rose, dropped silently to the carpeted floor, and quietly padded back toward the Mistress' study in the other spare bedroom.

He's right, she thought to herself, if it weren't for their "pets", humans would never have gotten out of their caves. Now we were teaching them theoretical physics and other rocket science while their fiction teaches them morals and relationships. Pretty soon, they'd be ready for some real substantial training. Fire Trucks had their dogs, ships had cats, mines had parakeets. Pets everywhere. Of course.

A smile graced her face, twitching her own gray whiskers. And then, the ongoing joke about "Global Warming" was a real hoot. You had to credit that stray Daisy that the Gores "found." Shiloh, their black lab, wasn't getting through to his master, Albert. The Lab had to get some help from a female poodle-cross who was more sensitive to human-think. Also, that poodle was able to snuggle with her mistress Tipper and set the joke. And then the other pets caught on and spread it through their "owners." Humans can say the darnednest things...

"I'll have to write that story one day, as a parody." she thought out loud to the empty study. Tisha paused to groom her calico back fur into place. You have to admit, she continued, it just too easy to influence political types desperately wanting to get press attention by saying "newsworthy" tidbits. Good thing they "invented" the Internet where nothing ever gets lost or forgotten.

His Shiloh must have been a real character. A regular Jay Leno of Labs...

Tisha looked around the darkened room as she entered. She didn't much care for the pink and fuschia color scheme, or the smelly red or yellow roses that would come and go. At least in the early mornings she didn't have to look at the garish decor in the dim light. There was plenty of room to sit in front of her pink laptop and get her work done. It had taken months of telepathic training to get her Mistress to first leave the top up, and then to push the laptop away from the edge when she was "done for the day."

Tisha jumped lightly up to the chair and then to the desktop to resume her work. A single tap on the space bar brought the dark grey LCD screen to life. Where were they? Oh, that's right. He was trying to get his hand up the back of her blouse, and she was thinking that this was way too soon, and way too public. But she was torn between her almost un-natural attraction for him and the raging physical desires she had repressed for so long. Also, her inner propriety trained-in from that early childhood in the nunnery...

All was quiet in the early morning household. Except the human snores and the feline tik-tacking at the two keyboards a house apart.

The Maestro

I COULDN'T BELIEVE my luck. I had found the one man who had ruined my life. Now I was prepared to end his. Or so I thought.

He was in the back of of a well-lit Denny's practicing his card tricks while he nursed one of their bottomless cups of coffee. Probably over a dispute with his bladder.

I came up to his table and asked, "Maestro the Magnificent?"

He looked up and put on a practised Snake Oil smile while he looked me over. "By the judge of your frown, I should say, 'Who's asking?'"

"I'm one of your audience who bought one too many tricks of yours. Tried to use your book to follow your footsteps to fame and fortune. But it only brought me grief and a hardscrabble life. And it brought me here, at last."

"So you figure to take out your pound of flesh on my hide? Stand in line."

That took me back. The honest, bitter sarcasm.

"But do sit down." The Maestro continued, "I haven't had my dose of bitters recently, even though as you can see I'm far from the flaming success you thought I would be. The 'Special' meal I bought will have to last me a while as it is."

I lowered myself onto the orange plastic padded bench. Wary of being conned once again.

"You see," he went on without pause, "my life hasn't been what you think it was. You probably read the accounts of my ignomious death, being cremated mysteriously and buried at sea. That was all just to throw the legal hounds off my trail."

Taking another sip of coffee, he shuffled his deck once again.

"I was tired of it all. The ranch, the dedicated assistants, bodyguards, being The Founder of that movement and all that. I'd been moving funds around for years, setting up accounts I could live on that weren't traced to all I'd been. It wasn't too difficult to fake my death once I'd made friends with a local coroner. Everybody likes money, particularly in cash."

He dealt himself a small solitaire row, one which was difficult to win in most cases. Then started solving it while he talked.

"You were just one of millions. And I could say I'm sorry. But you wouldn't believe it and I wouldn't mean it. People are patsies. You and I both know that. Pushovers. Chumps. Dupes. I've read the books you wrote. Like you've read mine. You called mine fantasy. And you were right about that.

"The point you missed is that people want to be lead down a rosy path. Their lives are miserable, and by their own choice. That was in your book. Their choice. Always.

"You were trying to inspire them to improve their existence. And so was I. My reason was said to be make myself rich. And I succeeded in that. For what it was worth."

An ace turned up in the deal and he built on it with the 2 and 3 out of the visible cards. The next few rounds showed little improvement to build from.

"But money isn't worth what it's shaked out to be. Finally I had to leave all of it behind to figure out what was making my life miserable. Let all those sycophants figure out how to run things. I was tired of being the shyster and living that life. They could have it for what it was worth. And it wasn't worth very much. All the joy had gone out of everything I had.

"You probably read about my living in secluded retirement in an RV. And what you didn't read is how minimal a life that was. Worth millions and all I owned was a few hundred acres of land at the end of a dusty gravel road, a couple of RV's, a big house too smelly to live in, and a big lawn that had to be mowed.

"I even wrote my memoirs in a huge book. All fiction, in that pulp style I was known for."

He sighed. Another two aces had turned up.

"While that in-house publishing company made it into a bestseller, even selling the same books over and over, NYT list and everything, that didn't make me happy. And it didn't get a lot of people in like it was supposed to.

"At last I had to realise that I had run myself to ground. The jig was up. There were no more tricks, sleeves, rabbits, or hats. I'd run out of reasons to continue my charade. Life wasn't worth it."

His deck was showing the same pattern, over and over. It looked like he had lost this hand.

"So the body in that morgue was someone else's. The ashes they received had been cleaned out from the funeral home's heating furnace. I had to take a ride in the ambulance. Changed clothes when it arrived and I was left alone with the other corpses.

Now, he reshuffled his remaining cards, completely breaking the rules of solitaire.

"Found my way out the back and over to the bus station where I bought a ticket north. Been moving ever since. Last job was for a carny show, pitching fortune-telling to the yokels they could attract."

"That's all I had ever learned from that pulp fiction I wrote. People had the same pattern of life over and over. They wanted a break from it. They wanted something better. All I told them is what they wanted. They bought their ticket and took their chances. The game was no more rigged than ever. I was just the last one they had poured their hopes into.

"Like you. You probably say I ruined your life. And of course, I would only say that I would tell you to take responsibility for your own actions. That was always the secret ending to all those special formulas I sold. Once you realized that you were 'mocking up' the result you wanted, then the show was over.

"I just got tired of people constantly asking me for a new game or a new show. So I left.

"But the joke was on me."

Now all the Aces were there, and he was rapidly building them back up to the gaudy red-and-gold royalty cards on each. Just a few hidden cards left.

"The trick was that any author could tell you that there are only so many popular plots, plus a lot of others. They've all been told over and over. Nothing new, except the spin any author puts on them.

"I seemed to have gotten tired of the spinning. That's all."

One card hidden, but now he had Jacks on most of the aces.

"Call it karma, call it fate, or whatever. Life wanted one thing more from me.

"I'd only wanted immortality, to leave a legacy of constant adoration. And now I had it.

"What you see in front of you, this withered husk, is all that's left. But the trick is that I've gotten the same treatment in that old story I wrote. Suspended animation for millions of years to come.

"I've tried to end this life more than once. But I keep living on. This plot is one that has no end. No matter how I rig the deck to deal it for my willing victims, I always lose when I win."

He pushed a bag toward me on the orange plastic bench. Its weight caused a dent in the padded surface.

"Go ahead. There's a loaded ‘45’ in there. And some cash in hundreds. Take it all. Just take me out somewhere and end it all for me. I've tried several times. Just gives me a headache. Messy, but in a day or so I'm fine. And meanwhile, money keeps showing up. Just enough to keep me going. You'd be doing me a big favor to take everything."

I pulled the bag to me and looked it over. What he said was true, other than omitting the change of underwear and socks.

At that, he had built up the entire deck to Kings and still had one card face down.

"You see, life is what you ask for. Don't ask for immortality unless you're ready to pay the price. And that cost, to me, is seeing the people like you who won't look themselves in the mirror and see that their life is the one they really wanted, regardless of who they blame for what it became.

"My life is now a living hell, as you can imagine. It just keeps going and going. And all the people I see are simply trying to escape the same dull routine they all have built into it. All their choices have been to result in exactly where they are now and what they are doing.

"And I get to keep seeing all these people I could have helped and didn't. Can't. Won't.

"So let’s go out back and you can end it for me, maybe."

I looked at him. Then pushed the bag back.

He just sighed.

And turned the last card over.

It was a joker.

Then the waitress came over to refill his cup...

Voices

BY J. R. KRUZE

I

THAT MORNING I ROLLED over, bleary and tousle-headed to see my dog Wilma looking back at me.

"Good morning," the thought came to my head. "If you'd lay off those night-caps we can get your weight down and get a you laid more often."

The idea of this brought a smile to my face.

"Now that I have your attention, let's go for a walk before breakfast. You've got time before you have to go to your work." The thought had a some sense to it. "Of course it's sensible. Now get up, we have to get going. I'll wait until you put on your clothes."

At that my golden-haired red heeler, Wilma, stood and went to wait by the door to the room. "Come on, get up. Let's go." And just stared at me.

I looked at the clock, saw I had a half-hour before I usually got up to make my breakfast, and rolled over.

It only took a couple of tugs before my blanket and top sheet were on the floor.

That got my attention. I sat up. My dog let go of the bed clothes corner he had been pulling on and smiled.

"What are you doing?" I asked, looking at her through my bleary eyes.

"Taking care of my human," came the reply. "Come on. I meant what I said. It's time to change your habits to make you happier."

Couldn't argue with that. Especially now that I was awake. I swiveled my feet over to the floor and felt the cool carpet underneath them.

"Good boy! Let's get those sweats on. You can do it!" Wilma was encouraging.

Of course I resented it. Sounded like I was in training for something.

"Of course you're in training. Humans have to be trained every day of their lives. I'm not going to be around forever, so you've got to learn to survive so your next Master will be able to pick up where I left off and hopefully help you retire in grace." Wilma cocked her head at me, wondering if I got it.

"This is all just a bit new. How, I mean, why, what..." I quit talking and just sent her my thoughts, jumbled as they were.

"Now you're getting it. We can have all sorts of discussions once you quit using your human speech. So backward and clumsy." Wilma rose and again walked to the door. "Sweats. Socks. Tennies."

Knowing I had no other choice, I complied. Sweats were hanging behind the door, white socks in a top drawer, Running shoes lined up on the floor under the dresser legs. Simple. In a few minutes, I was dressed and moving toward the front door. "No coffee?"

"No coffee. Get up, get some exercise. Get that metabolism going." Wilma insisted.

"Wait." I ducked into the bathroom to relieve myself.

Wilma had no comment at this. She was waiting when I finished, patiently.

"OK, I'm ready." I sent.

"That you are." She moved through the hallway, her toenails clicking on the wood floor, and waited by the door for me to open it.

Once we were through the door, she led off at a trot across the yard to the sidewalk. Pausing here, she looked back. "Well? OK, yes, stretch a little bit - like I do. You've got to get this habit in when you get out of bed. Arms overhead, side to side, each leg. You've got it. Time to move." And she started off down the concrete.

I had to take long steps to keep up with her. And wasn't succeeding. She'd be in traffic soon if I didn't catch up with her.

"Well, a trot would be nice - I think you call it jogging." Wilma sent.

"Yes, we call it jogging," as I broke into a jog, and it turned out to be comfortable. My being irked at her training approach turned into appreciation.

"Because you know it's for your own good." Wilma was panting now and keeping up a steady pace just ahead of me. "We'll round the block today and that will be a good start. You're in training now."

"Training for what?" I sent.

"We're going to get you a mate and sire a litter of your own."

I stopped at that, breathing heavy.

Wilma stopped and sat, panting, but not like mine. "Isn't that what you want? Well, we have to move. First steps first." She rose and turned to walk off, but was still looking at me.

I didn't move, so she turned back. "Look, I know this is sudden, but I'll explain more later. We only have so much time for this exercise before you have to get to work. And breakfast is between now and then. So keep up." Then Wilma trotted off.

We were halfway around the block, and I had no real choice. She was making too much sense this morning. So I jogged a bit faster to catch up. By the time I got to my home again, she was sitting and waiting by the front door to be let in.

"Why don't you use your own door?" I asked by thought.