Random thought: Epstein Files? Maybe release the Einstein Files. Those brothers make great bagels.

Welcome back to another installment of my storyteller-at-large world. This week’s tale was inspired by a prompt sent in by frequent contributor Haus Huntar. Don’t know who you are or where you come from (the name looks, I dunno, German?), but, as always, I greatly appreciate the contribution. It really is true, without the prompts you folks give me, there is no way most of these stories would’ve ever been written.

And with that, let’s get to the Story of the Week.

         The Precise Purchase

Rajan loved America—especially the unique nuances of the English language. He entered Mack’s Deli and was promptly served by Mack himself.

Rajan pointed to the potato salad display. “Can I get a dollop of that?”

Mack ladled a generous portion onto the scale.

Rajan winced. “Maybe a tad less.”

Mack removed some.

“It looks like you removed two tads.”

Mack sighed and piled more on the scale.

“Thanks, but I’d like more than a tad, but less than humongous. More like tadmongous.”

“I just figured you out, pal. You’re like a cross between Einstein and an imbecile. You’re an Einbecile.”

Prompt: Smidgen

NOVEL NEWS & OTHER NOTES…

Since I’m still in standby mode on my novel (Questionable Characters) while I await direction from my editor, I’ve been working on another P.I. short story with the same ex-cop character I featured in my last episode. When I refer to it as a short story, if you compare it to my 101-word tales, it’s an adventure of epic proportions. The first one was 2,797 words (eight pages). At this point, I’m not far enough along on this new one to even start caring about a word count. I spent a number of days outlining and now I’m on to the fun stuff. I’ll keep you posted.

Regarding the novel, I do want to thank several of you for weighing in on my question about whether or not you like prologues (a brief opening bit before Chapter One). Much like what I found in my online research, the jury is mixed on it. Some love ‘em… some not so much. We’ll see what the editor has to say.

Finally—and I hate to end on a somber note, but I’m gonna do it anyway. I lost a good friend last week. He died suddenly at the age of 90 (if one can die suddenly at that age). He was a writing pal I met with almost every week to discuss writing—or whatever else we wanted to talk about. Most of you never met him, but you saw the results of his work because I frequently shared the latest draft of my 101-word stories before it got to you. For purposes of this blog, I’ll call him “Mike” (mostly because that was his name). He was a very talented writer, and a brutally honest critic—something I truly appreciated. If he loved something, he’d tell me. If he hated it, same thing. “It’s a good idea,” he’d say, “but you’re not bringing the Scotty. Where’s the funny?” Then I’d rework it and send it back to him. Sometimes he still didn’t like it. Sometimes I’d get a heaping dose of effusive praise. A frequent note was, “Mo betta.” That was it.

I only previewed my little stories with two people. Now I have only one. The world became a little smaller, and this Tuesday was a lonelier place without Mikey, a gruff sailor with a heart he tried hard to hide, but couldn’t—especially when he wrote about some of his favorite characters—kids wise beyond their years.

I’m already missing you more than I ever thought I would.

              Sail on, Mike Latta.

Scotty out

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