Tag Archives: Flash Fiction

Kaybe Makes Contact©

Something jogged my memory the other day, and I realized it had been a long time since Kaybe, my alien friend from outer space, had contacted me. Long time readers will remember Kaybe, but if you’re a new reader, here is an update:

Do you believe in aliens from outer space?  I do. I’ve been friends with one for decades. KB-11.2 doesn’t have green skin and luminous eyes like the aliens one sees in sci-fi movies. In Kaybe’s part of the universe they’ve solved the problem of time and space. For them, crossing six parcecs is like going to the grocery store.

Kaybe looks like a giant tuna fish can. Erector Set® arms sprout from the curving sides of his body, and three spindly metal legs drop down from the underside of his flat stainless steel torso.  He has ball bearing wheels for feet.  A floppy two-foot antenna, with three sensor-eyes, stick out of the middle of his lid.  Kaybe comes from the Alpha Centauri star system. Many years ago on a visit to Earth, Kaybe saved my marriage. He communicates through mental telepathy

          Since I first met him, Kaybe and I have had many fine adventures. He usually stops by The Enchantment when he is within a few hundred parsecs of Earth. Another of my alien friends, Four-Finger Fanny, works as a waitress there.

The Enchantment is a dingy roadhouse on the outskirts of Letongaloosa. It’s the kind of place every college town needs to maintain academic accreditation.

I go to the Enchantment for a soft drink with friends—some of whom live here in Letongaloosa  and some, like my robot alien friend KB 11.2, Henry the Hulk, Miniature Mike, and Four-Finger Fanny, live a long, long way from here.

 

Four-Finger Fanny speaks telepathically, but she also speaks human. I’m glad she does because it tires me to speak telepathically.

Four-Finger Fanny doesn’t look like an alien.  She looks like a

40-something waitress with sore feet and a tired back—which she is, actually. Fanny works at The Enchantment. That’s her day job. Her real assignment is to be earth’s contact with the Powers that Be in this sector of the cosmos.

I called the Enchantment and asked for Fanny.

“Hello,” she said. “Long time, no hear.”

“I apologize,” I said. “There’s been a lot going on. Fanny, is Kaybe due to swing by the solar system anytime soon? I haven’t been in touch for ages. I need to visit with him.”

“Funny you should ask,” said Fanny. Kaybe just sailed in this morning. He was a few parsecs away so he swung by to say ‘Hello.’”

“Kaybe!” I said.

His answer came telepathically. When Kaybe speaks English his words come in sounding like Jimmy Kimmel. When he speaks Spanish he sounds like the Mexican comedian Cantiflas.

“Hello, old friend, how goes it?”

“Emaline is well, but I’m at loose ends. I need to get away from Earth and all the stuff in my life. I want to go into outer space. Can you help me do that?”

“Kind of “ET Call Home,” you mean,” said Kaybe.

“Yes, but rather than calling, I want to GO there,” I said.

A couple of days later (who knows how long it was in space-time) Kaybe called me.  He actually called me. The telephone rang. He was using his Jimmy Kimmel voice.

“I can beam you up, Scotty,” he said.

“What should I take with me?”

“Just the clothes you’re wearing.  You don’t even need a toothbrush.”

“How long will I be gone?”

“You could figure somewhere between two shakes of a lamb’s tail and several months.”

“What should I tell Emaline?”

“You don’t need to tell her anything. To her it will seem like two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

The next thing I knew I was hurtling through space. I was standing inside a clear plastic ball. Comets and asteroids and stars whizzed by me. I felt happy and loose and at ease.

The next thing I knew I was home—upstairs sitting at my desk.

I picked up the phone.

“ Kaybe, that was great! THANK YOU!”

“Anytime, old friend, be well.”

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Dr. Larry day is a retired J-School professor turned humor writer. His book, Day Dreaming: Tales From the Fourth Dementia is available for purchase via his website: http://www.daydreaming.co

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The Limo and the Supreme Court Challenge©

It’s been more than a decade since the humor column, “Andrew Klees and the Limo” first appeared in the Kaw Valley Senior Monthly. In the story, a master auto mechanic named Andrew Klees rescued a wrecked stretch limousine that was going to be junked. On his farm near Letongaloosa, Andrew Klees lovingly restored the limo and drove it all around the county.
One day a couple of men came to the barn where Andrew Klees was polishing the limo. The two were wearing long black cowboy dusters over their suits. They were members of an organized crime syndicate that had sold the wrecked limo. The men were looking for something they thought was hidden in the car.
The two thugs tried to drive off with the limo but it wouldn’t start. They forced Andrew to press the starter. The engine started. The two made Andrew drive while they searched for the object.
After a while there was silence in the back seat. Andrew looked in the rearview mirror and saw the two men apparently asleep. Amazed, he stopped the car and opened the back door. He smelled ether.
“I put them to sleep,” said a melodic female voice that came from somewhere inside the dashboard. “Now please drive to the police station.”

Police found that the men were wanted in 10 states for murder and armed robbery. Andrew got a reward for capturing the two hoodlums.
For decades after that Andrew drove alone all over the county in his shiny stretch limousine. On warm sunny days folks in the countryside said they heard a woman’s voice singing whenever the limo drove by.
Meantime, lawyers for the syndicate sued to get the limo back from Andrew Klees. The case worked its way through the legal system. It took decades with appeal after appeal. Andrew was not involved in the proceedings. Others took up the cause. Some courts found in favor of the Syndicate, others found that the ownership of the limo was not in question.
Sam and Joe, the two hoods, having served their sentences, were released from prison. The case finally reached the Supreme Court on a legal technicality: the Court was asked to decide whether the car’s melodious voice was an artifact of the machinery or an unexplainable phenomenon. If it the voice were an artifact, the Syndicate would own the limo. If the limo’s voice were an unexplainable phenomenon then Andrew would retain ownership.
The Supreme Court ordered that the Limo be transported to Washington D.C., and appointed a panel of three justices to listen to the voice and decide whether it was artifact or unexplainable phenomenon.
The media got wind of the experiment and turned out in force at a parking lot where the test was to be carried out. Security forces kept the press and curious public at a distance while the justices climbed into the back seat and closed the doors.
“Press the starter,” said the senior justice
The junior-most justice pressed the starter.
Nothing happened. There was no sound, and the motor didn’t turn over.
“Press it again,”
Nothing.“!@#$%^&*(,” said the senior justice, who, when not on the bench tended to express himself colorfully.
“Don’t swear. It’s wicked” said a woman’s voice from the limo’s dashboard.
The senior justice’s face, which was usually florid, turned ashen. He tried to open the door. It wouldn’t budge. His security detail tried to open the door from the outside. It wouldn’t budge.
“Give me back to my owner,” said the voice from the dashboard.
“All right. All right!” shouted the senior justice. “Let us out of here.” ‘
The door opened.
“The voice is an unexplainable phenomenon,” shouted the senior justice. “Give this vehicle back to its owner immediately.”
Then he shouted: “Call the F.B.I! I want those syndicate criminals arrested and prosecuted.”
So, once again on sunny afternoons folks see that shiny stretch limousine driving along their country roads. But nowadays there’s no question in their minds where the singing is coming from.
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Dr. Larry Day is a retired KU J-School professor turned humor writer. His book, Day Dreaming: Tales from the Fourth Dementia is available from Lulu.com.

 

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