Short Story

MONSTROID

It’s time once again for
The Unicorn Challenge.
Our mission: to write
a story in 250 words or less
in response to the photo prompt.
This is my story and I’m sticking to it.

🦖 🎄 🦕

© Ayr/Gray

When our son was still in elementary school, he demonstrated a great ability and clever imagination for art. He had a penchant for cartoon characters of his own creation which he drew on his book covers and all over his school notebooks.

My husband and I encouraged his artwork and we kept him well-stocked in supplies, including a drafting table, paints and copious amounts of drawing pads. His main character was a T-rex called “Monstroid” …. a Jurassic lawman who was not above getting down and dirty.

When our son was about twelve years old, he asked permission to paint Monstroid on his bedroom wall. I had no problem with that; I’d rather he paint his own wall than someone else’s. Thirty-something years ago, graffiti was considered vandalism, not the street art it has become today.

The story of Monstroid grew in my son’s head, along with other dinosaurs, friend and foe alike. It got to the point where every wall in his room was covered with his creations; dinosaurs grazed on one wall while epic prehistoric battle scenes appeared on another wall. I didn’t mind; the boy was hurting no one and I would never suppress his natural ability for art …. just as I would never squash our other son’s talent for music.

Our son is now a television cameraman – another form of art. However, he never lost his love of painting and Monstroid is alive and well on the bedroom walls of each of his three kids.

NAR © 2023
250 Words

This is Bob Brown with “Santa, Bring Me A Dinosaur”

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ST. MONICA

© Ayr/Gray

Frank Rogan, a huge man with a fearsome-looking scar down the side of his face, hoisted himself out of the police car; ice blue eyes cold as death stared at his detective.

“What’s up, Finney?”

“It’s them Italian boys, Chief, the ones from the projects. We nabbed ‘em!”

“Where are they?”

In the tunnels below St. Monica’s.”

Shoving his way passed the detective, Rogan stepped into the dank tunnel; it reeked of urine, paint and hopelessness. At the bottom of the steps were two patrolmen, hands firmly detaining two scared boys. A third boy leaned against the wall, hands thrust deep in his pockets, cap low on his forehead.

“Well, if it ain’t Nicky Pisano and his two stinkin’ turds.”

The cops laughed; Rogan ordered they take the two boys back to the police car. “You too, Finney. Me and Nicky got business to take care of.”

Once alone, Rogan shoved Nicky to the ground. “You and your bastard ginzo friends have been busy down here, Nicky, desecrating the church. Now you’re gonna pay for this sullying.”

Rogan loomed over Nicky. “You’re one of them pretty boys, ain’t ya? You look like your mother sprawled on her back.” Rogan sneered, his hand rubbing the scar on his face.

Nicky roared and sprang to his feet but Rogan was ready, grabbing Nicky by the neck.

“Up against the wall or on your knees, pretty boy – however you like it.”

Unbearable pain seared through Rogan’s groin as Nicky’s shiv found its mark.

NAR © 2023
250 Words

Authors’ Note: St. Monica is the patron saint of wayward children and troubled boys.