Got A Minute?: A Collection of Short Tales and Other Mind Doodles

I. The Punch

Peter Donnelly stared at the blinking cursor on the screen, waiting for him patiently to start his novel, but he had writer’s block. He hadn’t typed anything in weeks. His mind was numb as his doctor’s gut-wrenching words echoed in his ears.

“Stage III,” said the oncologist.

Peter, who was never a smoker, struggled to comprehend the diagnosis. Memories of his youth, Woodstock, and the occasional college spliff seemed a lifetime away. How could they lead to this? A nickel-sized tumor now sat on his left lung.

Dr. Harris had been blunt—perhaps too blunt. “It’s difficult to treat,” he admitted, though he promised to try his best. Peter longed for a glimmer of hope, something more than clinical honesty. He had so much left to do.

As an established author with more than a handful of New York Times bestsellers, Peter was at the height of his career. His biggest book deal’s deadline was hanging over his head. He had six months to deliver the first draft to his agent, but he hadn’t written a sentence yet. His life had split in two—before and after the diagnosis.

Peter hadn’t entered the prescribed five stages of grief yet. Each morning, he waited for denial to wake up with him, but it never came. Instead, anger struck like a freight train, bypassing denial altogether. He had a title, “The Punch,” but nothing more. The story of Luis Baker, a lightweight amateur boxer from the Midwest who killed a man in a barfight with a single punch, mirrored his own fight against fate. Luis became a famous boxer in prison, with televised fights and a global following.

The trouble was that Peter only had the title written, and now he was five months away from submission. He hadn’t left the house for a while, and he hadn’t answered his agent’s calls. She was concerned about the deadline but unaware of Peter’s condition and frame of mind. She wasn’t the only one who didn’t know. Peter hadn’t told anyone—his agent, his now-adult children. No one. He didn’t want to burden his loved ones, nor did he want anyone to feel sorry for him.

“Has the jury reached the verdict?” the judge asked in a monotonous tone.

The foreperson handed the paper to the clerk, who began to read, “We, the jury, find the defendant, Luis Baker, guilty of murder in the first degree.”

Luis Baker’s knees gave out for a second—not something he ever experienced in a ring—but today he was standing on a rug, faith yanked out from underneath his feet. Life without parole, all for one punch. But what a punch that was!

Peter reread the paragraph and shook his head. He wasn’t pleased with how it read but wanted to keep the only thing he had managed to write in months. A feeling of helplessness hit, and he was ready to bargain.

Peter wasn’t looking to God but to the Devil to draft up that contract. Twenty-four years in exchange for his soul, although this arrangement didn’t work out for Faustus. The Devil murdered him sixteen years into the contract because Faustus wanted out. Peter wouldn’t want out. He was committed, but he would take twenty—in the spirit of negotiation. He gave twenty years to Luis Baker for killing that man in the bar for poking fun at his match the night before. It seemed fair. But Peter was not Luis Baker, and not even the Devil wanted to take the deal.

Peter’s acceptance of his mortality came as unexpectedly as his diagnosis after his first visit to the doctor seven months ago. The manuscript was still unfinished, despite his agent giving him a two-month extension. The drugs made him weak, nauseated, and depressed. His oncologist tried to keep him positive, as did the chemotherapy center’s nurses. Peter still looked as handsome as ever but slowly faded along with his will to write. He, too, was serving life without parole, along with Luis Baker, and both would die alone in their respective prisons.

“The Punch. I like the title, Paul,” said Mr. Duran from D.P. Publishing House, looking up from the pages. “Your manuscript will go to print next week. I have a good feeling about this one.”

“That’s promising, Frank. Just send the check to my address,” said Paul Lambert, rubbing his forehead. His agent’s words were encouraging.

“Sure thing. Jenny will take care of that,” the publisher said, referring to the woman at the front desk.

Paul stood up and reached out for a handshake.

“When is your next book?” Mr. Duran asked.

Paul’s mind drifted back to his fictional writer, Peter Donnelly, and Peter’s protagonist, Luis Baker. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of remorse for ending Peter’s story so tragically. As he pondered his own future, he wondered if he could ever create another book as compelling or if the weight of Peter’s fate would haunt his writing forever.

“I have a few errands I need to catch up on before I dive back in. Margie and I are house hunting, and I promised the boys I’d coach their junior baseball team this season,” Paul said as he walked towards the door. He turned around as if he were still counting the errands on his honey-do list when a coughing fit hit him. “Oh, and I have to get this wheezing finally checked out, but I’ll call you.”

II. The Case of the Fairest

Detective Valdez had a murder mystery on his hands, and it was as peculiar as they come. Snow White, the fairest of them all, had met an untimely demise, and the prime suspects? None other than the Seven Dwarves themselves. The police had called in each dwarf one by one to make a statement to shed some light on the bizarre events that had unfolded that fateful night.

Suspect No. 1: Grumpy

Grumpy scowled even more profoundly than a cat who just discovered its owner had bought a dog. He sat across from Detective Valdez, his grumpiness level surpassing even his own legendary standards.

“Alright, Grumpy,” Valdez began, “you’re the grumpiest of all of them. Did you hate Snow White?”

“You’re a mean son of a buttery biscuit.”

Valdez didn’t let go. “Hated her enough to kill her?”

“If I killed her, no one would do the chores around the cottage,” Grumpy retorted.

Valdez saw Grumpy’s point, so he pivoted. “Alright, let’s cut to the chase. What happened on the night Snow White died?”

Grumpy grunted, adjusting his hat, which seemed to have its own grumpy attitude. “We were just loungin’ about, minding our own business, when she decided to have a taste of that infernal cursed apple.”

Valdez leaned forward, his pen poised above his notepad like a sword, ready for battle. “A cursed apple, you say?”

Grumpy nodded, his brows furrowing so deeply they could’ve plowed a field. “Aye, cursed! She went all pale and collapsed faster than a soufflé during a power outage. We tried to give a hand, but what do we dwarves know about princesses and curses, besides maybe Snow White’s newfound talent for taking naps?”

Valdez scribbled a note, his expression as serious as a penguin at a polar bear party. “Did you happen to spot anyone else lurking about the cottage that evening?”

Grumpy crossed his arms, clearly vexed, as if someone had stolen his favorite grump-inducing chair. “Nay, it was just us and that cursed apple. But let me tell ya, Detective, something smelled fishier than a seafood market in August, and I don’t fancy fish.”

Detective Valdez nodded, his curiosity as intrigued as a raccoon eyeing a trash can buffet. “A cursed apple and a suspicious aroma, you say? We’ll unravel this culinary caper.”

With that, Grumpy stormed out of the interrogation room, still muttering under his breath. The mystery of Snow White’s demise was far from cracked, but one thing was as certain as a boiled egg—Detective Valdez had a pack of dwarves and a buffet of questions to tackle.

Suspect No. 2: Dopey

Detective Valdez didn’t find anything suspicious about Grumpy’s behavior other than his well-known grumpiness, but he understood that it’s often the person with the bubbly personality who’s featured on Dateline, and for that, he couldn’t fault the dwarf. His next suspect was Dopey.

Dopey had always been the dwarf who was more interested in catching some z’s than catching trouble. But today, as he lounged in the cold, metal chair of the police interrogation room, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d accidentally wandered into a trippy, dopey dimension—thanks to the mushroom he ate an hour before he was called down to the station.

Detective Valdez shot him a stern look from the opposite side of the table. “Alright, Dopey, spill the beans. Did you murder Snow White?”

“Whoa dude. Slow your horses. Why would I wanna do that?”

“You tell me.”

“She was the fairest of all and made some awesome brownies, dude,” Dopey said, and pulled out a half-eaten fudge brownie from his pocket, crumbled to pieces, but didn’t wait until Valdez could decline and stuffed it in his face.

Valdez’s eyes widened like a squirrel who just discovered a tree filled with acorns on Black Friday and changed course. “I won’t charge you with possession, so tell me, what went down the night Snow White died?”

Dopey blinked, his eyes resembling spinning kaleidoscopes as he tried to summon his memories—with the brownies kicking in. “Uh, like, we were all just vibing, chowing down, you know, a regular night in the chill zone. And then Snow White… she, like, munched on this apple, man. Yeah, that’s the whole trip.”

Valdez arched an eyebrow, his skepticism as intense as a DJ’s bass drop. “Just an apple? You’re totally crystal clear on that?”

Dopey scratched his head, his oversized hat drooping over his eyes like a psychedelic sunshade. “Well, it was a far-out, crimson apple. It looked totally munchable, dude.”

Detective Valdez took note of the “murder weapon” that corroborated Dopey’s story, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Dopey had been busier hitting the bong than concocting a devious plot. It seemed unlikely that Dopey had any motive to carry out such a serious act, and Valdez couldn’t help but wonder if he was simply caught in the cosmic crossfire of a very peculiar event.

Suspect No. 3: Doc

Detective Valdez’s rather trippy interview with Dopey had been quite an experience, and now he was pinning his hopes on Doc, expecting him to shed some light on what had truly happened to Snow White. After all, Doc was the brains of the operation—but did he have the means and motive to kill her?

Doc sat up straight, his round spectacles slipping down his nose as he cleared his throat. He had always been the dwarf with the big brain, the one who kept the gang from going into full-blown chaos mode. But right now, under Detective Valdez’s intense scrutiny, he felt like he’d accidentally wandered into a dwarven spelling bee.

“Doc,” Valdez grumbled, “you were practically rubbing shoulders with Snow White. Where were you on the night of the murder?”

“I was in the lab.”

“In the lab, you say?” Detective Valdez perked up like a caffeinated kangaroo.

“I was experimenting on this mushroom Dopey picked up.”

Valdez slapped his forehead in disbelief. “Alright, I’ll let this drug lab slide. Did you happen to stumble upon any weirdness on that memorable night?”

Doc adjusted his glasses with the precision of a librarian handling a rare, ancient tome. “Well, Detective, the evening was shaping up to be an absolute fairytale. Snow White was... um, savoring her meal when she suddenly decided to break up with her apple.”

Valdez leaned forward, his serious brows furrowing like a couple of caterpillars having a disagreement. “Broke up with her apple, you say?”

Doc cleared his throat, his voice as measured as a barista perfecting a latte. “Indeed, she began to choke on the apple as if it’d told a terrible joke. We did our darnedest to lend a hand, but, you see, we’re not trained in princess-specific CPR, regrettably.”

As he spoke, Doc’s brain was practically doing cartwheels with thoughts, his inner scientist doing the Macarena over the riddle of Snow White’s apple-related demise.

Suspect No. 4: Bashful

Bashful had always been the poster dwarf for introversion, but now, under Detective Valdez’s relentless grilling, he felt like he’d won the “Most Bashful Dwarf of the Year” award.

“Bashful, we’ve been through this a dozen times. But one more time, for the record, where were you on the night of the murder?” Valdez asked with a stern tone.

“I was at home,” said Bashful nervously.

“Alone?”

“N-No, I was with the others. Watching TV but Dopey passed out.”

“What were you watching?” Valdez inquired, hoping to catch him in a lie.

“D-Dateline.”

Valdez rolled his eyes like a seasoned baker kneading dough—done with the unnecessary fluff and ready to get to the heart of the matter. “How ’bout them apples? Do you know anything about it?”

“She ate it and dropped dead—that’s all I know.”

“Did you poison the apple?” Detective Valdez asked, looking straight at Bashful, making him more nervous than Cinderella at midnight.

Bashful fainted at the accusations, but a glass of cold water on his face woke him up. “Alright, let me ask you this. Did you spot anyone behaving all shady near the cottage that evening?”

Bashful fidgeted with his beard, his face turning a shade of red that could rival Snow White’s apple. “Well, uh, I did, you know, catch a glimpse of someone... kinda’, sorta’. It was this lady with a hood, and she, um, asked about Snow White. I, uh, got all flustered and just, um, pointed towards the door.”

Valdez’s eyes narrowed; his scrutiny unrelenting. “A lady with a hood, you say? Did you get a good look at her?”

Bashful shook his head, his voice barely louder than a mouse’s whisper. “N-no, Detective, I, um, I couldn’t muster the courage to meet her gaze. She, uh, made me feel all... bashful.”

Detective Valdez let out a sigh and leaned back; his expression was as hopeless as the progress he was making on this case.

Suspect No. 5: Sneezy

Sneezy’s nose had been throwing a full-blown fit all day, and it wasn’t just because of his chronic allergies. He was on edge, and Detective Valdez’s laser-focused stare was making him sneeze more than a feather pillow in a windstorm.

“Let’s cut to the chase, Sneezy. Did you poison the apple?”

“With what?”

“You tell me. You’re a walking biological weapon. Did you sneeze some virus on that apple?”

“How could I?” asked Sneezy. “I have to wear this mask all day.”

Valdez looked at the dirty mask over Sneezy’s face, which looked more like a chin holder than a shield, so he posed a different question. “Did your extraordinary sniffer pick up anything unusual that night?”

Sneezy sniffled and reached for his trusty handkerchief, which looked like it had seen more action than a circus clown’s confetti cannon. “Well, Detective, I did catch a whiff of something rather peculiar. It was, um, flowery, but not the ‘stop and smell the roses’ type—more like someone went overboard with the perfume aisle.”

Valdez leaned in, his eyes narrowing like those of a detective who’d just discovered the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle. “Perfume, you say? Can you give me the scent-sational details?”

Sneezy blew his nose with the grace of a seasoned trumpet player and took a moment to ponder. “It was, uh, flowery, I guess. Sort of like a bouquet that got into a brawl with a garden. And let me tell you, it made my usual sneezing marathon feel like a warm-up act for a fireworks display.”

Suspect No. 6: Sleepy

Sleepy had always been the dwarf with a 24/7 nap schedule, but now, in the interrogation room, he was in a constant battle to keep his eyelids from staging a rebellion under Valdez’s laser-focused gaze.

“Alright, Sleepy, let’s wake up those memories. Where were you when Snow White met her unfortunate fate?”

“Oh, Detective, I was... um, well, I was right here, actually.”

Valdez raised his eyebrows and said, “Right here? You mean at home taking a nap during a critical moment like that?”

“Well, Detective, you know how it is. I’m Sleepy for a reason,” Sleepy said with a sheepish grin.

“Sleepy, do you realize the seriousness of the situation?” The detective asked and leaned closer.

Sleepy nodded, “Of course, Detective, but I couldn’t help it. The comfy chair called to me, and, well, I couldn’t resist.”

“When you woke up, did you happen to catch any peculiar behavior from Snow White that evening?”

Sleepy yawned and stretched, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. “Well, Detective, she did appear somewhat... drowsy. I mean, she’d been toiling away, and that apple... it seemed to have its own hammock or something.”

Valdez sighed, clearly exasperated. “Sleepy, you’re consistently in dreamland! Did you spot anyone else lurking around the cottage?”

Sleepy stifled another yawn, a heroic feat of willpower. “Sorry, Detective, I might’ve drifted off there. But I’m fairly certain nothing dreadful happened while I was having a nightmare about an old hag trying to sell me haunted produce.”

Valdez raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “A nightmare, you say? Do tell, Sleepy.”

Sleepy leaned forward, his drooping eyelids showing a faint glimmer of alertness. “Well, you see, Detective, in my dream, I was at the market, and there was this ugly old woman selling fruits and veggies. But every time she handed me an apple, it cackled like a witch and tried to take a bite out of me! It was a real fruit frenzy, I tell ya.”

Valdez couldn’t help but crack a smile, momentarily breaking his stern demeanor.

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