My first (barely) published short fiction

Last year, a friend of mine put on a great set of one-act plays called "Robot Uprising" that all shared a common theme - robots.

This year, her follow-on project was a set of one-act plays called "Monster Uprising" that also shared a common theme -- classic movie monsters.

When she asked me to consider submitting a short story to include in the playbill -- a story somehow related to the theme of classic movie monsters -- I was excited but hesitant, because I know first-hand how incredibly difficult it is to write good fiction.

Given that this story could be no more than 750 words, I figured that I'd give it a shot. I saw the new play last night and it was a treat to see my little story published in the playbill. And even more of a treat to see the play.


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"Your Father"
By Bart Epstein

The voice on the phone was urgent: "Frank, we can’t hold the passageway open more than 90 additional seconds. “

The voice did not hesitate.

“The police will be there in two minutes, Frank. If you aren’t down the cellar stairs before they arrive, we will seal off the tunnel that leads back to the bunker. Forever. You must go right now."

Frank pursed his lips in frustration and disbelief as he peered through the blinds and saw the flashing lights cresting the hills in the distance. Apparently, his handler wasn’t bluffing, and had actually taken the astonishing risk of calling in an anonymous tip to the police. This was an unexpected gamble intended to force Frank’s hand far sooner than he expected.

Frank thought he would have much more time to make his decision.

More time to convince himself.

More time to convince her?

As Frank disconnected the call, he turned to face her and was overcome with emotion as he saw the love in her eyes. A tear spilled down his check, leaving a light green trail on his dark green skin.

He ran his hand down the side of her face, and then slowly down the side of her endlessly smooth neck.

A wistful smile came to his lips as he marveled yet again at how astonishingly smooth her neck was, and how different it was from his own neck, with its prominent bolts that caused him to feel so much shame.

Frank still remembered their first meeting in person, at the Halloween party, after two years of letters and email.

He wore a scarf that night to hide his bolts. Not because it hid his identity in any way. (That was impossible.) Rather, because he was ashamed of being different, and because he knew that on any day other than Halloween, most normals would see him not as a costumed character but rather as a monster to be feared and hated -- all because of crimes apparently committed by his great-great-great-grandfather all those years ago.

She pulled him close and whispered into his ear, “I love you so much. What will you do?”

Frank looked at her and pondered what life would be like if he ran into the cellar and into the tunnel. Once he was back in the bunker, they would never let him above ground again, that much he was certain of.

For nearly two hundred years now, successive generations of his family had lived in hiding, underground.

No one had ever “escaped” or even tried to escape, as far as he knew.

Shortly before Frank was born, the sixty or so members of the extended Frankenstein family had relocated to a large abandoned military bunker that was broadly spacious and apparently much more pleasant than in “the olden times.”

But the place that had been his relatively happy home for nearly twenty five years no longer felt like a safe refuge.

Rather, it felt like a prison cell waiting to lock him back up.

The time for his decision would not wait.

Police cars screeched to a halt outside, surrounding her house. He could still run for the cellar and hope the tunnel would still be open. Or would they already have sealed it off to protect themselves?

No time left to think.

A voice boomed over the handheld megaphone: “This is the police! We have a warrant to question Frank Stein. We know you are in there! You have 30 seconds to open the door, Mr. Stein!”

Frank contemplated his options.

He thought about his family.

He thought about her.

And then he thought about you.

And he couldn’t bear the idea of you growing up like he grew up, hidden and shamed for something you didn’t do.

He realized that someone would have to take the risk sooner or later.

Resolute in his decision, he reached for her hand, and together, your parents walked out that front door.