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Uptown Fare

March 10, 2026 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, Poetry, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Knife, Prejudice, Race, Violence | by davidbdale | 7 comments

They are prejudiced, the cabbies in town. Because the sun has risen every morning in memory, they expect it to dawn during this shift too, and to dawn again one minute earlier each day until the solstice, then later again each morning like the year before. They predict low wages. They anticipate dents and rattles and non-lethal automotive malfunctions and for their tips to be insufficient to ditch the business altogether to the younger hacks and spend their days fishing for trophy. And they don’t take dark-skinned fares uptown. They explain it this way:

Seven times I’ve seen a knife in this cab and two guns. Usually I just see it; it’s shown to me, or it’s deployed by someone to threaten someone else. But twice it’s used to injure or persuade me physically. Once I’m stabbed. Once a shot is fired through the windshield. Of the nine times, each time I’m the only native Caucasian in the car. So I have a policy. No dark fares after sundown, none uptown any time of day. It’s common sense. You judge from what you’ve seen, you act on what you know, you live to serve your sentence.

To confound this logic, a group of us, a very small but steadfast group, have been systematically stabbing cabbies. We dress well, carry umbrellas, and stand outside expensive hotels with a finger in the air. We kiss our dates goodbye and get inside. We introduce ourselves invariably as Mr. White, which most of them later recall. We entertain our driver with the same rap every time. We’ve been injured, we say, sometimes grievously, in multiple, near-fatal automobile accidents, but we can’t remember what color the cars were. Then we cut them, carefully, therapeutically, to alter the odds the only way we know how.

Trade Rumors (for the screen)

January 16, 2026 in 299 Words, Adoption, Baseball, Business, Child, Childhood, Dialogue, Family, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Humor, Nuclear Family, Parent, Sports, Very Short Novels | Tags: Baseball, facts-of-life, Family, fathers-and-sons, Fiction, Life, short-story, Writing | by davidbdale | Leave a comment

Video versions of Very Short Novels are coming to your screens (one at a time and slowly). Trade Rumors is the first to be posted to our affiliated Must See Theater channel on YouTube. Life Line has been shot and is in post-production. And Eat the Air is on the schedule next. Check in often.

The Video Version in 299 words

The Print Version in 299 words:

—Dad, are you trying to trade me?
—What would make you say that?
—Mister Moyer said you offered me for his daughter.
—Not just his daughter, son. That was a package deal.

—Why would you want to do that?
—Do you mean why or do you mean why now?
—
—I don’t think you’ll ever be worth more.

—But I’m nothing but potential!
—
—What if I go somewhere else and thrive?
—That’s what I’m hoping.
—Oh, so you’re doing me a favor.
—
—Is it my grades?
—You think I care about your grades?
—I don’t know, but you can’t just trade your family!
—No? Your mother managed it pretty well.

—Is this something I can veto?
—You can beg. You know I like that.
—What if I’m not happy where you send me?
—I didn’t think you were happy here.
—I’m very happy here.
—You don’t act it.
—This is how a happy teenager acts, Dad.
—
—At least let me stay in the same school.
—With those grades?
—
—Anyway relax, there’s not much out there.
—Maybe your standards are too high.
—Why, because I won’t take on someone else’s liability?

—Dad, just admit you don’t like me and let’s move on.
—I couldn’t do that, son.
—You think it’s better not to say it?
—

—This isn’t fair.
—What, fathers and sons? It’s inevitable.
—If that were true, your dad would have traded you.
—Yeah, well. I might have been better off.
—Oh, Dad, is that what this is about?
—
—You think I won’t get enough chances living with you?
—
—Look. Grandpa was an asshole.
—Yeah?
—Yeah.
—Yeah?
—Yeah. You don’t have to be.

—So, what do you think of the Moyer girl?
—She’s cute, but she’ll never tell you the truth.
—Yeah.
—Yeah.
—Play some ball?
—Let’s play some ball.

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