Below you will find the results of my having challenged myself for a number of days to write a short story with a beginning and middle and an end inside of 30 minutes. Here is what I came up with. 

“Dear Son,

If you are reading this note, it means that I have died, and that a year has passed since my expiration.  I hope you are well.  I hope your mother is well, and that you are taking care of her.  Although she would vociferously deny such things, she tends to be too stoic when it comes to complicated matters.

I will not flatter myself and refer to my demise as ‘tragic,’ but I am willing to believe my absence has complicated things.  At the very least, financially.

On to the nub of the matter…

In 1970, I started dressing up as Bigfoot and charging through the forests around Walla Walla, Washington.  I did this for no other reason than the vast amusement it gave me. Your uncle, Rocky, and I crafted a Bigfoot costume out of beaver fur, which we purchased through a mail order catalog, and my disused high school hockey uniform.   He and I would take turns in the Bigfoot get-up.  His portrayal was broader and more comedic.  Mine leaned towards mystery.

Many locals claimed to have seen us.  Incredibly, not a single denizen of Washington state seems capable of operating a camera;  none of their photographs were anything but agitated blurs.  Once, I chased a man across a softball field and climbed under his car while he struggled to take a Polaroid.  The whole escapade lasted at least ten minutes, and the old fool was still unable to pop off a decent snap.

‘Bigfoot’ once trapped Shitty Dave Russo in a headlock while he was walking home from The Continental Saloon, one evening.  The next morning, Shitty Dave called the parks service to report the matter, but the ranger on duty was skeptical.  All the better for us.

I ask, my darling son, that you continue my legacy.  In this crate, you will find the original Bigfoot costume, two cans of red spray paint, a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon, a bag of marijuana, a small bottle containing some Ecstasy, a small sheet of blotter acid, and an envelope containing $50 to be put towards the purchase of a pizza.

I urge you to concentrate your efforts within The Pacific Northwest, between the hours of 1AM and 5AM. 

Son, remember, people will believe most things you tell them and absolutely fucking everything they read.

Proudly and with love,

Spiro Agnew” 

Joey wished real hard and he prayed real long.  Every day.  Every day, he wished and every day he prayed.  One morning, God granted him his wish and answered his prayers.

Joey’s Dad came down the stairs in a big hurry.  He found Joey’s Mom in the kitchen.

“Why the fuck is Al ‘Grandpa’ Lewis from The Munsters in the upstairs bathroom?”  Joey’s Dad jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the stairs.

“Joey wished him back to life,” Joey’s Mom stated in an even voice.  She’d been practicing her even tone of voice all morning.

“Joey what?”

“He wished Al ‘Grandpa’ Lewis from The Munsters back to life.  It’s beautiful.  It’s a miracle.”

“It’s neither of those things,” declared Joey’s Dad!  “There’s a very confused man-vampire in the upstairs bathroom, and he’s not happy!  Where is Joey, now?”

“He’s at school!”

“He’s at school?  He resurrected the dead and threw it in our lap while he’s at school?”

Joey’s Mom absently arranged the forks and spoons on the kitchen counter.  She thought for a moment.

“Joey has been wishing and praying for years.  Years!  This is what he wanted, and it came true.  I know it wasn’t what we expected, but we have to believe in him, to trust him, and we have to believe that Al ‘Grandpa’ Lewis was brought back to life for some reason that is greater than our understanding.”

A series of small thuds reverberated from upstairs.  Joey’s Parents knew that bewildered Al ‘Grandpa’ Lewis had knocked over the decorative wooden bowls near the bathroom door.  New visitors to their home always did that.   The bowls were arranged in an inconvenient fashion.

“This,” asked Joey’s Dad, pointing at the ceiling, “was what he was praying for?”

“I guess so.”

“I thought he was praying about his aunt or about soldiers in Iraq or something.”

“No.  He wasn’t.”

“He was praying for Al ‘Grandpa’ Lewis to come back to life?”

“Herman!” blared Al ‘Grandpa’ Lewis from upstairs.   His voice bounced off the recently installed tile.

“I didn’t even know Joey was such a fan of The Munsters,” said Joey’s Dad, leaning unsteadily against the kitchen counter.

“I didn’t knew, either,” Joey’s Mom said, quietly.  “I guess he was.”

“I guess he was!  Well, you’re correct.  He was a big enough fan of The Munsters to pray with such dedication to bring one of its stars back to life.  Why didn’t he pray for John F Kennedy to come back to life?  Why didn’t he pray for Hitler to drown as a child?”

“We can’t pressure him.”

“When word gets out that our son prayed Al ‘Grandpa’ Lewis from The Munsters back from beyond the grave, do you know how people are going to react?  Can you imagine?  Can you imagine how much television we must have let him watch?  Last year, Diane Eloise’s son gets killed in a motorcycle accident.  She’s inconsolable, and our son decides that the person he will resurrect is Al ‘Grandpa’ Lewis from The Munsters.”

Joey’s Mom slammed the palms of her hands against the formica countertop.  She burst into tears.

“He was on Car 54, Where Are You, too,” she hissed between sobs.

Joey’s Dad stared at here, long and hard.  There was an iciness growing around him that she did not like.

A knock at the door, which was unusual.  Visitors tended to ring the bell.

Before he could move, she ran out of the kitchen.

He heard her open the door.  He heard soft muttering.  Stifled tears.

She walked back to the kitchen.  Her eyes were bleary and red.  Her mouth was slightly open.

He had to protect her.  He took her hand.  She rested her forehead against his shoulder.

She spoke in a soft, tired voice.

“It’s Richard Deacon from The Dick Van Dyke Show.  He doesn’t know what’s going on.”

The young girl approached her mother, who stood on the rock shore. No-one had said a word since the argument in the car.

The young girl pulled at the sleeve of her mother’s yellow raincoat.

“Is that the Loch Ness Monster?’ asked the Little Girl in her softest, most adorable voice.

“No,” answered her mother. “That’s a rake. Someone threw a rake into the water.”

”Why?”

”Either he didn’t like rakes or he quit his job in a huff.”

The Little Girl let go of her mother’s sleeve. She walked away.

Her father was about a quarter of a mile down the beach. From his posture, even at that distance, she knew he was smoking cigarettes.

When she arrived, she saw that her father’s face was damp and his hands were shaking.

She looked up at him. He managed a weak smile.

“Mommy says she’s sorry about tossing things at you.”

Her Father, before she had even finished the sentence, had begun staring off into space.

The little girl walked away.

She found her mother sitting on the stones. She stood next to her.

“Daddy says you’re wrong and that is The Loch Ness Monster.”