Stories

Ted’s micro fiction, The Offs, won first place in The Pete Wood Challenge writing competition of November 2024. You can find it at this link.

You can read Ted’s humorous flash fiction, Greeter Pastures, in Little Old Lady Comedy at this link.

His humorous story about Cinderella’s lawyer, Happy Ever After, appears in Fabula Argentea: The Venue of Good Writing at this link.

Ted’s short story, The Recall, received top honorable mention in the Washington City Paper‘s 2018 Fiction Contest. It is speculative environmental fiction. Read it here.

Ted’s flash fiction, Greta Maude Darby and the Seersucker Suit Gang, was published by Witcraft. Sadly, the site closed in 2025. But you can read the story below.

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Originally published in Witcraft.org:

GRETA MAUDE DARBY AND THE SEERSUCKER SUIT GANG

By Ted Macaluso

“Pip’s at it again!”

“It” was my sunny round pig pushing a bear-proof can of garbage down the hill. Not that I needed Mom yelling from her bed to tell me that, what with the grunts, rattles, and bangs flying through the air. With a sigh, I jammed an apple into the pocket of my calico dress and headed out the door. Twelve years old is what I am, but with Mom laid up, I’m the only one who gets stuff done around here.

Pip was more intelligent than most pigs—which is saying something, seeing as how smart pigs are—and she didn’t always make such a fuss. This must be one of her more playful days. She and the trash can were headed down the hill towards the Rock Isle River at the far bottom.

“Piiiiiip!” I yelled as I traipsed toward her, holding out the apple. She looked at me, gave one snort, and kept at her mischief, her curlicue tall wagging at me as if to say, ‘Sometimes you gotta push garbage down the hill into the river.’ Yup, that would sure be hard to resist.

“I don’t have time for this, Pip!” I picked up speed. “And don’t get the can wet.” I had to be at the Fern Junction Bank in half an hour to bring them a payment on the loan for the farm. We couldn’t afford a late charge. Fishing a water-logged, stinky trash can out of a river was NOT on my agenda!

Pip kept snorting and pushing and glancing back as if she wanted my attention. No shame in her eyes. “I SAID don’t get the can—”

I gasped and started running. Not cause Pip pushed the can into the river. No, she’d stopped it at the side of the Riverbank Trail and was nudging a bundle of fur on the ground. The same copper-colored fur as our dog, Rustafari.

By the time I got there, Rustafari was sitting up, thank the Heavens. He had someone’s white buck shoe in his mouth. What happened here? He and Pip were looking at each other and making their own sounds. Some days, I swear they can talk to each other.

Pip grunted, looked up, and waddled down the trail. Another white buck shoe lay next to a rock high as my waist and Pip nosed behind the boulder. Her tail was visible and wagging, as if to say, ‘Come ‘n look at this.’ Which, of course, I did.

Somebody—three somebodies actually—had each left a change of clothes piled up. Two piles had brown boots, the third had no shoes.

Then Pip pointed her snout further down the Riverbank Trail. Which, no surprise, set an alarm bell ringing in my head. I had to get going. It was a one-mile saunter along the trail to town and the Fern Junction Bank. It would take me twenty minutes to get there.

“Guys. Go back to the farm. I have to get to the bank.” They looked at the river. “Not that bank, the Fern Junction Bank. Go back—and Rusty, see after Ma.”

Pip gave a snort, and Rusty dropped the shoe to let forth a sharp bark. I showed them my wristwatch and tapped it three times, then got on my way. “Pip. Rusty. Go back.”

Course they didn’t do as told, just followed ten feet behind. And kept following. Mom wouldn’t have stood for the disobedience, but earlier, Doc said she still had a few more days of bed rest till she’s up and about. Like I said, it’s up to me to get stuff done. I sure wished it wasn’t, but what could you do? Least it was a sunny day, and the air smelled of pine.

At the Fern Junction Bank, I told Pip and Rustifari to wait. Course, Rusty just ran off yapping after Sheriff Presser’s truck rolling by. But I went in and gave the loan payment to the teller. I was heading to the exit when three men in seersucker suits walked in. The suits made them look like distinguished gentlemen until I looked closer and realized they wore red bandana masks. A costume? Now, one was waving a gun and demanding that customers lay on the floor. I ran for the exit but a seersucker suit man blocked me. “No you don’t girlie. Git down.”

A chill shivered up my spine, and I did as he said. Lying on the marble floor, I noticed he didn’t have fancy white buck shoes like the other two thieves. His dirty brown boots clashed with his seersucker suit costume. Strange what you notice at times like this—not that I ever had a time like this before.

I can’t say my life flashed before me. What I thought on was all the laundry waiting to be done. Finally, the guy with the gun held up a bag of cash, turned, and said, “Let’s go, fellas.” Yup, those were his exact words. Seems he couldn’t think of a fancy phrase at a time like this.

It took a minute, but folks started dusting their selves off and I slipped out the door. What a sight! Sheriff Presser and his deputies were arresting the seersucker suit gang. A clear plastic bag of the clothes and boots we’d seen behind the rock was in the back of the Sheriff’s pickup. And then Rustifari, tail wagging, jumped out.

The deputies had handcuffed two gang members but hadn’t yet tied the robber in boots. Rusty was growling at him. The man yelled, “You dirty mutt!” and drew a leg back to kick.

To kick MY dog.

That got my boil up, and I charged, but Pip beat me to it. She butted into the guy and started rolling him towards the river.

The bad man yelped. Pip’s tail wiggled. And Sheriff Presser looked at me, so I told him, “Sometimes you gotta push garbage down the hill into the river.”

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