Flash Fiction Contest: Dr. D. Mencher

Write a story about Dr. D. Mencher and Win the Drawing on the Right 
The contest closes Monday December 6, 2010

Dr. D. Mencher 
16"x20" oil, graphite on paper, 
and mixed media on masonite

Click on pictures to enlarge

The story you write should be a "Flash Fiction" which is a complete story in one thousand or fewer words.  Please post the story in the comment section, you will have to provide your name and an email address in order to be qualified to win or you can e-mail me at with your info.  There is a problem with how many characters can post (only about 4,000) so if you cannot post it.  E-mail it to me at

Go to my website for more contests:

Winning flash fiction stories will be integrated in with an exhibit in San Francisco at ArtHaus Gallery (April 8th for the reception).

The show is called:
Renovated Reputations: Paintings and Fiction inspired by Vintage Portrait Photographs

The exhibit will include a series of 20-40 paintings and mixed media works ranging in size from 8”x10” to 18”x24” framed with thrift store and vintage frames.  In addition to the exhibited works ArtHaus is publishing catalogs signed by me and as many of the authors as possible.

Catalogs/books will consist of image of the painting with the text of the “flash story” surrounding the image.  If I can get the authors to come to a book signing/party, authors would sign their pages for some of the printed stuff.

We're going to have a photobooth for the show for participants to play with and vintage costumes.

Of course I'll send the authors free copies of the catalogs. I will announce the winners the day after the closing deadline for the competition. I'm planning on doing one flash fiction competition a week every Monday from now until April. 

(If the conditions in the side bar are not to your liking, I'm totally flexible.  Send me a contract that you like and I will mail it back to you.  I just don't want to chase people for signatures when I publish the catalog!)
This was sent by email:

Deliberations by Matt O'Malley

Kenny had found David’s diary and the manila box of small mementos he kept locked away in his study and the look of horror David saw on his son’s face when their eyes met that cold November morning told David all he needed to know.

And there was no sense in yelling at the boy. It was too late and beyond that. All that was to be known was known. David merely walked over to him, took the diary from his hands and cleared the desk of the keepsakes Kenny had placed on David’s work desk. He then carefully, solemnly, placed everything back into the manila box and into the desk drawer. David outstretched his hand and Kenny placed the desk key that David had inadvertently left in the open, into David’s palm.

The afternoon was spent in silence. Kenny had moved a chair some three feet in front of the living room television and sat catatonic, glassy eyed and motionless as David watched him from the comfort of the living room couch, deep in thought.

Evening and a tasteless cold dinner failed to fill the void David felt in the pit of his stomach as he pondered the situation. His son’s eyes were still filled with horror and were now shifting, restless, piercing as he sat across the dining room table. His son’s demeanor reminded him of the caged laboratory animals just before they were to be pulled for an experiment. They always seemed to know what was coming next. David realized he had to do something and it was to start with a sleeping pill that took until ten that night to take effect.

Doctor David Mencher carried his sleeping son into the child’s room, tucked him into bed and then went down the stairs to his study where he poured himself a glass of bourbon and retrieved the manila box and his diary. He scanned through the pages until he found the page that listed names of those who had died by his hand. He considered each and every name, especially those names that belonged to males on his list; all of them who had landed on this list due to no fault of their own, or David’s. Each one of the men had just found David in a compromising position with one of the women on the list; just a matter of them being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Similar to the two names he was about to add to the list.

With a pencil, David now listed Mark Nelson, the neighbor who was asking about the woman he saw entering David’s house the other day, the woman noted as missing on the evening news, and Kenny Mencher, his own son. He pondered these last two names, then clenched his teeth as he rewrote Kenny’s last name in blocky letters and underlined it. He also crossed out Mark’s name “It ends here,” he said under his breath. He then reread all the names out loud and placed a check at the end of each name except for the last two.

From his study’s mahogany bookshelf, David pulled a book that had been made a tomb to hold a syringe and a small clear vial. He filled the syringe with the contents from the vial then placed the vial back into the book and the book back into the bookshelf. Slowly he climbed the stairs to Kenny’s room where the opening of the bedroom door created a rectangular coffin of light that stretched from the hallway into Kenny’s dark bedroom.

David stepped into the light, his frame filling the rectangular space as he stood at the head of Kenny’s bed with the syringe in his hand. He pressed the syringe’s plunger and a drop of clear liquid clung to the tip of the needle. He looked at his son, the covers across his chest rising and falling with each breath. He tried to console himself with the thought that we all eventually die of some sort of heart disease or cancer.

David clenched his teeth and felt for a vein. It was easy enough to find. Years of practice makes perfect. He emptied the contents of the syringe before it fell from his hand and to the floor.
Another great story sent in by e-mail!

Entry for the Doctor D. Mencher contest (no title):
 by Luz del Sol
Act One, Scene One
Talking on the phone.

Lisa: Don't, I hear he's constantly under investigation.
Clara: I have to! You know that Kenney needs this operation, and I can't afford to go to anyone else!
Lisa: But, Clara, he's unlicensed, he works underground. There have been rumors that many people have died; that he killed them! You can't trust your son's life to this man, can you?
Clara: It's not like I have much of a choice.

Act One, Scene Two
Dr Mencher's apartment. There are photos and newspaper clippings covering the walls, little furniture.

Dr Mencher: Yes, hello? Who are you?
Clara: (From offstage) Clara Newman. We spoke a day ago; you can operate on my son?
Dr Mencher: Shh! Goddammit, woman. Yes, yes. Okay, okay, come in.
Clara: Come on, Kenney. (Enters with Kenney.)
Kenney: Mom-mee, I wanna lay down.
Dr Mencher: Oh, my boy, you'll be able to lay down soon enough. Soon enough.
Kenney: Mom-mee, that man's scary.
Clara: Hush, Kenney, he's going to help you get better.
Dr Mencher: Yes, yes, I am. Right this way. Please. And goddamit, keep your voices down!
Kenney: Sor-ree.
Dr Mencher: Ma'am, you have to wait here.
Clara: Why? I want to be there!
Dr Mencher: No, you can't be. That's why I said you have to wait here. Goddamn...
Clara: No, this is important! I want to see what you're doing to my son!
Dr Mencher: Then go look at pictures in a medical textbook! You. Stay. Here!
Clara: (glares)
Dr Mencher: Come along with me, Kenney.
Kenney: Mom-mee, I want to stay with you!
Clara: See?
Dr Mencher: My God! Kid! No, you come with me! Woman! You stay here. That's how it works! (Pulls Kenney offstage.)

Act One, Scene Three
The operating room. There is an operating table and a small cart with tools on it. Dr Mencher wears a surgical mask, gloves, and scrubs.

Dr Mencher: Okay, boy, you hop up on this table. (Kenney lays down on operating table.) Okay, we need to knock you out before we start operating. This may hurt a little. (Injects Kenney, causing Kenney to scream.) Oh, shut it, boy! Do you want that goddamn woman knocking down my door, just because you can't handle a little prick?
Kenney: (sniffs) I'm sor-ree.
Dr Mencher: Yeah, yeah.
Kenney: (Falls unconscious.)
Dr Mencher: About damn time! Now, we're going to need.... Ooh, first we'll be needin' this baby. (Picks up large saw.)

Act One, Scene Four
Dr Mencher's apartment.

Clara: (Looks around at pictures, newspaper clippings. Anxious.) Hm, it looks like he has quite the reputation. (Picks up newspaper clipping. Reads from it.) 'Doctor Dwight Mencher, surgerical professor at Ana College, School of Medicine, recently removed a tumor from the brain of the elderly Betty Million, saving her life. In just one month, he has saved three other lives, and his research at the university is what many of his colleagues call “breakthrough.” “It's really amazing to see him work,” says James Pacheco, a student at the university. “I help him out with research sometimes, and, man, he's such a genius, it's actually kind of hard to keep up.”' Well, that at least can quell some of my fears. Oh, but what's this one? (Picks up another newspaper clipping.) 'Dr Dwight Mencher, the renowned surgical professor at Ana College, was recently fired due to allegations of malpractice after two of his patients died on the table.' Oh my God! Why would he keep that out here for people to see! My poor baby! He's going to kill my baby!
* * *

Margaret looked up from the script. “Let me guess, he kills her poor baby?”
“No. I mean, c'mon, look at how many pages there are left in that thing, you think it would really end like that?” Alvin, the boy who had brought the script of A Whiff of Death to Margaret, stated.
“Fine. How's it end, then?” Margaret asked, clearly not even considering this play for their fall performance.
Alvin, however, was never good at reading people, and thought the girl was curious about the sci-fi thriller he'd shown her. “Well,” he began excitedly, “later on, Clara finds this picture of this kid. She's all, 'Hm, I wonder what this is.' Then Mencher comes out, and he goes, 'Ah, that was my son. He died of a liver infection. I couldn't save him,' and it goes into this big monologue. And Clara says, 'Oh, that sucks,' and Mencher's like, 'Yeah, it does,' and he just whips out that big-ass saw from earlier, and kills her. Then there's another monologue. Turns out, Mencher was fired and had his medical license revoked because those two people he killed on the operating table? Yeah, he killed them on purpose. He's like, 'Oh, I gotta save my boy,' and he takes their livers to give to his son. But then his son died anyway. And Mencher totally snapped. He preserved his son's brain, and now every single person brought in to him, he kills them and takes a healthy organ from them. And now he's transplanted every organ into Kenney's body, and he's traded Kenney's brain for his kid's brain, so now Kenney is, like, totally his some replacement son. Seriously! And then later on, like in the end, Mencher's just like, 'Son, it's been a long time.' And the kid's like, 'Yeah'. And it's freaking mind-blowing!”
“What? That's illogical. It's scientifically incorrect! How could that even work? Anyway, it seems moronic,” Margaret said nonchalantly. “How about we do Wicked. I hear it's a hit.”
“No! A Whiff of Death is fantastic!”
“It's melodramatic bullshit that no one will pay to see. It'd be wise to get rid of this.” She tore the script in half, giving rest to the horrible legacy of Doctor D. Mencher. May its pages never be seen again.

This was sent by email:

Baron Samedi by Christina Jeter

Just because I say that I am sorry doesn’t mean that the hurt I cause someone immediately goes away.
If we are all made in GODs image then we must also possess his power and in having so, it wasn’t enough for me to use it for his well being but just like the devil and I chose to use it against him. Now that I am condemned forever I have nothing but time to relish in the fact that I am death. My name is Dr. D. Mencher and I have a story to tell and currently being the mood I am in is good I want to let you know a secret that can change the human world.
You may wonder why I chose to associate myself with people of different backgrounds and lifestyles, the reason being is because I can understand the fact of what lead them to the position they are currently in state. Many people only want company they can benefit from and can’t handle those who don’t want to be entertained by their company. For me I infect those who don’t want me like second hand smoke and corrupt the moral of the self proclaimed righteous like the intoxication of those who drink rum.
My name means symbolizes the beginning and with that I am the giver and taker of life and death and with the decision to carry you into the underworld or keep you in the morality of life I say don’t become brainless like me. We are all witness of some in justice and even thought we do not stick up for it you should not stand for it. I have seen the innocent betrayed by being taking advantage of and instead of staying true to their na├»ve nature they have developed and become hateful to those who have destroyed their path.
I know my wisdom can cure any mortal the reason being that we are all being tested and sometimes when we fail we don’t get a second chance. They say in order to be old and wise you have to be young and careless. The blankness you see in my eyes is not because I don’t care; it is because I have nothing to care about. The actions you take against someone be very sure you can take the results they have to give back!
Being Dr. D Mencher my over all opinion is always seen to be right or do you still question me with a second opinion?

Written By:
Christina A. Jeter


  1. A DOCTOR’S DEFENCE by Dee Turbon

    There’s a code of practice and everything written in bold black and bright white so there’s no mistakes, written in blood it should be. ‘Thou shalt not’ made loud-bray by an ass that calls itself law, and justice is a blind woman with a sword in one hand and a balance in the other, never able to see what it is she weighs up, knowing only the pull of the scales one way or the other. All this is known to me, and I took an oath, to do no harm, and now I do not really understand what that might mean.

    We had a cat once, years back, when I was a boy, and she was soft as heavy cloth when you picked her up, and purred like a motor idling. But another side to her, too, for out of sight of the house she was a tooth and claw hunter and she brought dead birds to the back door and laid them on the mat, trophies of what she could do. And one day a velvet-shrug mole and a torn purse it looked like, all its loose-change pink insides spilling out, and a shrill ear-squeak scream hanging on the sunshine morning, for the mole was slow-dying and not dead. My mother wept, I remember, and she said ‘help me’ and I took the spade and beat the mole into silence and into a dark that was more than blind.

    Another morning and grey, and a mother begging for something from a son-become-a-man, and she was the first, and ‘help me’ she said once, and ‘help me’ again. What son could not? I said there was another way, and I did not want her to go, and she should be brave, for me she should be brave. Then she wasn’t my mother anymore, not really. She did not know me, or anything of me, and did not know what she had been. Frightened was all she was, and a pain in her torn heart that made her scream in the velvet-mole dark, and I cried to see what she had become and I cursed myself for not having done it sooner. A little extra sedative, enough for a final sleep, and no one ever checked to see how an old woman died.

    Where is the law for that, or for all the others after, and they beg the same, with their grey eyes when there are no words left, and I shake my head and tell them ‘no’, and ‘I cannot’, and ‘I am a doctor and my business should be healing’, and ‘please don’t ask me’. But I know, even through my protests, through the pain that I take to myself, that I would lift up that spade again and end that mole’s suffering and my mother’s weeping.

    And one day let a blindfold woman weigh what I do in the pans of her scales, good in one pan and my heart in the other, and a sword that she holds high and a sun-burst crown on her head. Here is my confession, and a list of all their names, and the when and the how, and something of the why. Call me mad and unholy, for I call myself this and worse – but never call what I did wrong, for who is there among you could have sat in that sunshine-morning watching a mole take time to die and listening to a mother weeping?

  2. Surprise and misdirection! I like having an expectation and then having that expectation overturned.

    A startling shift in format from script/dialog to prose form in Luz del Sol’s story reminded me a bit of the simulacra like format of Bram Stoker’s Dracula but with a great sense of humor. Christina Jeter’s Baron Samedi’s first person point of view was a little bit like crawling into the mind of a sinister predatory figure much like the aforementioned count. Dee Turbon’s character has a similar story however, his “Doctor” is a bit more sympathetic although both make an attempt to justify their actions. (I really did sympathize with Dee’s character’s motives.)

    All the stories employed an element of misdirection which is obviously a quality that I like they also startled me for another reason most of the stories included my name both as a villain and sometimes as a victim! Kind of creeped me out but on the other hand it did get my attention.

    I chose Deliberations by Matt O’Malley because it had all the best qualities of the rest of the stories, it was a menacing, sympathetic and sharp story with a wonderful surprise Hitchcock like twist to it and clean concise prose style.