Short Stories

The Strange Case of the Quikee Mart Stick-ups

EXCERPT (but you can buy the anthology):

At something like 11-ish pm on Tuesday the 3rd, Ned Lund backed into Rooskie’s Quikee Mart where Bobby Briscoll, who nobody really liked, and I were stacking the milk crates midway through our shift. Unusual for Ned, especially on a bowling night, he shuffled in the opposite direction from the beer cooler.

He hung out in front of the Wonder Bread rack, squeezing bags of hamburger buns for another two minutes while Jerry rang up Doc Simms’ regular poker night six-pack and Wendy Amundsen’s third illegal carton of cigarettes this week. Everyone knew Wendy was underage, but if you called her on it, she was quick to prove she knew how to do things she couldn’t possibly have learned about unless she was over 18.

“Unless she’s a ‘ho,” Bobby said once, but no one pays attention to Bobby, not since his old man fried himself repairing an electrical circuit outside the high school girls locker room, even if his mom did still work at Micro Center and knew how to get free cable, and Wendy never bought cigarettes from him after that anyway. Besides, we all knew she was stuck on Jerry, and sometimes she was stuck on him back in the milk cooler.

At 11:07:23, according to the security camera recording, Ned sauntered over to the sad piece of industrial carpet in front of the register that was always wet from sopping up the condensation from the stubby freezer with the Good Humor bars, fudge pops, and the Strawberry Scooters that no one older than three wanted.

READ MORE of this story in the Anthology

There are many more good stories in the Anthology, even if I didn’t write them. Trust me.

On the Point of a Needle (Excerpt)

You know what a flight of angels is like? It’s a flash mob gone wrong. Especially when they’re drunk… flailing and waving fiery swords in the air, disturbing the ethos so that the storms pelting Seattle become a rain of frogs punctuated with fiery things like angry fireflies, and it’s the citizens below the Space Needle who die.

  Angels showed up to The Point club at the top of the Needle in ones and twos at first, blending into the mortal crowd so’s you didn’t notice them, except for that damn smile… and the fact they always snuck in their own bottles; my club is as close to heaven as a celestial being can be and get a buzz on. Fortunately, the Fire Marshall only allows 284 angels on The Point of the Needle’s dance floor at once.

  Problem is, when Michael’s heroic choir arrives at the same time as Beelzebub’s minions, the evening becomes a celestial parody of West Side Story. Dressed in white robes or black leather jackets and motorcycle boots, the two flocks could be a spiritual chess set if they weren’t dressed to kill. I appreciate a little fire and brimstone, but what I wouldn’t give for peace and quiet. Being the guardian of Muspelheim isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Death on the Edge of Forever (Excerpt)

If Harlan Ellison hadn’t been accidentally killed in 1976, he might have written this Star Trek script.

Harlan Ellison was dead: head twisted at an impossible angle, the pool of blood slowly staining the worn plank floor, a glassy look in his motionless eyes.

Well, I couldn’t actually see his face in the dim illumination from the streetlight outside, and dust raised by my sudden appearance from over a hundred years into his future still sifted around his body. Still, who else could it be?

Ellison’s penny-loafered feet, bent at the knees, were caught up in the rungs of the spindly wooden chair he’d been sitting in, only now the chair lay tipped over on the raised window platform of LA’s oldest science-fiction bookstore. He hung upside down, neck buckled, his Olympia squatting on its keys at the edge of the table next to a stack of finished pages.

A pre-sunrise pipe added an acrid smell to the sharp taste of ozone as the scattered tobacco burned its way through once-bright floor paint. And here I was, Charlene Benally, Ph.D., and the world’s first time-traveler — okay, the second, but I would have been the first if my damn grad assistant hadn’t skidded ahead of me and Jumped first. This was definitely going to negatively affect his evaluation. I was the first woman, though. And no one would remember a graduate assistant anyway. First Human to Transport Across Worldlines. No. First Time Traveler. Yes, better.

My doctoral student, Richard Naylor, stood, arms akimbo, on the raised deck where Ellison had been writing. The nearly invisible field of Naylor’s time-suit which connected him to our original timeline of 2096 sparkled silver where the wooden writing table pressed against his leg. He looked down at the body of one of the world’s greatest authors with puzzlement. He gestured as if to explain that it had been Ellison’s fault.

“We did it, Doc. 1976,” he murmured.

But now… now what? Damn fame-hogging grad assistant!

The Substitute Psycopomp – FULL Short Story

Cool! I’m subbing for Gatekeeper #11 himself. Guy really deserved a vacation. Well, here we go!

#

“Hey, buddy. Open your eyes. No worries; everything’ll be fine. Well, not everything. Because, you know, you’re dead.”

…?

“Not a ghost, just very dead. I suppose you want to know where you are? Right now your soul’s on its way to… well, no way to tell what; that’s Section Two, I think, hence the conveyor belt you’re on. No, stay lying down. Wow, going pretty fast, huh?”

“Don’t try to speak; you can’t. Not that important. After all, who can you talk to besides me? Heh-heh.”

No, no, don’t smile. Sharp teeth are scary. Damn.

“Looks like you’re screaming; perfectly normal. Go ahead, get it out; you’ll feel better.”

…?

“Where’s Saint Pete? Ha! Good one. Common misconception. I mean, so many Christians are simply dying to get into heaven. Ha-ha! But with over a 100,000 souls to process daily, that’s… well, a lot per hour. Can you imagine standing in that line? Fortunately, we’ve made upgrades.”

“Sorry. Out of breath jogging along with you; I’ll bet it was easier when there was a river and a boat. In this first stage, I’m simply here to help you put your last moments in order. Like, I assume you remember the guy who killed you. I don’t know why or if you deserved it, but he did a thorough job of it. I could show you, but you seem freaked out enough.”

“It says here you knew him. Happens more than you think. Does the name Dan ring any bells? No? Guess I’m rambling. Gotta stop to catch my breath. Be right back.”

…!

“Hi, again. Ah, you’ve advanced to the “I must be dreaming” phase. Go ahead, pinch yourself. It won’t help. See. Dead.”

…

“About your killer: this is your chance for payback. Not much time before… whatever… so, keep it simple. You don’t have to do anything, not that you can, because you’re… you know. But think it, and I’ll make it happen, like a posthumous gimme. Anything. Seriously. What can they do to you? You’re dead.”

Don’t smile! Don’t smile!

“How about brakes going out on a hill? People who read mysteries seem to like that. Slow and painful is also a popular request, especially since he did murder you rather grotesquely.”

…?

“You’re about to enter the next area, so, quick: Close your eyes and picture your revenge.”

…!

“Ah, that’s sublime. Fiendish, even. Yes, I can make sure he knows it was you from beyond the grave. Perfect. The next guide will see you now. Good luck, guy.”

#

Well, that was easier than I thought. I clearly have a knack for... Holy sh…! I have to run back for the next one?

#

“Hey, my man. Be cool. Everything’s fine… as fine as possible, I guess, because you’re, like, dead.”

…!

“It’s a shock, right? Easy, brother. Nothing to be done about it. Mind if I climb on the conveyor with you? Chasing all you incoming is exhausting.”

…!!

“No need to plead. I can’t help you; I’m only the initial gatekeeper. Ask the next spirit guide. Look, we’re very short of time.”

…!!!$#!&

“Seriously, begging won’t work. I see you died in your sleep. Not the worst way to go. Anyone you want to say a last goodbye to? I can have them dream that you…

…?

“I’m afraid that dead is dead, and since you’ll only be with me for a few seconds longer…”

…!!

“Sorry, friend. Lots of souls checking in; you picked the wrong hour to buy the farm, so to speak.”

…?

“What happens next? Up or down, you mean? No idea. Ask your next escort. Gotta hop off now, but in a while, you won’t be worrying about...”

…!!!!

What? Tell your wife you’re sorry that you…

#

Crap! Too late. Ahh, the next guide will figure it out…

#

“Hey, soldier. How’s it hanging?”

…?

“Yes, you died, but everything is going to be…

…??

“No, you’re not unconscious. You’re dead and you…”

…?!

“If you stop interrupting me, I can tell you what I know, but I can’t tell you what comes after. I’m just your initial greeter. However, if you have any last requests…”

…!!!

 “‘Kill the bastards’ is awfully generic. Can you be more specific?”

…!

“Sure, I suppose each has accountability, although likely not to the same degree, right? I hate to rush you, but our time is short.”

…?

“Time? Before the next soul arrives on the conveyor. Death happens.”

…

“Agreed, not funny. Still, if you have any last…”

…

“Wait. Don’t get up. Calm down, soldier. You’re dead. You can’t go back that way. It won’t be what you think!”

#

“Thank you for seeing me, Your Eminence. I appreciate the opportunity to…”

[…!]

“Yes, sir, I do understand you’re Lord of the Empyrion, saints preserve you. Sorry, I know that wasn’t a good Irish accent. I wish, however, to put the events in question into context. I admit the last quintessence did return to the Animated, but I would hope your glorious Deity of Temporality will see that…”

[…]

“I know death is infectious, but it’s not like he’s contagious or... Oh, he is?”

[…?]

“What happens when he returns to the living? I guess he’d no longer be dead, your Otherworldliness. Heh-heh. Lucky, right?”

[…!]

“My apologies. Yes, he’d be animated again.”

[…]

“True, only partially animated. I did warn him life wouldn’t be the same, but…”

[…!]

“The Undead? Yes, that seems a reasonable name to call the semi-animated… Wait. They eat what? That’s not my fault! Wait! I can ex…”

#

‘Greetings, traveler, and welcome to the first step in Soul Processing. As you continue your journey towards…’

…!!

‘Say, aren’t you the initial substitute for the gatekeeper? What are you doing here? Stop thrashing around; that’s not going to help. I think they speeded up the conveyor again, and…"‘

…!!!!! %&#$

‘Alright, I’ll check with upstairs, but just in case that doesn’t work out, any last words?’

The Rest is Silence - FULL Story

Written in response to Reedsy Prompt #128: Set your story backstage at the theater. 

“That’s it. It’s over,” Astoria said from the backstage shadows, as she stepped into Queen Gertrude’s gown for Hamlet’s Fifth Act. “Good night, sweet ladies.”

“Maybe not,” Kingsley, about to return to the stage as Claudius, the newly crowned King of Denmark, said, fondling the props for Scene 2. “There’s Kickstarter and Lidia’s new influencer gig for Ben Nye makeup. We can still save the theater.”

Standing in the wings, Bernard made a rude noise. “As leader of this acting troupe, I can tell you that no one is going to pay for greasepaint tripe.”

Astoria nodded. “You’re delusional, Kingsley, my dear,” she said. “After this travesty, we’ll be lucky to save our own acting careers let alone the theater. There are some things even Shakespeare can’t save.”

Richard, the troupe’s stage manager, looked up from where he was holding book near the proscenium. “If it be now, ‘tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now…”

“Shut up, Richard,” Kingsley said. “You’re not helping.”

Richard swept a hand, bowing, from shoulder to the floor. “Right as always, your majesty.”

“I’m positive this performance will knock them dead.”

“Only way anyone will be in their seats when this is over,” Bernard grumbled, “is if the audience is dead.”

Astoria shushed him.

Dialog filtered back to the wings as Hamlet and Horatio discussed Ophelia’s funeral.

Kingsley squinted through the stage left drapes. “Where are we?”

Richard double-checked the script he was following. “Osric is about to exit. The Lord with messages for Hamlet enters Stage Left.” He leaned back and hissed. “Bernard, that’s you.”

“For God’s sake,” Astoria whispered, “someone zip me up.”

Courtney doffed her courtier’s cap as she stepped off stage. “Jesus, is it hot in here or is it just me? I need something to drink.”

“What’s the audience like?” Kingsley asked.

“A funeral is livelier,” she said. “The reviews are going to be deadly. Where are the foils?”

Kingsley waved vaguely into the shadows by the fly lines. “In the case.”

“Who gets which one?”

Richard swung his mike down to his lips. “Jimmy. Set change,” he said to the crew over at Stage Right. “Throne room. Go.”

“A scene-change heads-up would be nice, Richard,” the lighting booth said over the intercom.

As the lights dimmed, the crew jostled to rotate the thrones into place.

“Let Hamlet choose first,” Kingsley said.

“What do I choose?” Kenneth asked from just offstage as he put on a fencing vest over his black velvet doublet.

“The poisoned foil.”

“Which one is that?”

 “They’re all poisoned. That’s the point.”

Kenneth chuckled. “The point. I get it.”

“Damn dullard,” Richard muttered.

“Sorry, Ricky. What was that?” Kenneth asked.

Richard looked up with an innocent smile as the lights came back up. “I said ‘Kill the bastard.’ You’re on. Go.”

Horatio’s voice echoed through the hall, softening little through the curtains. “You’ll lose this wager, my lord.”

From the wings, Kingsley watched Kenneth strut center stage and strike a pose. “I do not think so,” Kenneth said. He swept an arm around as if to include the orchestra pit to the balcony. “But it is no matter.” And after a dramatic pause, “We defy augury.”

Richard growled. “The bastard’s forgotten his lines again.”

“Damn,” Courtney mused from the prop table. “These swords are sharp.”

“They’re not swords, Connie.”Astoria said.

“It’s Courtney.”

Astoria handed Kingsley his crown and a wine goblet. “Are you ready, my king?”

Kingsley swirled the wine. “Let’s make sure they remember this.”

“I hope it’s a good vintage,” she said.

“You’ll never taste better, my dear.” He took her hand.

Kenneth paced back upstage. “Since no man knows aught of what he leaves, let it be. Let it be.” He began singing. “Though it be my hour of darkness, she is…”

“Jesus,” Richard said. “Audio. Audio! Cue the trumpets. Claudius, Gertrude: get the hell out there before he skips to the end of the duel without you.”

Kingsley and Astoria skittered into the scene before strolling to the thrones upstage right.

Courtney followed them out of the wings with the box of poisoned foils. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends.”

“Wrong play, kid,” Richard said.

“You are so right about that,” Courtney muttered as she stepped into the light.

Kenneth strode downstage and jammed fists on his hips. “Give us the foils. Come on.”

“Oh, crap,” Richard said. “The idiot just skipped the entire ‘sorry for my mental illness’ speech.” He yanked his headset mike back down. “Jimmy. We might have a curtain call a lot sooner than expected. Where are Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?”

“They’re dead,” Jimmy radioed.

“Funny guy. I know that. I mean Sam and Tom. Grab the gravediggers, too.”

“No, I mean they’re actually dead.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Polonius found them in the green room. Tennant stopped by and they were drinking.”

“Well, wake them up. Pour coffee down their throats if you have to.”

Jimmy gulped back a sob. “They’re not dead drunk, Richard. They’re dead. They were drinking wine out of Yorick’s skull.”

“Wine? You let them smuggle in wine? They’re flaming alcoholics.”

“Not me. It was the wine Kingsley brought. They just nicked a bottle from the case.”

“You have got to be shi… Anyone else?”

Jimmy stammered unintelligibly before gasping out, “I think Tennant will be okay, but the EMRs are pumping the Ghost’s stomach.”

The sound of blade on blade rang from just beyond the edge of the curtain. Richard scanned the set.

“Bugger me. Tell me that’s not the wine in the goblet Astoria is going to drink from.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

On stage, Courtney’s shout was clear. “A hit, a very palpable hit!”

“Hah,” Kenneth cried out in return. “I prick thee, do you not bleed?”

“A pox upon him,” Richard moaned, “he’s not even in the right play.”

“You tickle me, and I laugh,” Kenneth bellowed. “Ha! Ha!”

Richard heard a thump and a clatter.

“Here, Hamlet,” Richard heard Astoria say, “take my napkin, rub thy brow whilst I carouse to thy fortune.”

“Hey, Richard,” a voice said in his headset, “this is the lighting booth. What the hell just happened to Laertes? He’s on the floor, and it looks like he’s bleeding.”

“Bring the house lights up. Bring the house lights up!” Richard turned to the stage left crew. “Curtain. Curtain. Curtain.” And he ran out on stage, waving his arms. “Don’t drink that, Astoria.”

Lying on the floor, Laertes raised his own foil and ran Kenneth through the gullet. “Here, have at it, you knotty-pated fool, thou errant, elf-skinned fustilarian. Tickle indeed.”

Kenneth gasped as blood colored his fencing jacket.

Courtney staggered, pulled off her cap, said, “It’s really hot in here,” and collapsed upstage right.

Richard grabbed the goblet from Astoria’s hands.

“The drink. The drink,” she said. “I am poisoned.” And tumbled off her throne the three feet to the floor. Her crown spun across the apron as her head hit the boards.

Richard ran downstage and yelled at the audience. “Someone call 911.” Only a dozen people still remained. Most looked asleep. The three critics in the front row began slow clapping.

Richard ran back off as the extras began fainting and collapsing on stage.

“O! Cursed be the hand that made these holes,” Kenneth said and dropped to his knees.

“That’s not even in Hamlet, is it?” Bernard asked.

“Close the damn curtain!” Richard shouted.

Kingsley strode to the edge of the stage as the traveler closed behind him and glared at the critics. He finished the wine in Astoria’s goblet. “Write about this you blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things.” He bowed before falling across the footlights. “Aaaand… SCENE,” he mumbled as he rolled into the orchestra pit.

Richard pulled his headset back on. “Jimmy,” he said calmly. “Get your act together and bring me a bottle of that wine.”

“Hey, Richard, this is the lighting booth again. Is it over? Is there going to be a curtain call? Richard?”