Short Story Collection
Last modified on 2012-01-15 14:51:55 GMT. 0 comments. Top.
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Caged
Get “Caged” for free at JMS Books
Jared thinks life in his big cat refuge is perfect. Surrounded by tigers, lions, leopards, and cougars, Jared has moved easily from life as a college baseball star. Sultan, his favorite tiger, is healthy and happy; his wife Julianna is the same. Or so he thinks. When Jared suspects that Julianna is getting a little too close to the refuge volunteers, he faces a tough choice.
It was only twenty steps out of the trailer. Jared felt its old floors bend under his strides and he knew he had to be careful now. He saw himself leaping over the porch railing, landing in the flowerbed, smashing the yellow and orange flowers with his dirty boots. By the tenth step through the trailer’s living area, he slowed. What was he going to do? Pick up Miguel and throw him out of the flowerbed? Wrest Juliana into his arms and carry her home? Yell at them?
Ridiculous.
A flush of fever towards Juliana for making him feel this way. Anger, not lust.
He stopped himself just inside the front door and took three deep breaths. He felt Peter behind him, down the hallway, knew that Peter was watching him. He let his fists go loose, let his hands dangle but his heart continued to punch away.
Jared eased out on the front porch and stood with his arms crossed. Randy and Ken looked up right away; they were standing up and could see him. Jared leaned against the doorjamb and stared at them, trying to keep his face neutral, but he knew it wasn’t working when he saw them both blanch.
“Um, I, uh, gotta go,” Randy said. Kendall nodded and they skittered away.
Juliana and Miguel looked up. Miguel’s hand clenched on the trowel he held.
“Hey, hon,” Juliana said. “How goes the clearing?”
As if nothing were wrong, nothing was going on here, and that rankled him even more. Jared kept his gaze on Miguel, glad for a minute that his shirt was off and the hours he spent working the refuge and in the batting cage still showed on his body. He wasn’t a college kid any more but he was solid and broad-shouldered in a way Juliana said she liked.
Said she liked.
The moment dragged out. Jared was absurdly aware of the whole alpha-male thing going on and he suspected that Juliana was keenly in touch with it, too.
Miguel didn’t move. His gaze flicked away from Jared’s now and again, but as the seconds stretched out, Jared realized the kid wasn’t backing down.
Now what?
“Scram,” Jared said to Miguel.
The kid finally got up, trowel still in his hand, a sword to defend the fair damsel. He was nineteen years old and clearly didn’t know what to do. He dropped the trowel and it plunked in the dirt, sent a spray of grit onto Juliana’s arm and chest. “See you later, Juliana.”
Not if I can help it.
Lure of the Wolf
Buy “Lure of the Wolf” at JMS Books
“I think there’s a werewolf living in my azaleas,” Vivian Postlewaite said to her sister one Saturday morning in early April.
“They’re not your azaleas, Viv. They belong to the college.” Angela replied.
“Well, I fertilize them every summer; I prune them. I’m the one who takes care of them.” The sisters were pawing through a thrift store. Vivian held up a pale turquoise cardigan with an embroidered rose on the left side. The rose was delicately stitched with creamy silk at the center of its blossom, and graduated threads of wine, pink, and mauve for its petals. And so soft…. She resisted rubbing it against her cheek.
Angela glanced at the sweater. “Ooooh, that’s dreadfully frumpy, it looks like something a librarian would wear.”
“I am a librarian.”
“Well, you don’t have to dress like one. When I ask you to come with me to find clothes for the theater group, I don’t expect to buy clothes for yourself!” Angela said. She held out a bright red circle skirt. “Don’t werewolves migrate north in April? I remember the news doing the regular little spiel about them just around tax time. It’s illegal to harass them, they’re a protected species, blah, blah, blah.”
“I always watch that coverage! The hundreds of them together, jogging up to the mountain path—”
“You wouldn’t find it fascinating if you had children,” Angela snapped. “They’re just a bunch of mutants. Good riddance, I say.”
“There hasn’t been a recorded werewolf attack on a human in over fifty years,” Vivian protested.
“Recorded or not, they’re dangerous. I’m glad the president approved the funding for those programs, all of them. The Vampiric Studies Office, the Lycanthrope Commission. For God’s sake, it’s 2045! At least now, someone is keeping an eye on them.
“When I think of the way you and I grew up, with them running around….” Angela sighed dramatically, like the former theater major that she was. “It’s a wonder we never ran into one of them back in the day.”
“Maybe this one was separated from its pack,” Vivian said. “It’s left quite a lot of rabbit bones and fur. I filled up nearly half a trash bag yesterday—“
“Just call the Commission. They’ll send out a trapper and you’ll be done with it.” Angela held up a ghastly lime-green shirt the exact shade of baby diarrhea. “How about this one?”
“It’s a little bright, don’t you think?
“Oh, piffle; it’s colorful. I’m buying it.” Angela flounced to the payment scanner.
Vivian fingered the turquoise sweater, then put it down regretfully. The cardigan looked so comfortable–maybe it was cashmere. An old-fashioned sweater for an old-fashioned girl. Its label was long gone; it was just a cast-off now, someone’s throwaway.
Vivian sighed and left it behind.
Making the Jump
Buy “Making the Jump” at JMS Books
Also available as an audio book at Sniplits.com.
Time: 26:10 / $0.98 Audio Sample Purchase at Sniplits.com
Bob Andolini heads down to Florida for Bike Week, but ends up ditching his biker buddies to see his daughter and ex-wife. Sandra says they need a new horse, one that can work with Megan’s disability. But, for the first time in his life, Bob has some freedom. Freedom to ride his Harley on weekends, freedom from a wife and child, freedom from parenting. Then he sees Megan struggling in a local horse show and his feelings veer. Can he make the jump?
Bob wandered through the first barn, swinging wide around two horses with their heads out of their stalls. He kept his eyes roving, looking for Sandra’s bleached blonde mop on the adult women milling about. When he turned a corner, he heard a sharp “Hey!” and figured it wasn’t for him, kept moving, until someone snagged his arm. “Hey!”
He looked around, into the face of a woman his age, lines just starting around her eyes, her skin tanned.
“You can’t smoke back here. Didn’t you see the signs?”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry.” He went to toss the cigarette down, and the woman looked like she was about to slap him.
“Here.” She pointed to a sand-filled bucket at the end of the aisle.
“You know why it’s dangerous, don’t you? Have you been around horses?”
“Yeah, I have actually. It’s just been a long time.” He put out his smoke. “Sorry, really.”
“Promise me you’ll be careful.” Her face softened.
“You don’t happen to know Megan Andolini, do you? Long brown hair?”
The woman cocked her head to one side. “Megan, Megan. Oh! Does she have …” Her left hand fluttered over her right shoulder.
“Her right arm, yeah.”
“I think I saw them in the practice ring.” She pointed to the left.
“Thanks.” His heart sped up a little. The last time he’d seen Megan was at Thanksgiving. She was a slender girl, straight up and down, her skin still the smooth pink of healthy childhood. Sandra had told him that she was a little worried; Megan hadn’t started her periods, all the other girls in her class were getting breasts and acne but Megan was still girlish.
“Does she want to start her periods?” Bob asked.
“Well, she’s asked about it a little but I don’t know. Thirteen is late.”
“Why would she want to? Isn’t it a pain all the way around?”
“It just means you’re starting to grow up. It’s womanly. I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Sandra, don’t push her. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway. Let her stay interested in horses. Christ.” Just what he needed. Boys after Megan.
He leaned on the rail of the practice ring. A hundred yards away, he saw a red pony that might be Rory, he couldn’t really remember even though he had a picture of Megan and Rory in his wallet. And all the girls had their hair up in those black helmets. A big brown swept in front of him, kicking up dirt, its thick tail swishing. Bob looked again for the pony and noticed its rider was too long-legged for him, the pony strained just to trot around the ring. They were ridiculous-looking, like a clown act in a circus. And then they made the curving corner, twenty yards away, and Bob saw the pinned sleeve on the girl’s right arm.
He stepped back quickly from the rail, feeling his chest prickle. He went under the barn’s overhang and watched his daughter from the shadows. She moved smoothly, balanced as she posted up and down, her left hand quiet on the rein, her right arm strapped and still. Bob noticed the difference between her and other riders; a few flapped their arms and legs, lurching in the saddle, kicking their heels with every stride. Megan’s legs were still, curled against Rory, her stirrups below his belly. Rory huffed by, his chest damp. His ears were up though, he looked happy.
Something in Their Eyes
Purchase “Something in Their Eyes” at JMS Books
Also available as an audiobook at Sniplits.com
Time: 27:34 / $1.08 Audio sample Purchase at Sniplits.com
I know horse manure about the music business and rap stars and them kinda people so when I had the chance to throw Shane Lettig, the twenty-year-old multi-millionaire rapper right the hell out of my barn, it was kinda hard to resist.
The day started out hustle-bustle. I’m usually the first one at the barn—I hardly sleep past five o’clock any more, after all them years inside, plus I got a trailer onsite that the Department of Corrections pretends ain’t really there because of liability issues. Dr. Ripley calls it a storage trailer on the paperwork; I do have horse pellets, meds, bridle parts and such in one bedroom. I’m just glad to have a place of my own that’s bigger than an eight by ten cell.
That day, Miguel was already leading horses out to pasture when I strolled up just before six.
“Hola, Mr. Hazelton.” Miguel said. Annie was on the other end of his purple lead rope. She was a gray, leggy in that sleek Thoroughbred way, even being twenty years old. Lots of mares get butt-sprung and round, especially if they’ve been bred, but old Annie was still slim with that curve up under her back legs showin’ her waist. When we did tours for the Girl Scouts or Kiwanis or whoever, Annie liked getting her mane and tail all done up and she flashed them ribbons around like a girl wearing bangle bracelets.
“Where’d you get that fancy shirt?” I tugged at one of Miguel’s baggy sleeves—he was a skinny kid, weighed maybe a buck twenty, even after three runs at the buffet. He wore one of them golf-type shirts, with a floppy collar and the polo player on it, some peach shade. Girly-looking if you asked me.
“I got it at the rehab center store. Didn’t even have to pay for it,” Miguel said. “They give us first dibs on donations if we help with the sorting and I found this.” He shrugged and blushed a little, keeping his eyes on Annie.
“Well, it looks nice,” I managed to say.
Poor kid. I wasn’t about to tell him that the women who was coming today, hanging onto the rap star with his famous face and big cars and loud music, those women weren’t gonna look twice at Miguel. Him with his GED part finished and his shared room at the halfway house and four years of hard time.
“Thanks, Mr. Hazelton.” Annie butted her head into Miguel’s hip, bored with the conversation and wanting to get out to the field with her friends.
“Meeting at seven o’clock, my office,” I said.
“Yes, sir.” They clopped away, Annie’s hooves on the concrete walkway a steady beat of comfort. Nothing as soothing to my ears.
Just after seven, the whole team crowded into my little office at the south end of Barn Three. Most of my boys were duded up in one way or another, even if it only meant they was wearing ironed jeans and clean shirts. Petey showed up in fancy cowboy boots, red, yellow and turquoise all swirly on the leather and bright silver toe taps. None of ‘em wore our brown uniform shirt, had that little DOC logo and a horse and our motto, “saving horses, building lives” on it. I know Dr. Ripley finagled them shirts for us somehow—not much budget– but man, those shirts are ugly.
The only one who didn’t seem to care was Cory, the newest kid from Marion Correctional. He trained at the thoroughbred retirement center up to the prison in Ocala and been released to the DOC halfway house here in Tampa for less than a month. He was always quiet and was one of them kids who didn’t look you in the eye much. Cory was slow-moving; his left side wasn’t wired a hundred percent any more. He got beat bad in Raiford the first month he was in–gangbangers looking to pop his cherry– and it left him with a dragg-y leg and his left arm twisted in towards himself. Didn’t matter. He was here, doing his job, just like everybody else.
The Tale of Trapper Tommy
Excerpt from “The Tale of Trapper Tommy” from Florida Horror: Dark Tales of Horror from the Sunshine State, Carnifex Press, 2006.
Purchase “Tale of Trapper Tommy” at JMS Books
“That gator is tore up!” Rudy Swetzek covered his mouth with a beefy hand, his eyes wide. Flies buzzed around the alligator’s corpse, and the leaves and ground beneath the reptile were soaked with blood, baking in the Florida afternoon sun. He lay on his back, his belly still wet, oozing rank entrails. Long, black claws dangled over folded legs, front and back. Gator claws, nothin’ to mess with. One swipe from those and you either lose an arm or get a nasty infection that’ll drop you in your tracks. A warm breeze blew over us and the smell was like to gag a maggot — bloody and full of death.
Most of the gator’s tail was gone, wrenched — not cut — off his rear, the hide torn, the muscle ripped away. Helluva thing.
Trapper Tommy is my name, wrangling wildlife is my game, least that’s what my answering machine says, cute-like. Hogs, possums, armadillos, raccoons, snakes, deer once in a while, but mostly I earn my living from gators. I yank ‘em out of freshwater ponds when they get too big or too friendly and start eating the neighborhood cats and dogs. Kids sometimes, too.
This gator, though, was near useless to me. Dead too long to pull the meat, his belly hide too shredded to skin and sell to the leather goods dealer down to Arcadia. A bust. And he coulda been good money — maybe four hundert dollars worth of tail meat and hide — a twelve-footer, a bull gator, big and fat from his easy life in the swamps north of Tampa.
I bent down to get a closer look. The stink made my eyes water so I pulled my bandana over my nose. I got a soft puff of fabric softener then was overpowered by the gator’s smell. Didn’t matter. I had work to do.
Rudy bent over at the waist, then leaned back, his mouth twisted. “What the hell kill’t this thing?”
“I dunno, but I aim to find out.” The gator’s belly was open from jaw to tail. I counted a dozen trails of torn skin, then stopped counting.
“Lookit here.” I bent closer, my knees creaking. “These ain’t no knife marks, these was claws.” I fingered open one slice. The gator’s fat layer was yellow, then there was the red band of thick muscle. “See here. Long claws, they went all the way into his guts.”
Off Balance
Purchase “Off Balance” at JMS Books
Michael’s chest looked smooth, bare, what she could see of it. She wished he had undone one more button. What was the harm in looking?
“Cutting board?” Michael asked.
“To your left, bottom shelf.” She loved knowing where everything was in her kitchen. The remodel two years earlier had been a struggle, she’d gone to bed at night in tears sometimes, after arguing with Stan or the construction supervisor. In the end she got her confetti-flecked countertop. It was white with a rainbow of color chips in it. She could pick any color at all to accessorize. The reds for her rooster collection; the turquoise for her silly tropical prints and seafoam flower vases; the greens to show off her mother’s majolica, that even Stan admitted he liked. She changed her kitchen décor every season, a process that took a day and a half.
“Salad bowls?”
Sara motioned with a spoon. “Grab the two big ones above the fridge. You can probably reach them without my stool.”
Michael stretched up, his shirt snug against his broad back. Sara noticed his khakis were smooth; he wasn’t carrying a wallet in the back pocket. He was wide and sturdy, a man, where her son still had that near-boyish slenderness.
Sara stirred the beans, adding some salt, and watching Michael’s hands at he stood at the kitchen island. His fingers were broad with clean, short nails. He worked at the tomatoes with a slicing motion, awkward, not the smooth move of a real cook. The vegetables gleamed on the counter. A creamy white onion. A dozen burgundy radishes, their roots curled like a newborn’s tuft of hair. Three glossy cucumbers, looking thick and obscene.
Sara moved next to Michael. “Try this way.” She took the knife from him, just brushing his fingers. She held the knife still, moved the tomato beneath, slicing efficiently by rocking the blade. The tomato pulp oozed onto the cutting board. She breathed in before she gave the knife back, held the Michael-smell in her lungs as she stepped back to the stove.
It was enough.
“Thanks,” he said. “How much of this do you want cut up?”
“All of it. We’ll have seventeen for dinner.”
“Seventeen!?”
“David’s sisters are coming down from Chicago, with their families. That’s ten right there plus the four of us, Katie, Doug, and Jasmine. David’s friends. Did you meet Katie?” Perhaps if David wasn’t sweet on Katie, Michael might be. Something stretched in Sara, a feeling of wholesomeness, pleasant after her untoward curiosity about Michael. Matchmaking could be fun.
“Yes. Seems like a good kid.”
So much for matchmaking.
“How old are you?” Sara asked.
“Thirty-six.”
Twenty years younger, twenty years of taut flesh and sun-warmed youth between them.
Stag
Purchase “Stag” at JMS Books
Mitchell was dreaming — something about alligators and deer in the water, the fawns’ spindly legs kicking through the dim murk, and there were alligators in with them, and that was bad, oh very, very bad — when he was flipped off the lounger. Dark water splashed up his eyes and nose. He slapped at the sand with tight hands, pushing himself up, quick, quick, quick.
Paul stood over him and crowed. “We’re ready to rumble!” Clark stood a few feet away, smiling.
“You little shit.”
“Time to swim, old man.” Paul reached down with one hand. “Let’s go.”
“I don’t think so.” Tanner stood in water nearly knee-deep, trying to keep his balance. The water tugged at him, a cool sheet of edgy pull.
Paul bent to try a wrestling move but Tanner pulled the lounger up in between them. He looked straight into Paul’s blue eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”
Paul brushed it away, grinning, clearly enjoying the tease. He tried to wrench away the lounger but Tanner held it high. The metal squeaked as they tugged it between them for a few seconds. He let Paul pull a little too hard and then let go. Paul went sprawling in the shallow water. Clark bent and splashed more water in his face. Paul laughed.
Brianna squealed from the shore.” Uncle Paul fell down!”
Tanner trudged out of the water and heard a murmur from Kathy. He listened for Paul, pointedly not watching. He knew it was coming, felt Paul’s energy gather before hearing the splash of the water as Paul ran toward him.
Too bad. Tanner turned and stepped to the side just as Paul bent, intending to swoop Tanner off his feet. Tanner was quicker and stronger and had him in a prison-yard arm lock before Paul could catch his balance. He saw the milli-second of unease in Paul’s eyes but then the kid relaxed and took the fall with grace. The sand puffed up around them as they tumbled to the ground, half in the water, half out.
Tanner tugged Paul’s right arm across his neck and clamped down on his wrist. It was a pretty effective pin — for civilians — and Tanner straddled Paul’s waist, knees tight around his sides. He leaned down, seeing the flush of Paul’s face, the soft wash of freckles. A sweet rush of fear arousal coursed through Tanner, just that little zing of hotness, but he let it go. It was meaningless. “I want your attention here, and I’m not fucking kidding. I’m not going in the water so stop with your little game. Got it?” He pushed Paul’s wrist down knowing it would tighten down Paul’s arm uncomfortably on his neck. “Got it?”
Paul gave him a half-smile. “Got it.”
“No, I mean, do you really understand? No more. You wanna play little wrestling games, we can play later but no more here.”
Paul turned his head sideways and sucked in a mouthful of the filthy lake water. He flipped back and spit-fountained it up onto Tanner’s neck.
Tanner slapped Paul’s face.
Paul went utterly still beneath him. His eyes flared wide then something in them went cold and gray. The pink on his cheek surprised Tanner; he didn’t think he’d hit him all that hard but then Paul had really light skin and that kind of stuff showed more, like the grip marks on Paul’s hips and the bites on Paul’s neck some mornings …
Paul’s voice shook. “Get off me. Get your hands off me.”
“Why’d you push me like that? No more with the water shit now!”
Paul bucked up, struggling now. “Mitch, let me go.”
“You pushed me!” Tanner rose and backed away — a smooth lion out of the reach of the injured zebra’s back legs. He felt his other senses come back as the adrenaline seeped out of his system. He watched Paul sit up and heard Clark breathing hard and Brianna’s chirpy voice. “Mommy, Uncle Mitch hit Uncle Paul!”
Tanner looked around. The other beachgoers eyed him warily then their gazes fell off. A couple edged their kids away. Kathy stared at him, her mouth tight. Brianna squirmed in her grip.
Paul kneed himself up then bent and splashed some water over his face. With his hands on his legs, he looked like a runner taking a breather, that was all, just an athlete who’d pushed himself too hard and too far. He was fine.
Out of Joint
Purchase “Out of Joint” at JMS Books
Excerpt from “Out of Joint ” from 2007 Writers in Paradise Workshop
“That’s from Marco’s deli. Good isn’t it?” The woman’s voice came from behind him.
Tanner turned, his mouth still around the sandwich. He nodded. “Uh huh.” Garbled.
It was the redhead with the pendant. Tanner glanced down at her cleavage; the pendant dangled just above her too-high breasts. It was an ivory unicorn, its horn of pink pearl. Flashy but worthless.
“I’m Shante,” she said, offering one hand.
“Mitchell Tanner,” he replied. He wiped one hand on his pants, felt the sandwich wobble in his grip, and ended up near-bowing over her hand.
She flushed. “Oh, such a gentleman.”
“Not really.” Tanner wiped his mouth with a napkin and ran his tongue over his teeth. “Marco? Who is that?”
“You don’t know the Merry Meat Man?” Shante nodded toward the lanai to a group of men holding drinks and beer bottles. She brushed back her hair from her shoulders, affording Tanner a better view of her chest.
In the gray suit. Tony’s great-nephew.“We own a small chain of boutique delis in the tri-county area. You must not be from around here. The TV ads run constantly.”
“I left Tampa about nine years ago.”
“Better job? Better woman?”
“Better handcuffs.”
She faux-frowned and tilted her head to one side. “A little kinky, are we?” Her smile was tentative.
“Probably more than you wanna know.”
Shante chuckled. “Try me.”
“I don’t think so.” Sometimes flirting with women amused him; not today.
Her mouth turned down as her gaze focused over his shoulder. “Marco! Honey! How are you doing?”
A big-bellied man in too-tight clothing edged over and planted a kiss on Shante’s cheek. “Holding up, baby doll, holding up.” Tanner saw Marco’s skin was nearly as gray as his clothes. Grieving didn’t suit him.
Shante put one hand on Marco’s elbow. “Honey, this is Mitchell Tanner. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your connection to Tony?”
“I’m a nephew, on my Mom’s side.”
Marco put his shoulders back and stood taller after they shook hands. He frowned, thick brows lowering over his small eyes.
“Tanner, Tanner. Why am I remembering that name?” Marco knitted his mouth exaggeratedly, almost a parody of thinking.
Tanner saw the second of remembering, the second of fumbling to produce a false face, the second of unease.
Old news. He was used to it. Living in Indiana for three years had insulated him from it some; this time it stung a little.
“Tanner?” Marco said. “You, um, you went up to, uh….” He waved a hand north.
“Raiford.Yeah. I did five years.”
Shante fingered her unicorn, eyes wide. She swallowed. Her gaze lingered on Tanner’s shoulders. “What for?”
“Shante! You don’t ask that kinda question. Fer chrissakes!” Marco patted her arm and tried to lead her away. “Let’s go, honey. Nice to meet you, Tanner.”
“Nice to meet you. My sympathies to you and the family.”
Shante walked away, looking back over her shoulder, eyes wide, lips pursed.
Tanner sighed and tossed the remains of the sandwich into the trash.
Boxes
Get “Boxes” for free at JMS Books
Also available as an audio book at Boundoff.com.
Time: 9:75 / Free Listen to podcast
Sunday morning, barely dawn and a month out of Raiford. The house around him was still; only the buzz of cicadas hummed through the open windows. Hector Lugo sipped on his café con leche, grateful for its frothy burn in his throat. He poured another cup and made himself go back up the stairs.
At the end of the hall, his father’s room waited for him.
“I haven’t touched anything in there,” Juliana told him. “You do it. I just can’t.”
His father’s room had waited for him for over two years. Two years since his Dad died, standing behind the counter in his little grocery store. Two years since Hector had beaten Dennis Fulton’s face into a bloody pulp just for being one of the gangbangers, never mind that Dennis hadn’t been directly involved in the robbery. Two years of hard time in the Florida penal system. Hector rested one hand on the doorknob.
His father’s cadenced voice in his head, gentle, his Cuban accent still heavy.
Keep you nose clean.
The door opened with a squeak of its hinges. Hector stood at the threshold, looking for ghosts.
Dusty violet curtains hung at the windows. Hector noticed for the first time how shabby the bedspread was; the light blue chenille was frayed and worn bare in some places. Two flattened pillows lay like small dead things near the headboard.
Hector stepped inside the room and took a deep breath. The room wasn’t much bigger than his cell had been.
All stories copyrighted by Belea Keeney