The Nowhere Novel & 18 Other Short and Shorter Stories
For Those Who Like Stories with Complex Characters and Unexpected Outcomes.
The colorful characters in The Nowhere Novel and 18 Other Short and Shorter Stories are enterprising, eccentric, vulnerable, and unique. Read about a writer who uses a secret to force his co-author to help finish their novel, a well-known laugh “collector” learning that not everyone is happy about his recordings, a mischievous fisherman outwitting his contest competitors, a young boy bullied by classmates, the married couple who encounter a “wanted man” during their cross-country trip, and many more. Some of them might remind you of a neighbor, work colleague, or relative. And while others may seem alien to your universe, you should still enjoy meeting them. All their stories are compelling, and most have an unexpected ending.
Contents
The Nowhere Novel
The Reluctant Laughingstock
There’s a Difference
Bigfoot Killed Uncle Jake
The Boy Who Stared at the Sun
Killer Parents
Feats to Remember
The Rainbow Lake Fishing Contest
Neighborhood Watch-ing
A Wanted Man
Where There’s Smoke
The Dead Letter
Buried With His Motorcycle
Three Guys Enter a Bar; Two Get Lost
Sticks, Stones, & Internet Lies
Bastard Boy Bob
The Club Lied
The Missing Guest
The Leftovers
+++++++
STORY EXCERPTS
*From The Nowhere Novel
Frank Darnell glanced over the laptop to see if his co-author, Austin Rice Jr., was making any progress on the fifth chapter of their novel.
It appeared that Austin had reached another “slow spot,” his euphemism for his frequent writing blocks. His eyes were closed, and he was humming, a recently developed habit he said calmed him but irritated the hell out of Frank.
“How are you doing?” Frank asked, anticipating the answer.
Austin looked up; rubbing the sweat from his forehead.
“Slow as molasses. Running into some character development problems.”
“That seems to be a trend.”
“And the sarcasm is supposed to be helpful?”
“More of a reality check.”
It was their second weekend retreat at the Seaside Cottage in San Diego, and Frank had promised it would be his last, even if Austin continued to badger him.
and…
“Fine, but Austin we must talk about this. I want out. I’ve thought long and hard about it and am serious about what we discussed earlier. You can continue working on the book and have all rights to what we’ve done so far.”
Austin folded his arms. “That’s a topic for later discussion. Remember.”
“You’ve made it hard to forget.”
“One more trip here and we’ll probably get it done.”
“That’s bullshit. We should have called it the Nowhere Novel. It will never get done. I don’t want to spend another damn weekend here.”
“Whatever,” Austin said smiling. “I’ll be back soon.”
***
Bigfoot Killed Uncle Jake
John Jacob Smith had a difficult time convincing friends that Bigfoot killed his Uncle Jake.
The first time he shared the story of his favorite uncle’s death was at a campfire party when his high school friends gathered to drink beer and share urban legend tales, such as the “one armed man who almost got the teenage lovers.” When John Jacob began talking about his uncle and Bigfoot, several of them laughed and then realized he was serious. He raised his right hand and explained, “This is a different type of story.”
He told them that the family wasn’t sure if Jake had ever actually encountered the legendary beast, but they were convinced his obsession led to his untimely death two years earlier.
“It all began in 2012 when Uncle Jake had read the first article on Bigfoot, aka Sasquatch,” he said to the dubious friends. Intrigued by the alleged sightings, Jake attended a local meeting of the Bigfoot Believers (the BFB-ers). He soon had articles taped to the walls of his den, which eventually became so cluttered that it became known as the Bigfoot Man Cave.
“He heard stories that would make your hair stand up.” Jake began watching TV documentaries, attending conventions, and finally going on his first BFB encounter outing in Utah’s Round Valley region. “But it was when he bought the mountain cabin that pushed him to his death,” John Jacob said.
****
Killer Parents
Growing up, I was sure my mother and stepfather were the greatest. As a teenager, many of my friends agreed they were almost model parents. “Your parents are killer, just amazingly fun to be around,” I remember my best friend Marla saying during one of our frequent sleepovers.
But that was before I learned they were murderers. As I write this, I can hardly form the letters of that word—murder. “Killer parents” no longer seems to be a good way to describe them.
I’ve spent the last year trying to think of anything that might have been a warning sign, some indication that they were capable of not only killing other people but their own family members. The fact that their heinous crimes occurred more than 25 years ago doesn’t alter the fact that they are both homicidal sociopaths.
My mother tipped me off. “Please come over, we need to talk,” she said that hot July day about a year ago. When I arrived, she began talking frantically. She looked haggard; her usual perfectly styled auburn hair in disarray.
“You’re going to be hearing about this,” she said in a panicked voice. “I don’t have much time to explain. It’s an old story for a terrible crime that I’m responsible for. But I’ve been a different person. I hope one day you can forgive, or at least not hate me.”
****
Feats to Remember
The first foot washed ashore in Piney Cove four days before Memorial Day weekend. Tommy Crenshaw took a break from picnicking with his family to explore the nearby tidal pool. He reached into a pile of driftwood splinters and saw a shoelace. When he yanked the cord, Tommy lifted a soggy tennis shoe that had a foot inside.
“Oh crap,” the 10-year-old towhead yelled. He flung the shoe up over his head, and it landed on a bowl of potato salad that Mrs. Alice Fenster had arranged as part of her picnic spread.
“My god almighty, there’s a foot in the salad,” Mrs. Fenster yelled. It didn’t take long for a large crowd to gather, including Sam Bledsoe, who immediately called his brother Ed, the recently appointed Sheriff, who arrived with his deputy. Ed was a former New York police detective who left Manhattan to avoid “premature meltdown” and also get away from his angry ex-girlfriend.
As the startled picnickers looked on, Sheriff Bledsoe quickly bagged the foot and took it to Dr. Flemson for an exam.
“I know it’s a human appendage doc, but I’m more concerned if you can tell what happened to it,” he said as the portly coroner carefully analyzed the purplish colored flesh.
Meanwhile, the beach crowd was in a frenzy; everyone shouting theories about the newly arrived foot on a string.
“It’s a fake foot.”
“Is not, probably came from a morgue.”
“I’ll bet there’s a murder involved.”
And so on.
****
Neighborhood Watch-ing
Their cul-de-sac had ten homes, only one of which Charles Blakely and the other long-time residents were watching closely.
They had appointed Charles as the neighborhood watch commander, charged with helping new arrivals adjust to the Pleasant Manor community and, more recently, keeping tabs on Thomas Barnett, the retired college professor who had relocated from Sacramento after his wife died.
During his first few weeks there, Barnett stayed to himself, which many considered to be the main problem. He hadn’t attended the neighborhood rummage sale, contributed a recipe to the annual chili cook-off, invited anyone over for coffee or a beer, or done anything else to be part of the group. Whenever he was asked to participate in the various activities, he would simply say, “Not interested. Some other time.”
Two months after Barnett arrived, Charles volunteered to make one of the rare Neighbor Intervention Visits. He found Barnett sweeping his front porch. “We’re a good group of people,” Charles said. “Not sure just why you don’t want to join us.”
Barnett scratched his head. “It’s nothing personal,” he replied. “I’m not a joiner. Never have been. It’s not my style. No offense.”
“We just think you would have known that this type of neighborhood is more social than others.”
“It wasn’t my motivation for moving here.”
Barnett then smiled and went inside his house.
****
A Wanted Man
Joe got out of the car and walked down the short hill, closer to the river. There were a few clapboard cottages arranged around a grove of mangrove trees. The lone canoe created a series of gentle ripples on the river’s surface. Joe had taken a few photos when he heard the loud voice.
“Don’t you be taking my picture.”
He turned quickly to his right and saw the burly man slowly approaching from the clearing about 100 yards away. Joe lowered the camera and waved at the man, who had a shaved head and a weightlifter’s muscled arms.
“No, I’m not taking your photo. I’m doing pictures of the river, which we’ve never seen before. You weren’t in the picture. I promise.”
“I. Don’t. Believe. You,” he said, slowly accenting each word. “I said do not take my photo.”
The man continued walking. Sarah was now standing behind Joe.
“What’s going on?” she said.
“Just a misunderstanding. The man thought I was taking his photo, which, of course, I’m not.”
The camera-shy man stopped about 10 yards from Joe.
“Look, he’s a very amateur photographer who wasn’t paying attention,” Sarah said. “He’s not good at directions; hence, we’re obviously lost.”
“I don’t give a damn. You don’t be taking my photo because I’m a wanted man.”
Joe coughed loudly. “What do you mean by ‘wanted’?” he asked.
“What the hell do you think he means?” Sarah said. “There is likely a law enforcement agency of some kind that would like to find him.” Then, louder so she was certain the outlaw could hear, “It sometimes takes my husband a few extra steps to get to the right conclusion.”
The man started walking toward them again. “That’s right, lady, more than one bunch of asshole cops would like to find me, and I don’t want people taking my photos. I like my privacy here.”
Joe looked up toward the road to see if anyone else had stopped, but they were alone.
****
