Jumble Sale

Jumble Sale

A Story Collection

Dale T. Phillips

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Jumble Sale

Copyright 2012 Dale T. Phillips

Cover Design copyright 2012 Melinda Phillips: http://www.snapichic.com

Yesterday and Today was first published in Space and Time, Summer 1996

Tree of Sorrows was first published in Plot, Summer 1996

Bootleggers was first published in Short-Story.Me!, June 2010, and in their Best Genre Stories

Anthology #2, Nov 2010

Night of the Annoying Dead was first published in Flashes in the Dark, Dec 2010

The Pit was first published in Ethereal Gazette, Dec 2007

The Great Snipe Hunt was first published in New Myths, March 2010

Nighthawks was first published in Big Pulp, Nov 2008

Blades and Butchery was first published in Aofie's Kiss, March 2009

Diary of an At-Home Writer was first published in Eric's Hysterics, May 2011

Kamikaze Hipsters was first published in Dark Valentine, Dec 2010

The Little Guy was first published in Sorcerous Signals, Feb 2010

Carnival of Pain was first published in Dark Valentine, Oct 2010

Rummy was first published in House of Horror, Dec 2009

God Save the Queen was first published in Kasma, March 2010

The Easiest Man to Kill was first published in Crime and Suspense, Dec, 2008

Locust Time was first published in Fungi, #20, March 2011

Body English was first published in Gluttonlumps Chilling Tales, Oct 2008

The Thriller Writer was first published in The Funny Times, April 2011

The Mousetrap was first published in Over My Dead Body, Aug-Sept. 2011

Heartsounds was first published in Every Day Fiction, Jan. 2011

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no portion of these stories may be reproduced without written permission from the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author and thank you for purchasing this short story.

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Other works by Dale T. Phillips

For more information about the author and his works, go to: http://www.daletphillips.com

Shadow of the Wendigo (Horror): http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/382962

Zack Taylor Mystery Novels

A Memory of Grief: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/59556

A Fall From Grace: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/115991

A Shadow on the Wall: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/323759

Story Collections

Crooked Paths (Mystery/Crime): http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/113991

Fables and Fantasies (Fantasy): http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/113068

Apocalypse Tango (Science Fiction): http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/164257

Strange Tales (Magic Realism, Paranormal)

Halls of Horror (Horror)

Jumble Sale (Mixed Genres): http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/131954

The Big Book of Genre Stories: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/386355

Non-fiction Career Help

How to Improve Your Interviewing Skills

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/30463

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Table of Contents

Foreword

Yesterday and Today

Tree of Sorrows

Bootleggers

Night of the Annoying Dead

The Pit

The Great Snipe Hunt

Nighthawks

Blades and Butchery

Diary of an At-Home Writer

Kamikaze Hipsters

The Little Guy

Carnival of Pain

Rummy

God Save the Queen

The Easiest Man to Kill

Locust Time

Body English

The Thriller Writer

The Mousetrap

Heartsounds

About the Author

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Foreword

Welcome to the jumble! A jumble sale is a term from the British Isles, describing a sale/social function, often run by a church or local organization, with odd lots of mismatched stuff for sale at bargain prices.

In America, we'd call it a rummage sale, yard sale, or tag sale. But those are different, and not appropriate as a title for this collection. These stories are jumbled, a mixture of things that are not matched. They're a blend of science fiction, crime, fantasy, horror, humor, magic realism, and mainstream. All of these stories were previously published, either for a print or an online magazine. They were selected from hundreds of submissions, and thought worthy of pay and publication. And now you have hundreds of dollars’ worth of stories for a bargain price.

In a jumble sale, like an old antique shop, you never know what you'll find. That's part of the fun, making serendipitous discoveries by poking into odd corners. There's the familiar, there's oddball stuff that you've never seen before-- but looks fun to play with, and every so often, a real treasure, like an antique cameo or a genuine ruby ring in amongst the costume jewelry. All previously owned, all available for mere pennies.

But in a jumble sale somebody liked each piece that is displayed, like these stories that were bought by various editors. It is my hope you will find a treasure or two here, something to carry back to the workaday world and share with like-minded people. Something that gives you a shiver of frisson or a chuckle, or a chance to think about the world in a new way.

To the question Where do you get your ideas? the answer is the same as many have said before. The stories come from the great myth pool, that dark watering hole of the human race. People from Jung to Stephen King have written of this process, of bringing back a tale from some corner of that wine-dark sea. Writers go to mental places off the beaten track, to return with a taste of something different. Whether disturbing, funny, or weird, they are all a part of us, and all have a reason to be.

Not everyone likes the taste of what is brought back: a dark, powerful, strong flavor, mixed with the clay dredged up with it. We writers mold that clay, taking days, weeks, or even years to make something out of it, some figure that will have meaning. We make continual trips to the myth pool, and keep folding in more and stranger stuff. Sometimes the finished product will represent the material it's made of, and the result is good and powerful, multi-layered and multi-hued, and presenting a different view when seen from different angles.

The work is not easy, like most things that matter. There's sweat and blood and a lot of frustrated tears in the work, and that's why it matters. Real writers are born to it, and keep going despite the opinion of the world. Every work day, the writer looks at that white sheet of blank paper, like a lump of new clay, and tries to create art.

It's akin to taking off all your clothes and giving an extemporaneous, exerting, and entertaining speech in front of the world, with abusive hecklers in the audience.

So when someone responds to the things we've created, and comments intelligently, we're pleased. We've created a resonance, something that has affected someone. Even the ugly, embarrassing pieces have meaning to someone.

So come and poke around in the jumble. There are fractured fairy tales, cautionary parables, peeks into disturbed minds, and amusing little romps. Everything from giant lobsters to perverted dwarves. Here's hoping you have an interesting time, and find something of value.

As a writer, I've had many influences, and I'd like to acknowledge and thank the great short story writers, Harlan Ellison, Stephen King, and Ray Bradbury. With over a century and a half of work between them, they have made innumerable trips to the darkest, scariest, most painful parts of the myth pool, and returned to shape myriad pieces of shattering brilliance and beauty.

As humans, we're squishy meat sacks full of guts, and these writers understand that, and do not shy away from showing us the messy bits. To understand what we are, we have to see that, even if we don't want to, and they force us to look, but they hold our hand when we do. They don't tell us pretty lies that everything will be alright, but they acknowledge the pain we feel as we take our brief spin atop this big blue ball of dirt.

But they also tell us we can be more-- gods instead of mudworms, courageous instead of trembling and fearful. We can, and should, stand and face the darkest, most evil thing going-- and spit in its horrid, three-lobed eye.

That's a very important message, and one of the many reasons they should be saluted and read. I don't have a fraction of their enormous talent, but I understand parts of what they're saying, and I appreciate the eloquence and style in which they say it. Much, if not all of what is here would not be anything like it is without their work.

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Yesterday and Today

Corman awoke with a clear head and no confusion, all ghosts of the past in their proper places. It was heady and frightening to be this lucid again. Corman lay on the bed, carefully sorting memories, pleased when none dragged him down another tributary of the past. He lay in an unfamiliar room that had no reminders, no traps to lead him into the shifting maze of times before. The room had an odd, musty smell, but not one that triggered any memories.

Corman was therefore not surprised to find himself alone in the bed. Unlike so many other mornings, he didn’t expect any wives or lovers he had once known. Naked, he sat up and swung his feet to the floor. The cool surface felt good. Corman stood and stretched, his 200 years feeling light on his healthy, muscular body. His bladder alerted him with pressure, and he went to relieve himself. The disposal unit wasn’t working, but he used the imitation porcelain out of habit.

Returning to the bedside, he looked around the room. There were no loose items, other than his clothing and knapsack. He checked the Autostore unit by habit; it was of course not functioning. Corman rummaged in his pack and came up with a container of food. The preservatives left his mouth dusty and dry, but there was no liquid to wash it down with. His trip to the relieving room had been disappointing; water had not flowed through to these rooms for years.

Corman tried to open the window. The mechanism was unfamiliar and fairly ancient, but with determination he created an opening. The sky was an ugly, pallid gray. Corman couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a blue sky. There were so many things he couldn’t remember. He could see the street, but detected no movement. He judged himself five stories up, and wondered what had possessed him the previous evening to climb five flights. Corman pulled on his jumpsuit, shouldered the knapsack, and left the room.

Despite the leaden sky, Corman felt good. In the open air, he pondered what to do. He had no idea how long he had before the random access of PreSen deposited him in some hole of times gone by. Finding he recognized this part of the city, he began walking toward the park.

There were no people about, which disturbed Corman. Despite PreSen, this had been a populous city; somebody should be visible. He noted the dismal decay, the weeds poking up through the streets. The wind blew cold, vengefully biting Corman through the jumpsuit’s insulation. It was late Autumn; Winter was not far away. More people died in Winter. Some were suicides, others just wandered out into the cold. These bodies, seemingly forever young, could still be halted by neglect.

Corman looked around, and realized with a start that he was near to where he had met Linda. He wondered if she was still in the old place. It was dangerous, thinking like this. She had been so important in his life that seeing her or the old place might flood his precariously balanced mind with overwhelming memories. He probed his own thoughts delicately. The blessed sense of the present was still with him. He shrugged, and decided to check if she was still around.

The old place, the place he and Linda had shared for so many years, was in a once-fashionable area. Even this district suffered from the decay infecting the rest of the city.

Several blocks from the old place, he saw a husky man standing in the street. The man looked down one street, then slowly turned to look in the opposite direction, his expression that of a child. Corman knew he was lost, in both time and place, and walked over. Hello, he said.

The man peered back at Corman, looking puzzled. Where am I?

South side of the city, by the causeway. Do you know where you live?

The man thought a moment. His hands, thick and strong-looking, fluttered aimlessly. The movement looked out of place on him. He seemed about to cry.

I… I don’t know. He jammed his hands into his pockets, seeming to be ashamed at forgetting.

It’s okay, said Corman softly. The only way I remember is with my Card. Corman pulled the metal rectangle from his own pocket and held it up for the man to see.

You don’t happen to have yours on you, do you?

The man frowned at the piece of metal in Corman’s hand. He searched his pockets, scowling.

His face lit up as he brought forth the shiny Card and proffered it to Corman. Corman took the Card and read it.

George Martin, he announced. Hi George. My name’s Corman. He stuck out his hand.

How ya doin’? George pumped Corman’s hand and grinned, eager and friendly, like a big dog.

Good, George, good. Your Card says you live not too far from here. I happen to be going that way. The lie came easily. Why don’t I walk with you?

That’d be great. The big man looked vastly relieved. He took his Card back and followed Corman, chatting happily. He spoke of owning a car, back before they were banned. He made it sound like a very short time ago, but Corman hadn’t seen a car in over seventy years. He couldn’t recall the last time he had been in one. He didn’t try too hard, for fear of slipping back. He was glad the man still had his Card on him; a stroke of luck these days, really. The Cards had been issued when Premature Senility, or PreSen, was finally acknowledged as a legitimate illness.

Corman remembered getting his Card, which emitted a beep if he got more than two meters away from it. In spite of this, some people still lost theirs. At first, the Caretakers would patiently find the person and return the Card, but eventually they lost control of their own memories, and drifted away like the rest. Even the Card could not remind people strongly enough about the present.

George talked about his family, who lived with him in the suburbs. He told how they had to take care of his mother, apparently an early victim of PreSen. A cloud passed over the man’s features as the mention of PreSen shuffled his memory.

That was a long time ago, he said apologetically. Sorry, I forget sometimes.

We all do now, George, Corman said.

George turned quiet. Corman knew he was trying to get back into the present, treading carefully, like Theseus through a maze.

They rounded a corner onto a broad boulevard, passing empty skeletons of skyscrapers. With everything so quiet, the sky could have been a comforting blanket, but Corman saw it as a shroud. Depressed, he looked out over the collapsed causeway, and saw several birds flying over the water. The sight gladdened him.

They turned twice more. Corman checked the numbers to find the correct one on an old brownstone. He stopped. George stumbled, looking up at the broken windows and the crumbling steps. He turned and peered at Corman suspiciously.

Who are you? he asked.

Just someone passing by, Corman replied sadly. You live here, don’t you?

The man flinched as if struck.