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    Tales from the Crying Room
    Tales from the Crying Room
    Tales from the Crying Room
    Ebook125 pages1 hour

    Tales from the Crying Room

    By John West

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Three full short stories

    ♠

    Family Obligations - A female private investigator meets the family from hell. Chaos ensues as a demon tries to enforce his traditional contractual rights over his offspring.
    But we're not in Alabama, now, are we?

    ♠

    Mark's Mistake - The devil came down to Mark's house, she was looking for a soul to steal. Can Mark outsmart the devil? Many have tried. And failed. But Mark has special abilities.
    Pssst… Mark… She gave them to you. Remember?
    Oops.

    ♠

    Olaf's Quest - A Viking warrior bites off more than he can chew when he underestimates three girls in a winter wasteland.

    ⛥♠⛥

    One radio play

    Fiddlesticks - Corporate politics, office relationships, lies, deceit, dognapping, and bodies buried in the backyard.

    ⛥♠⛥

    And 20 snippets

    At weekly meetings, aspiring writers are often expected to write something at the drop of a hat. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.
    Sometimes the exercise spawns a semi-decent idea, that can be tweaked and prodded into pretending it's a real story.
    These aren't those.
    These are the ones left bleeding on the floor of the operating theatre. They are not full stories. Just bits of scenes. Paragraphs. Snippets.
    Most writers leave these tucked away in private notebooks. That's probably where they belong. But on the off-chance anyone wants to peek inside the mind of an aspiring writer to see how ideas develop - and often die - here's your chance to read 20 ad hoc short shorts that might at least raise a smile.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBurning Books
    Release dateJul 6, 2019
    ISBN9781393996385
    Tales from the Crying Room
    Author

    John West

    John West is a technologist and writer, currently reporting the news with code at the Wall Street Journal, where his work has won multiple awards and been a finalist for a Pulitzer Prize. Previously, he worked at the MIT Media Lab and the digital publication Quartz. He holds an MFA in writing from the Bennington Writing Seminars and degrees in philosophy and music performance from Oberlin College. He lives in Boston with his partner, their daughter, and a cat.

    Read more from John West

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      Book preview

      Tales from the Crying Room - John West

      Not morning people

      Electricity and water . My favourite cocktail.

      Especially at 2am. In the morning.

      Hey, ZZ Top. You still up, then?

      The neighbours. Great. Icing on the muffin.

      I took another bite as I watched them close the door soundlessly behind them. The one with the stubble – not the baby-faced goatee – was in charge of this operation. He took it seriously, looking around to catch spying eyes before easing it closed one millimeter at a time.

      I offered my plate to Goatee. He took a long look. A longing look. But he shook his head, shivered and pulled the strings on his black hoodie tighter around his face.

      I don’t know what that is, man.

      Which was fair enough. After the muffins got stuck in the toaster, I’d had to use a knife to get them out. They’d lost some of their basic muffinness during the process. The chocolate peanut butter had hidden the rest of their identity.

      Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking. Never stick a steel knife into a toaster. But hey, I’m a grown up. I know what I’m doing.

      Do you know what happened to the electricity? asked Goatee. He’d told me his name earlier, but that was before I’d popped across to the Electric Ballroom and discovered Camden Pale Ale. Several hours had passed since this epic discovery, and, to be brutally honest, I hadn’t really been listening to him at the time. I did remember him saying they were from Clapham.

      I shrugged.

      He nodded immediately. Hey, no problem, dude. It’s just that, you know, it’s only our two flats in the entire street that are out. And I don’t think we did anything to ours.

      Crack-heads. How would they know what they’d done? Did they even know where they were?

      And here was Stubble, fresh from his door-closing adventure. He took a vial from an inside pocket of his black leather jacket and unscrewed the cap. He took out his tiny spoon. The first snort went up his left nostril with a shake of the head. Amateur line dancers. He dug out another spoonful and raised it halfway to his nose before he realized his dreadful faux pas.

      You want some ice, dude?

      I looked steadily into his dilated pupils. Took another bite of my chocolate muffin.

      He didn’t move. Except for his eyes. The pupils grew even wider, then shrank back to their normal size. He flicked them to the left, then to the right. Then they went down. Then left again. But never up.

      I took a long drink from the bottle of Guinness I’d brought out to wash down the muffins. Extra strong Guinness. It was going down smoothly. But it was awakening my darker side.

      By this time, Goatee was actually vibrating. I could sense him holding himself back, desperate for a snort himself but trying as hard as was humanly possible to let me have the next hit.

      You remember I told you that I’m a cop?

      Goatee’s head started to shake, almost imperceptibly. A side effect of his previous vibration. His flat-mate’s eyes were a kaleidoscope of movement and special effects, a camera lens gone wild. Quietly, he tried to slide the tiny spoon back into the vial.

      Had I told them that I was a cop? Their memories were even sketchier than mine. But crack-heads didn’t tend to argue with large tattooed persons.

      There was no sound at 2am on our quiet back street in Camden Town. The clubs and bars had closed. The eternally hungry tube had swallowed the last of the tourists. And the natives obviously had better things to do on a night where dark clouds threatened to sweep the streets clean.

      The three of us, a frozen tableau on the street outside our holiday flats, were the only sign of life. And even we were silent.

      When I could stand it no longer, I laughed.

      Really? You fell for that?

      They exchanged a furtive glance. Still panicked. Still on edge.

      Really? Do I look like a cop?

      Goatee took a breath. His hand shot out, reaching for his comforter, then jerked back again. Unsure of himself. Was this a trap? Should he run?

      I waved my bottle at the vial and smiled.

      Stubble took another quick hit before passing the vial to his flat-mate. Goatee took his time, his eyes never leaving me as he abused both nostrils, one after the other.

      I smiled again.

      It didn’t help.

      They looked at one another before agreeing that it was late and they really needed to get some sleep. They were polite enough. They said their goodbyes. Goatee even popped his head out again after closing his door and pointed behind me at the door to my own flat.

      Sir, there’s water coming out from under your door.

      I waved my bottle at him. It was only slightly threatening, but he disappeared anyway.

      What was wrong with these people? Why did he think I was sitting out here on the street at 2am? In the morning? Eating chocolate muffins with crack-heads?

      In the park

      The security guard asked me what I was doing in the park at 2am. I told him I was burying a body.

      He didn’t seem happy with that.

      He was so unhappy that he reached for his gun and his walkie-talkie at the same time. This was his undoing. He never saw the shovel coming.

      Now one more body cluttered the landscaped lawn.

      I hoped I had enough lime to cover both of them. I’d found the instructions online. Same place as the instructions on how to make your own zombie.

      Those hadn’t worked.

      But the night was still young.

      Gorge

      Trapped in a mountain gorge. So much for mother’s cheap rope.

      Barry could starve. He’d seen those movies.

      He checked his supplies. Gas stove. Matches. But no food. The fall had ripped a hole in that side of the bag.

      He also had an axe.

      Could he do it? Eat his own flesh to survive?

      He had to be brave. Grit his teeth. One swing, and he wouldn’t starve. The stove would cauterize the wound. Use the rope for a tourniquet.

      Light the stove. Heat the plate.

      Ready. Let’s do it.

      Mother’s eyes widened.

      But the gag muffled her screams.

      Family Obligations – full story

      My troubles started one bright Monday morning at ten o’clock sharp. I remember the time because, as the door opened, my phone rang. My neighbour Jimmy had been calling me every day at ten o’clock for over a week, asking me to find out who had vandalized his favourite guitar. I already knew. But I couldn’t tell him. Nor could I warn him what would happen if he tried playing the same 10-minute solo over and over and over again at 2am on a new guitar.

      I turned my attention to the two dames who had entered

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