The Vagary Tales

By Robert Michael

The Vagary Tales are a collection of eight short stories that each follow a separate path on a wandering journey. Several genres are represented, so there is a story to appeal to almost anyone.

"What is Right" is a story about Christian, a young man who finds himself unable to recall his recent past. This puts him in danger when he discovers that remembering may cost him his life.​

"The Man in Black" is my tribute to the great Johnny Cash. See how many song titles you can find in this short story about George, a prisoner in Folsom Prison.​

​"Without a Trace" tells of the adventures of Todd and Charles who find a pair of underwear that turn the wearer invisible.​​

"Three Gifts from the Queen" is an epic fantasy about a visit Lord Ranor makes to see the Queen. She presents to him three gifts: great and terrible gifts that Ranor wishes he hadn't received.​​

"Cross Word" is a short story of a woman cursed with a cryptic message in her New York Times.​

"Sweet Tea" is a story about a boy, and his dog, Barnard. Poor Barnard has post traumatic mowing syndrome. Lance asks his neighbor, Mr. Wegner, if he can help alleviate Barnard's psychosis.​​

"The Grass is Greener" gives reason #52 why you shouldn't take your wife golfing.​

Being a high-level assassin isn't all its cracked up to be. Just when you think you have it all--expensive suits, fast cars, weekends on a yacht, travel to exotic lands--everything you know comes crashing down around you. Jake Monday hates Mondays more than any other day of the week. This Monday will change his life forever. "Jake Monday" is an excerpt from my upcoming (2013) series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Michael
• Release date: Aug 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476139265

Robert Michael

Robert Allen Michael, originally from West Virginia, began telling tales when he was eight. He started with ghost stories, like the ones he read in books and heard from his family. Late at night, he would spin these tales hoping to scare his sisters or impress his mother.Robert is the author of over eleven titles including Dark Mountain, Cry Me a River, and the Jake Monday Chronicles. He writes character-driven plots that resonate with realism. Robert loves to engage with readers, so join him on Twitter (@InfiniteWord), Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Infinite-Word-Press/422143717854255), or on his website at www.infinitewordpress.com. If you would like to know about new releases, special promotions, free downloads, or competitions and giveaways, sign up for the newsletter at his website.Robert is known to write while blasting loud music and drinking copious amounts of diet soda. When he isn't writing, or working at his day job in sales, Robert can be found reading a book, playing Xbox, or spending time with his wife Tracey..

Book preview

FOREWORD

For as long as I can remember, I have revered literature. I love stories. Some of my favorite stories are short ones. Short stories are how I first explored the world of writing. I loved telling tales and since my first stories were mostly oral in nature, they were inherently brief.

These stories contained here come from varied places in my life. Some, I have published elsewhere briefly. Some are entirely new. I have a trove of unfinished manuscripts—starts and stops—that I have developed into stand-alone narratives. Others began as writing prompt exercises and developed muscle enough to be called a story.

At least one of these stories I hope to expand into a larger work—Jake Monday. I plan on writing a series of three novels, entitled Manic Monday, A Month of Mondays, and Thank God It's Monday. If you enjoy the story, be sure to watch for the series, set to be published in 2013.

I hope you enjoy each one. Maybe one will become your favorite.

What is Right

The couch smelled like marijuana. Christian lifted his head with an effort. He felt a cold wetness on his face near his mouth. The ringing in his ears was only a background noise to the rumble of the train. The apartment seemed to vibrate and spin at the same time.

Time. It has to be morning. Train runs in the morning. How did I know that?

Christian rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. It smelled of smoke and blood. He glanced at it as he sat up and put his feet on the floor. He noticed two things at once. He was naked; and blood caked his hand, his forearm and his chest. It wasn't his, he was relieved to note. No cuts, no bruises. Just blood, some dried and caked to a hard reddish-brown, and some a brick red and sticky-wet.

He glanced around the apartment. It wasn't familiar. Trash littered the glass table at his knees. Chinese take-out. Two weeks of newspapers, discarded mail with the envelopes ripped carelessly, and a bong with its water the color of sour milk and its smell just as rancid. The odor coming from the bong competed valiantly with the take-out leftovers.

As Christian began to orient himself to the unfamiliar room, he heard movement from what he guessed was the kitchen. Panicked, he began to run for the only door he could see.

I wouldn't go anywhere right now if I were you. He sat down heavily.

A young woman entered, wiping her hands with a towel. She wore several tank tops and tight faded jeans. Her hair was black, short, and spiked. The gauges in her ears made the lobes look extended, the rings in her nose like she had a cold.

Christian froze. He didn't know this girl. She seemed to know him. He was at odds; and more than a little scared.

Where am I?

She stared at him, a grin creeping across her face. She put down the towel and crossed the room.

"You wake up from all that, naked, with blood all over you, and you want to know where you are? That's your burning question?"

He shrugged. It was the first thing to come to mind, yeah. I have some follow up questions, but I thought I would start slow before I got to 'why?'

Steve always said you were a pain, she said with a smirk. She put her hands on the back of the couch. Her nails were painted black and he noticed her eyeliner was heavy.

The rumble from the train subsided. Christian looked for something to cover himself. He wasn't modest. But, he felt vulnerable.

Your clothes are gone. They burned. I don't have anything that fits you. Besides, despite what I said earlier, being naked should be your last concern. She was still looking down at him like he was her lesser. Maybe he was.

Who are you?

She raised her eyebrows and tipped her head. She was pretty, despite being rough. She was compact, her face almond-shaped, her eyes large and expressive. Under all the tattoos, piercings, makeup, and tight-fitting clothes was someone's little girl all grown up.

Now, there's a question I wasn't expecting. Don't you remember me?

He was already shaking his head. Somehow, he knew it was the wrong answer. Some niggling alarm was telling him that he shouldn't