6 Short Stories

By Robert Jeschonek

6 stories for one low price: "Wave a White Flag": An old man throws everything out the window. "Day of the Mad Shitter": Hunting a workplace slob. "How to Get Lucky": A narcoleptic's nightmares. "A Wall of Lisas": A lonely woman goes mad. "The Day After They Rounded Up Everyone Who Could Love Unconditionally": A society sheds its weakest links. "The Walking Bomb": A minister becomes a human bomb.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Jeschonek
• Release date: Nov 18, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452375809

Book preview

Six Short Stories Volume One

Six Short Stories Volume One

ROBERT JESCHONEK

Pie Press Publishing

Contents

Also by Robert Jeschonek

Wave a White Flag

The Day of the Mad Shitter

How To Get Lucky

A Wall of Lisas

The Day After They Rounded Up Everyone Who Could Love Unconditionally…

The Walking Bomb

About the Author

Author Newsletter

Special Preview: Day 9

SIX SHORT STORIES VOLUME ONE

Copyright © 2023 by Robert Jeschonek

www.robertjeschonek.com

Cover Art Copyright © 2023 by Ben Baldwin

www.benbaldwin.co.uk

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved by the author.

A Pie Press book

Pie Press Publishing logo

Published by Pie Press Publishing

411 Chancellor Street

Johnstown, Pennsylvania 15904

www.piepresspublishing.com

Also by Robert Jeschonek

Day 9

Heaven Bent

The Masked Family – a Novel

Wave a White Flag

The doilies were first; of that much, Henry was certain. And then, for contrast, for a change of pace, the bowling ball. First, doilies, fluffy spinning lace sliding through the air like snowflakes, catching breezes that would swing them wide and up and wild as stringless kites. Then, when the fish on the sidewalk were giggling and sighing and spreading their tiny arms to catch the pretty things, a surprise! Out of the sky, a speck among the drifting frills--that’s all they would see at first, of course, just a speck. Smooth and shiny and plunging like a holy comet, it would arc and flume straight down, flash by the stupid doilies, maybe kill some birds on the way before it HIT one, splattered some fool with her arms out to catch, thinking it was a doily but in for a rude awakening because it’s a BOWLING BALL all along and she’s on her way to meet Jesus Christ. And if Henry could aim right, put just the right backspin on it, maybe he could take out a whole crowd of them, plow down five or ten like real bowling pins in an alley. It would be best if the crowd was all old ladies or shitfaced rowdy kids.

Or maybe the cedar chest would be better. He would have more of a chance of crushing someone with that, of cracking a whole flock like a bunch of nuts. Rubbing his chin, he considered the chest, imagined the heavy wood box dropping down eight floors, the lid flying open, maybe snapping off to leave a tail of trash. Out would fly the photo albums, shooting out and flapping in the wind like paper birds failing to fly, shitting snapshots and pages all the way down; then, at the sixth floor, the clippings would emerge--graduations, weddings, and obituaries shredding, confetti in the sky. By the fifth floor, out would tumble flowers, dessicated roses and corsages disintegrating under the sun; letters, yearbooks, medals at the fourth; at the third floor, his uniform would leap out, and her wedding dress puffing up big and round as a parachute; souvenirs at the second--postcards, flashlights, key rings from places he had forgotten; before the big smash would come fittingly the wills, typed tidy packets popping over the rim with the old green teddy bear close behind; and then a CRASH (maybe a peep, he didn’t know, if the poor dummies realized they were standing under a lifetime); and finally nothing, just a flutter and rustle as all the goddamned memories rippled down around them, into their blood, soaking it up into papers and dresses like paper towels absorbing Kool-Aid.

As for the baby’s finger, Henry wasn’t really sure where it would be. Probably, it would settle on top like a cherry, only not red anymore after fifty-two years, just white white tiny like a tooth. The little velvet ring case she kept it in would shatter, spitting it right on top of the pile, turning up again like it always did. Yesterday, she had it in the bathroom, as if he needed to see it again, and he noticed the little gray case as he was pulling down his pants and tried to flush it away with his crap. Wheezing and quivering, she had saved it at the last second, punched her shriveled blue arm into the bowl and dug it out like it was still attached to someone. He watched her like TV and thought the old woman might die from the way her veins stuck out.

Henry just wanted to get rid of it all, to throw it all out and be done with it for good. It served no purpose anymore for him...and for her, too, though she savagely clung to each bit. It was all gone, all past, all slipping away, so why fight it? He was tired of staring at old photos of people who were dead over ten years ago. He was tired of seeing snapshots of young strangers Helen insisted were them, when he knew damn well they were not. He was tired of living in the same world that made him think of things he could never have or do.

Last Tuesday was the last time Henry had enjoyed himself, the last time he had laughed and felt good. Oh, what a pleasure, what a landmark day it had been! It was warm, like tonight, and when he limped to the windowsill, a high half-moon lit up just for him. In his arms, he felt an ache as he inched open the window, but when he carried over the box of books and flung them into the night, there wasn’t a twinge. There was simply a surge, an incredible, hot surge like whiskey drowning his body, heat so pure and exhilarating that the books weren’t enough. Even as the box shot downward, plunging to the sidewalk like an elevator with no cable, he was hopping into the kitchen, grabbing the toaster, rushing as fast as he could toward the moonlight. Out it went, gleaming and rattling, electrical cord whipping behind it...then the best, the biggest yet! By the time Helen awakened and stumbled into the room, the TV had exploded below, erupting in a geyser of glittering fine chips--glass, tubes, wires, metal, and wood screeching back up and out in a fountain, then down, washing down everywhere in a far beautiful tidal wave. Then, Helen grabbed him and clawed him back from the masterpiece, away from the window in a sexless tumble. Henry smiled because she had been whimpering over the finger again.

Unfortunately, there weren’t any fish out last Tuesday, no black mollies swiveling past to plaster. Bad timing, though the moon was perfect, and he knew it as soon as that first toss but was so excited that he just kept going. Pretty soon, there were plenty down there, though, squinting old cripples in slippers pointing up, even some policemen who came up to visit. That night, they threatened to weld shut his windows, but he sat on the rocker and said he’d only break the glass if they did. He called the cop a son of a bitch and went off to bed, leaving whimpering Helen to entertain the neighbors.

What a night it had been! Best of all, there was time for more, certainly days enough for more heat and heroic throws. In his body, in this place, he realized there were few chances for anything else, few years to find something elating again. The wheat years were over, his twisted legs whispered, the sun months traded to another part of the Earth. Find what fun your sloughing body can, feel the blood rush, neck hairs tremble. Don’t rot.

Tonight, it was warm out there again, and a crescent moon sang Patti Page, and Henry knew it was time for more goodbyes. In the beige box bedroom of the cramped apartment, he gazed out the window and nodded; from the top, royal rampart of the building, it would come, it would come, it would rain from his hands.

First, the doilies, he decided, and then the bowling ball and THEN the cedar chest. All or nothing, shoot the moon. Yes, that would be nice.

Turning away from the glittering great window, Henry started to gather things up. There were doilies on the dressers, both of them, and he tugged them carefully off, holding back all the junk on top with one arm. Next, he laid the lacy things on his bed, which was closest to the window, and walked past both beds to the closet. Humming, he slid open the folding, slatted door, and got down on his knees. He pushed aside dangling curtains of clothing and reached into a corner for the bowling ball. It felt familiar to sink three fingers in the cool, smooth holes of the ball, and before he put it on the bed, he pretended to hurl it down an alley.

The cedar chest was already near