Aren't There Any Happy Endings?

By Scott Kessman

This book is a collection of my short stories written over a span of about 20 years, with a few even older than that. Some have been previously published in other collections or genre magazines, some have been shared with friends and family, and a few have never been seen by eyes other than my own.

Most of these stories contain elements of horror, with perhaps a touch of fantasy and a few sprinklings of the supernatural. But the characters within these stories are very real. They could be you or me or someone you know, and you will likely recognize a bit of yourself in some of them. But I should warn you—the majority of these characters are not likeable. They are not heroes, nor are they villains. They are not overcoming great obstacles or creating great works of importance or changing the world for the better. Many of them are simply lost, or miserable, or cruel, or just empty souls wandering through life without ever finding direction.

Despite all this, you will still want to read about them, because haven't we all felt some of that at some point in our own lives?

Thankfully, for many of us, those feelings of loss, despair, and hopelessness are faded memories, and we enjoy better, happier lives. But not all of the characters in these stories are able to share the same happy endings.

And that is where the true horror of the story lies—in the idea that not everyone always gets a happy ending. The hero doesn’t always save the day, the right words aren't always said, and the right choices aren't always made.

It's the horror of reality—maybe not yours or mine, not currently, and hopefully not ever, but many others face this horror everyday. Here are some of their stories...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Kessman
• Release date: Jun 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458138460

Scott Kessman

Scott Michael Kessman currently resides in North Carolina, but often visits “Tanglewood”, which lies deep within the hearts of the numerous woodland parks that surround him and his wife Sonya, who shares his adventures in the woods and in life.Always a friend to the animals, Scott is also kept company by two cats: one black, one white. They do their best to annoy him on a daily basis.He has always been a fan of fantasy, but also of horror, and has written numerous short stories in both genres.In addition to the Third Tale of Tanglewood, he is also currently working on an urban fantasy novel featuring angels and demons and the humans caught between them.He believes that magic still exists in the world; one just needs to look a little harder to find it.

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Aren't There ANY Happy Endings?

Scott Michael Kessman

All Rights Reserved © 2011

Published by Author, Scott Kessman at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook 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.

Discover other titles by Scott Kessman at Smashwords.com

Table of Contents

Foreword

1. Cycles

2. Delays Ahead

3. The Birdhouse Man

4. Fairytale Smiles

5. Forbidden Fruit

6. Wasted Tears and Tiny Soldiers

7. Recollections

8. Traveling Companions

9. Invisible

10. A Life in Forfeit

11. Unorthodox Psychiatry

12. Pages

13. What Price A Cup Full Of Emptiness?

14. Hero

15. The Woods

FOREWORD

The book you hold in your hands on your e-reader of choice is a collection of my short stories written over a span of about 20 years, with a few even older than that. Some have been previously published in other collections or genre magazines, some have been shared with friends and family, and a few have never been seen by eyes other than my own.

Most of these stories contain elements of horror, with perhaps a touch of fantasy and a few sprinklings of the supernatural. But the characters within these stories are very real. They could be you or me or someone you know, and you will likely recognize a bit of yourself in some of them. But I should warn you—the majority of these characters are not likeable. They are not heroes, nor are they villains. They are not overcoming great obstacles or creating great works of importance or changing the world for the better. Many of them are simply lost, or miserable, or cruel, or just empty souls wandering through life without ever finding direction.

Despite all this, you will still want to read about them, because haven't we all felt some of that at some point in our own lives?

Thankfully, for many of us, those feelings of loss, despair, and hopelessness are faded memories, and we enjoy better, happier lives. But not all of the characters in these stories are able to share the same happy endings.

And that is where the true horror of the story lies—in the idea that not everyone always gets a happy ending. The hero doesn’t always save the day, the right words aren't always said, and the right choices aren't always made.

It's the horror of reality—maybe not yours or mine, not currently, and hopefully not ever, but many others face this horror everyday. Here are some of their stories…

This first story was written in 1997, a few years before the Columbine Massacre. While only one particular scene in the story bears any resemblance to that day, I fear it's impact has become somewhat diluted, because, unfortunately, society has become more accustomed to occasional news stories about violence in schools. Additionally, the beginning of the story has been altered somewhat from its original form in response to an editors remarks, but I was always partial to my first draft, which I felt packed a bigger punch. That version, however, is lost somewhere in the abyss, so this version will serve in its stead. It's still one of my favorite stories…

CYCLES

Before his death, my father had rarely spoken to me, except to berate me, and to shout obscenities at me while he beat me. A thick string of insults laced with barbed wire would vomit forth from his mouth, slicing into my brain and scarring my heart, the curses forever imprinted upon my young, fragile psyche.

But last night, for the first time, he’d spoken to me differently. I wondered at first how my father could be speaking to me now, when he had been dead for nearly a year. I thought it might simply be my imagination, the noise of the wind rattling my bedroom window giving life to his memory.

I knew it wasn’t the wind. There was no mistaking the voice that had sent waves of terror through my small frame every time it had called for me. And last night, he spoke as if he had suddenly recognized me as a person rather than an object to be discarded. So I listened.

Patiently, but sternly, he told me where to find the gun he had kept hidden in the house. Not even my mother knew about it. He told me how to load it, how to hold it, and how to shoot it, and he told me not to fuck up.

He didn’t need to mention any names. I knew immediately who he was talking about.

I pushed aside the reserves of hatred I still carried for my father and instead focused on my rapidly growing animosity toward Charlie Lumont, the school bully, my nemesis.

Two days ago, Charlie and his friends had beat me bloody in the bathroom, tore my clothes off, and threw me out in the hall for everyone to laugh at. I was reduced to a naked, bleeding fool, and would no doubt be the object of ridicule for weeks, or maybe years.

But it didn’t have to be that way, my father told me. I could change things, if I had the guts. Strength isn’t always brawn and muscles, he said. Sometimes strength comes from the inside. Show people how strong you are, he said, and they will never fuck with you again.

I had lain in bed, listening, wondering if I possessed the strength my father spoke of.

This time, I vowed, I would show my father I was as strong as he was. I would do what he said, and I would make him proud.

*****

I’d avoided Charlie all day, even spent a few classes hiding in the bathroom stall. Time passed slowly, but with each agonizing minute, I was further aware of the burning hatred in my heart that needed to be released. I fingered the cold metal of the gun with sweaty fingers.

At last, the school day ended. I waited in the hall where I knew Charlie would be momentarily. I ignored the snickers and laughter of the passing students who pointed at me and called me names. In a few minutes, no one would laugh at me ever again.

Charlie rounded the corner, stopped when he saw me, and smiled a wolf’s grin. But today, I was not a sheep. I closed my eyes, pulled the heavy gun from my knapsack, pointed it at where I thought his head would be, and pulled the trigger.

At that particular moment in time, I had no thoughts of remorse or guilt. I was young, and I didn’t really understand what I had done. But I felt the strength inside me my father had spoke of, and it felt good.

I stood there in the hall with a splash of Charlie’s blood dripping down my face, and most of his brains dripping down the wall. I didn’t hear the gunshot. I didn’t hear the screams and cries of the students and teachers around me.

I heard my father tell me he was proud of me.

It was the first time in his life he had ever been proud of me. That was when I knew things were going to be different.

*****

Mary pulled my hand out from underneath her skirt a third time, and I could feel her annoyance growing, matching mine.

Jesus, Mary, I snapped. We’ve been going out a fucking month already. Why are you still so fucking prude?

Mary looked at me with the scowl I had begun to recognize as her patented fuck you scowl.

I sat back in the seat and looked away, glanced out the window, sighed disgustedly. Outside, the crickets chirped and the moon reflected off the still waters off the pond.

We were the only car parked here tonight, and I would’ve thought the romantic setting would be enough for Mary to want to fuck, but apparently not.

Jesus, I said again, as if hoping he would hear the anger and desperation in my voice, and perform some sort of mood-altering miracle on Mary to get her horny.

Maybe he did, or maybe Mary was just feeling guilty, because all of a sudden she was unbuckling my pants.

I looked at her with surprise.

Just a hand-job, okay? she said.

Then she moved herself closer as she stroked me, and leaned over for a kiss.

My tongue explored her throat and my hand slid underneath her blouse to cup her breast.

I expected her to protest, but instead she moaned and gripped me tighter, working me faster.

That’s it son, now you’ve got her motor goin’.

My father spoke to me quite a bit since that first night eight years ago, so his voice didn’t come as a shock, though I was a bit annoyed at his lack of respect for my privacy. Still, he had never much respected anything about me, much less my privacy, so I was resigned to the fact that he would come and go as he pleased, regardless of where I was or what I may be doing.

After I shot Charlie, they took me away from my mother and stuck me in juvenile hall. I had to undergo several years of psychiatric testing, and eventually we had to move to another state because of all the threats. It was a small town, and people didn't forget. They had decided not to prosecute me as an adult, but most of the residents in town made it perfectly clear that I was a psychotic murderer and should burn in hell, no matter that I had only been a child when it happened.

I had thought that when we moved, I would leave the voice of my father behind, but he was always with me, telling me what to do, telling me to make him proud, that I owed him for all he had done for me. After a while, I started to believe him.

Why don’t you slip yourself into that pussy, son? You know she wants it.

Given her reaction at my first few attempts to do just that, I would have disagreed with him, but I couldn’t say anything out loud without Mary thinking I was crazy, so I just tried to ignore him.

Come on, don’t be pathetic and sit there. Take charge of the bitch. I’ve been watchin’ how she treats you, like you’re her goddamned lap dog, answering to her every command. She needs to be slapped around some, put in her place. When I was your age, I was fuckin’ up a storm, takin’ snatch whenever I pleased.

My kiss died, my hand went limp on her breast, and his voice cut through my fucking skull like a chainsaw, shredding my thoughts and replacing them with his own.

You’re worthless, y’know. Always were a fuckin’ worthless brat. Weak. Pathetic. Just like your mother. Come on, fuck this bitch, make me proud. I know you can do it.

She was fighting me, but her panties snapped easily, torn away and discarded, and I held her down with my weight. Her fists pounded my back, but the fight in her died when I got it into her. Then she lay there, sobbing and moaning, pleasure and pain.

Two months later she told me she was pregnant.

*****

You’ll marry her and raise the kid, he said.

What? I don’t want to marry her. I’m only eighteen. I don’t want a fucking kid!

I didn’t want you, you ungrateful shit, but I got you, I took responsibility, and so will you. No free rides.

I tried to imagine the rest of life with Mary and a kid, and shuddered. The doors of my life were all closing, trapping me in a darkened room with no escape, no one to hear my suffering.

It isn’t fair. Why can’t she just get an abortion?

Life ain’t fair, son. But you gotta take what you get handed, and you just handed yourself a wife and kid. Congratulations, You’re makin’ me proud.

*****

I hadn’t heard from my father in a while. A few years in fact.

When the first few months went by, and my mind was free of his voice, I was filled with both a sense of relief and a feeling of abandonment. I can’t say that I missed him, but part of me liked the idea that he was there to guide me, and resented the fact that he just seemed to have left for no apparent reason.

He had been there for me when Mary began opening her mouth to me, trying to assume control of the marriage the way all bitches do. But he told me how to put her in her place and make her stay there, and so I did. From that point on, I was actually somewhat content. As long as Mary respected me, things were good, and if she failed to respect my authority, then I would simply put her in her place again.

The last time my father spoke to me, my son Steven was about to turn five. Mary had taken a weekend job as a waitress at some rathole diner in town. I didn’t mind, as long as she was home in time to have my dinner ready. She left in the morning, and I stayed home with the kid, who so far had been quiet and not very troublesome. Cute, even.

One Sunday morning, I was sitting down to eat some pancakes, and suddenly my father was back. I’m not sure if I dropped the plate due to shock or because of what he told me.

She’s out makin’ you look like a fool, son. She’s out with another guy.

The plate shattered on the floor, which set off the kid, which set me off, which set my father off.

Shut up all that racket! I’m trying to tell you something important and you’re shouting your damn head off!

I calmed down, left Steven to cry (kid cried about anything, ‘cause his mother babied him) and walked into the next room where he couldn’t see me supposedly talking to myself.

What do you mean, she’s with another guy?

How thick are you, son? Some young stud workin’ at that diner has been slippin’ it to her the last few weeks.

No way, I said. She wouldn’t have time. She works and then she comes home. I said this, but I was already starting to disbelieve it, the anger welling up inside me like a dam near to overflowing. The very idea that she would defy me this way set my nerves quaking. The