Pickers and Pickled Punks

By Marina Bridges

Careful what you dig out of the trash...

In "Catching the Worm," Meemaw holds a post-Apocalyptic yard sale, and customers best mind their manners, or else.

A pair of greedy pickers in "Cash For Trash" discover the hard way that some people want their treasures left buried.

A fascination with sideshows brings one collector face to face with her childhood obsession in "Giant's Ring."

In "Welcome to Welcome," auction-goers understand every auction house has its quirks, but in the town of Welcome, the quirks are downright dangerous.

Pickers, collectors, hoarders, junkers, antique hunters, call them what you will. They all share one thing in common -- they're addicted finding treasure in other peoples' trash. In this short story collection, horror writer, Marina Bridges, sends treasure hunters digging into dark, dangerous corners to discover their hearts' desires... and their worst nightmares.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marina Bridges
• Release date: Jun 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458116215

Marina Bridges

Marina Bridges has decided that the road to fame isn't paved with her Toy Fox Terrier Poop Art creations and has turned her attention to fine literature. Past jobs have included stage manager, stage lighting designer, eBay Seller, and dog trainer. She has taken her varied work experiences and turned them into moving tales of murder, cannibalism, and human trafficking. Marina recently joined forces with author and story editor Jaye Manus to produce the short story collection Pickers and Pickled Punks. Jaye's experience, insight, and nagging have proved to be invaluable in dragging Marina out of Farmville. Marina is currently at work on her zombie novel. She has been known to feature her fans as characters in her stories. Only her most devoted fans make the cut. Start fawning.

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Pickers and Pickled Punks

Short Stories by Marina Bridges

copyright 2011 Marina Bridges

Editor: JW Manus

Copy Editor: Barry Bridges

Cover Art: Daniel Lowery

Cover Design: COCO NOelle

Smashwords Edition

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 recipient. 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.

This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Catching The Worm

Cash For Trash

Giant’s Ring

Welcome To Welcome

About The Author

A Note From The Editor

About The Cover Art

Catching The Worm

Meemaw was herding Dude and Buddy out of the house when two men appeared on the other side of the high chain-link fence surrounding the yard. Meemaw, always on the lookout for trouble, and the only one who was really awake, spotted them first. I knew this would happen, she said. She jabbed Dude in the ribs and pointed at the men.

Dude yawned and stretched and started for the fence.

Don’t go over there, Meemaw commanded. Dude stopped walking. We ain’t even got started and here come them vultures. Meemaw seemed almost pleased. She bustled over to the sundial in the middle of the yard as if to assure herself of the time, despite the barely risen sun clearly declaring the early hour.

Y’all git out of here, Meemaw yelled at the men. Y’all git!

The men didn’t git. Meemaw smiled grimly at their nerve and grabbed the double-barreled shotgun leaning against the sundial. Even with her lurching limp, she made it to the fence just as one of them reached for the cardboard sign hanging beside the padlocked gate.

Meemaw stuck the barrel of the shotgun through one of the diamond-shaped holes in the chain-link. I tole you to git.

You gotta be kidding, old woman, said the man at the gate. He and his friend obviously weren’t positive Meemaw was kidding. They both spun and took a couple of running steps.

Meemaw was, in fact, not kidding, and she let loose with one barrel.

Dude put his hands over his ears to block out the screams. Buddy was grinning, taking it all in. The screams gradually subsided. Dude lowered his hands.

Git up, Meemaw ordered the prone and smoking men. Y’all ain’t hurt bad. That load was just rock salt, not shot.

The men recovered from their shock and started slapping at the smoldering holes in their clothes, an activity they pursued with little success because all the holes were in the backs of their shirts and pants. Plus, there were little stinging burns and puncture wounds filled with salt under the holes. Smacking didn’t make them feel any better. One got the idea to strip off his clothes and the other followed his lead. Soon, two naked, angry men faced Meemaw.

You old bitch, gritted the man who’d grabbed the gate. He bent over, exposing his bare ass to Meemaw, and rummaged through his abandoned pants until he found a pistol. He spun around and pointed the gun at Meemaw.

Dude and Buddy knew, even under the best of circumstances, it was never a good idea to cross Meemaw. That man couldn’t have known this, but the rock salting should have given him a clue.

Meemaw said, I ain’t old, and blasted the shotgun at the ground at the man’s feet. This load wasn’t rock salt. It was buckshot. The lead pellets tore through the shallowly buried plywood in front of the gate. The man wasn’t standing square in the middle of the board, but his weight was enough to buckle the compromised wood. He could have taken a step backward and saved himself, but the blast had stunned him. One second he was standing with his mouth hanging open, the next he was gone. He disappeared into the pit Dude and Buddy had spent days digging.

I call it my wolf hole, Meemaw informed the man’s frozen companion. I had my grands over there put me a pungi stick in it.

A scream from the pit confirmed Meemaw’s statement. The naked man stared at Meemaw for a moment, then turned and ran, his clothes and his friend forgotten. Meemaw aimed the shotgun at his red back. The dry click of the trigger surprised her more than the roar of a shot ever would have. She nearly dropped the gun. The only sound was the slap slap of the naked man’s feet on the asphalt. The slaps diminished as the man rounded a bend. The morning fell silent.

Well, shit, Meemaw said. He got away.

Meemaw, Buddy said, you think you got a triple barrel shotgun, there? He looked at Dude and grinned with his whole face.

Meemaw turned to Buddy. Silent, she stared at him. The smile slid off Buddy’s face and he started studying the sundial as if he might suddenly learn how to tell time. Meemaw cracked open the breech of her shotgun, pried out the spent shells with her thick fingernails, and swapped them for the loaded shells in her apron pocket.

Meemaw was so horrible. Really, she was. Dude couldn’t think about anything except how horrible she was as she limped back across the yard.

Dude, Meemaw said, "go throw the plates over that pit.