Alone, Selected Short Stories Vol. Three

By Wodke Hawkinson

Alone contains 18 short stories by multi-genre author, Wodke Hawkinson. From the dramatic to the humorous, these tales cover a range of styles. Alone is the third collection of short stories by this author and offers something for everyone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wodke Hawkinson
• Release date: Nov 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465843371

Wodke Hawkinson

Wodke Hawkinson is the name under which writing duo PJ Hawkinson and K Wodke produce their co-authored works. Both PJ and Karen have published solo works as well.

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Alone

Selected Short Stories, Volume Three

By

Wodke Hawkinson

© 2011 by Wodke Hawkinson

All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing form the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events in this work are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. This book is available in print at most online retailers.

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Acknowledgements

We thank our spouses and families

for their support and encouragement.

Table of Contents

Troll

Band-Joe

Deep Six

Too Much Information

Detained

Diary of a Psycho

I Don't Remember

Million Dollar Lay

Payment

The Erotic Christmas Memories of Dick Speed

The Chalk Man Cometh

A Strange Love Affair

Weekend

Poor Jesse

Letters

From the Depths of a Whole

Sins

Alone

Preface

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the fiction of Wodke Hawkinson. Thank you for coming!

As you may know, Wodke Hawkinson is the pseudonym of PJ Hawkinson and Karen Wodke. As a writing duo, we find many ways of bringing out our creative writing styles, both together and separately.

In each short story volume, we both write a short story using the same set of characters. This volume produced the stories Deep Six and Too Much Information using this method.

Since we each see things in different ways, you, the reader, get to experience the meeting of two minds. Wodke Hawkinson enjoys this blending of talents to create special stories.

In Volume One we introduced our intention of putting in one humorous, simply for fun, and quite frivolous story, one that seemed to be abundantly, copiously, and profusely loaded with adverbs, adjectives, or let’s face it, pure nonsense. We have continued this theme in Volume Three. See if you can spot the mysterious, grandiose, and yet rather ridiculous, story.

Check out our already published works Catch Her in the Rye, Selected Short Stories Volume One, Blue, Selected Short Stories Volume Two, Betrayed, a novel by Wodke Hawkinson, Half Bitten by PJ Hawkinson, and James Willis Makes a Million by Karen Wodke.

We’d also like to mention our upcoming novel Tangerine, which will be released within the next few months.

Imagination allows people to believe in the impossible. A book takes that imagination and puts in on paper to share with all. Thank you for allowing us to share our imagination with you.

~Wodke Hawkinson

You see things; and you say, Why? But I dream things that never were; and I say, Why not? ~George Bernard Shaw

Troll

Mary Frahns, dispatcher for Macksburg County, couldn't keep the smile out of her voice when she radioed Officers Clem and Deuce. Report of a troll under the William Frank Bridge. There was no code in her book for a troll.

10-4. We're two blocks away, Deuce radioed back in his usual lazy voice, not giving her the satisfaction of a reaction; he did, however, give his partner a wink.

An hour later, they wrestled the subject into the station amid much cursing, spitting, and flailing about. Mary peeked around the corner to watch the booking. Gladys, the booking officer, jumped from her chair and backed up four or five paces, her hand clutching the front of her shirt.

The officers deposited their captive in the chair and held him down by his shoulders while another deputy ran for the shackles. Only after he was secured did Gladys sidle back toward her desk. She sat on the edge of her seat, poised for a quick exit if it became necessary. She adjusted her glasses with a trembling hand and reached for her keyboard. Name please? she asked, carefully avoiding eye contact with the perpetrator.

Snarling, he shook his long matted hair and looked down at the floor. Art Clem stood on one side and Casper Ace Deuce on the other, should the detainee decide to try anything. Between the two large officers, the arrestee looked diminutive and harmless, but the tension in his body said otherwise.

Name? Gladys repeated, sneaking a look from under her thin bangs. The subject twisted in the chair and growled a long utterance, which no one understood. With his bulging forehead, bulbous nose, and pointed ears protruding from his wild hair, he looked not quite human. Gladys tried again, making her voice gentle to disguise the fact that she was frightened. Your name, please? She knew if he didn't answer he would raise the ire of the two officers, who at this point were merely amused.

Larkensparkenbluertruerharken! His voice was guttural, like stones falling into a metal pipe.

How do you spell that? Gladys asked, and the deputies burst out laughing. Ace slapped his thick thigh several times and turned away, trying to quell his mirth. Art covered his own mouth like a tittering girl.

Larkensparkenbluertruerharken! the troll shouted and heaved against the restraints.

Calm down there, partner, Ace said, placing a warning hand on the little man's shoulder.

Gladys struggled through the spelling, repeating the syllables slowly to herself. Ok, uh, dear, now what's your last name?

What do you speak of? the man barked. His strange orange-hued eyes rolled in their deep sockets. He tapped at the armrests with long dirty claw-like fingernails, the chains on his wrists rattling lightly with his moves. A cloud of odor surrounding him was almost visible. I’ve given ye my name, now set me free.

Gladys couldn't place the smells, but they were so familiar. Her olfactory sense was compromised by constant sinus congestion. She sniffed, but it did little good. She was a mouth breather most of the time.

Your last name? Larkinsparkinbluetruehark is your first name. Correct? What's your last name? Gladys was patient, her fear replaced by sympathy for the scruffy malformed individual she was processing.

I've but one name! he blurted, panting from fear and distress. One name! Why would a body need more than one name? I'll not abide your trickery, dame. I'll not abide it!

Gladys sighed. She gave a shrug to the officers who unlocked him from the chair and escorted him to a holding cell. Perhaps a few hours alone would loosen his tongue. She put a call in to Sheriff Croft. She knew he would want to see this prisoner. In fact, everyone on duty sneaked down to peer in the small window of the cell door. Some gasped; others gagged; and a few laughed. Word spread through the small station like an ink stain on a white sheet.

What about me? Mary called from dispatch. It was a slow night and she needed the distraction. Come take over for me so I can have a look.

Gladys rose from her chair, rubbed her aching back, and spelled Mary long enough that she could satisfy her curiosity. When she came back, Gladys stood to give her the seat. What the hell is he? Mary asked as she slid into her chair. Never seen anything like it!

I don't know, Mary. Gladys frowned.

Ace Deuce and Art Clem pulled themselves away from the sideshow down the hall and strolled into Dispatch. Mary turned her question to them.

Just some homeless freak, Ace answered. We pulled him out of a hole under the bridge. He was crawling in there, scrambling for all he was worth. Got a hold of his ankles and yanked him out. Once we got him under the streetlights, we could see right away why the caller said he was a troll.

He stinks different than our usual clientele, Art said, puffing up his chest like Barney Fife. Had Art been a skinny man, the resemblance would have been remarkable. As it was, only his mannerisms gave him away. No piss and body odor on that one. No, he smells of black licorice and camphor. Strong, too. Had to hold my breath in the car. Made my nostrils sting.

But his eyes! I've never seen brown eyes with so many flecks of orange in them. Makes him look like a demon or something. And his face! What a horrid childhood he must have had, Gladys exclaimed.

Always looking for a reason, ain't ya, gal? Art smirked. Fact is, he broke the vagrancy laws, and that makes him a criminal, no matter how much he was beat up when he was a kid.

We might be able to connect him with those burglaries on Warehouse Row, Ace said thoughtfully. Though where he's stashed the stuff is anybody's guess. Wasn't nothing under that bridge but a bedroll and a small cooking pot.

Sheriff Darrin Croft breezed in, every hair slicked into place as usual, his dark eyes roving the room. Ain't you all got some work to be doing? he boomed. The officers scattered in different directions as he strode down the hall to the holding cell. After a long look inside, he whistled softly in amazement.

He returned to the booking area and propped a huge foot up on the chair in front of Gladys's desk. Resting his elbows on his leg, he stared at his booking officer. That is one ugly customer, he said in a low voice, shaking his head.

Gladys leaned forward, meeting his eye, and whispered, Do you think it's really a troll, Darrin?

Sheriff Croft snorted, and then looked over both shoulders to make sure the room was clear. Don't repeat this to anyone, Gladys, but I'm not sure what the hell he is. I think we need to get a doctor in here to look at him. We can't hold him long, you know. He'll be assigned a PD tomorrow and they'll get him out. We need to fingerprint and photograph the bugger before midnight. We're gonna have to trim those claws, too. Might take three of us to do it. He's short, but he looks powerful, muscular. There's something intimidating about him. He chuckled nervously. It's like meeting up with one of my childhood nightmares firsthand. But that's crazy, ain't it?

Gladys shivered. Not so crazy, Sheriff.

Croft gathered the available officers to back him up, and then explained to the prisoner what they were going to do. Surprisingly, he did not resist. Perhaps even in his lunatic mind, he could see the futility of fighting. When he was returned to the cell, he flung himself to the floor in the corner and stared around wildly. He refused to talk and would answer no more questions.

At three a.m., Sheriff Croft's personal physician stumbled in looking half asleep and perturbed. Okay, let's see him, he mumbled, holding his bag with one hand and smoothing back his wiry hair with the other.

The sheriff accompanied Dr. Bower. At the door of the cell, he eyed the troll. Do I need to bring some other officers with me or will you cooperate with the doctor?

Larkensparkenbluertruerharken threw up his hands in defeat, and glared at the two men. Though it was doubtful he understood the sheriff's words, he certainly got the meaning.

Remove your clothes, the doctor said in a calm voice. Let's have a look at you.

Holy hell! Sheriff Croft exclaimed as the boots, shirt, and pants hit the floor.

Sheriff! Dr. Bower admonished. Please. Use some restraint or I'll have to ask you to wait outside.

Sorry, Darrin muttered, unable to take his eyes from the prisoner.

Larkensparkenbluertruerharken stood about four feet high with well-developed chest, shoulders, and arms. His thick torso transitioned into furred haunches. His knees bent forward as normal, but a couple of inches below each kneecap, there was another joint that skewed his calves backward. It reminded Darrin of a goat's leg. At the ankle, was a foot with a heel, but where the toes should be, was a split hoof. As Larkensparkenbluertruerharken shifted for the exam, his hooves clicked on the tile floor right after the soft slaps of his soles.

Dr. Bower examined Larkensparkenbluertruerharken from top to bottom. He took blood and tissue samples. On the back of the prisoner's head, buried deep in his wild hair, were three horn-like protrusions. The doctor mumbled as he explored the region.

Do these hurt? he asked.

Why would they! Larkensparkenbluertruerharken spit. They belong to me noggin.

Indeed. Bower patted the little man on the shoulder. You can get dressed now.

The doctor withdrew from the room, his bag under one arm, and the sheriff followed, locking the door behind him. Stepping several feet down the hall, Sheriff Croft put his hand on the doctor's arm. Well? What of him?

I don't know, the doctor said. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. I can't wait to get his blood under a microscope though. And DNA tests would be helpful, but who would pay for them? If he is just charged with vagrancy, as you say, there's not much call to run a DNA profile, is there?

Never mind that for now. What are your thoughts? Sheriff Darrin Croft was uncomfortable, and becoming more so by the minute, especially now that he had medical confirmation that his prisoner was something unique.

He's a walking set of anomalies for sure. Birth defects would be my conclusion. Maybe exposure of his mother to some toxin or another during pregnancy.

So he's a freak, Darrin said. But human?

I don't like the word freak, Sheriff. The doctor pulled his gray eyebrows into a frown. Of course, he's human. What else could he be?

Sheriff Darrin Croft was not the sort given to fantasy or exaggeration. He felt foolish even before the word was out of his mouth, but he couldn't stop it. Troll.

Troll? the doctor began walking toward the booking area. I think you're tired, Darrin. Go home and get some sleep. I'll call you tomorrow as soon as I know anything. Don't put him in with the rest of the population.

I know my job, Doctor. Darrin said in a clipped voice. I'll see you out.

After the doctor left, Darrin went back down the hall and checked on the troll. Larkensparkenbluertruerharken was speaking in a quiet, earnest voice to the wall. A nutcase then, Darrin thought. Come over here to the door. I want to talk to you.

The little man startled and then crept to the door. He placed his pointy ear against the metal.

Where are you from? the sheriff asked.

I'll not say, thank ye kindly, the troll responded.

Where do you live now? Under the bridge where they found you? Tell me.

Not there, came the whispered response. But set me free and I'll not come round your village again. Ye have my word.

I can't do that, Sheriff Croft said, his voice tired. Where were you born? Will you at least tell me that? Did your mother have some sort of accident that made you the way you are?

And what way is that? the little man rasped. I'm as everyone else is. No different.

You're different.

I'm not! Ye're daft! There was pity in the troll's voice now. Poor sod.

Move away from the door. I'm coming in, the sheriff said.

He peered through the window to find Larkensparkenbluertruerharken had backed against the opposite wall, his odd eyes burning as he watched the sheriff.

Look at me, Sheriff Croft ordered. We're not the same. Look at me.

Larkensparkenbluertruerharken danced a little jig, snickered, and then clapped his hands. Darrin pulled back, expecting an attack that never came.

Do ye like that little dance? Larkensparkenbluertruerharken lightened his tone as if he were addressing a child. He grinned, exposing gnarly teeth. I could teach it to ye.

Baffled, Darrin shook his head. Don't try to evade the subject. You're different from me. And you're gonna admit it. Darrin fumbled with his belt and dropped his pants. See? Different.

Larkensparkenbluertruerharken's smile faded as his eyes traveled over Darrin's lower half. Tears welled in his eyes and ran down his misshapen cheeks. Oh, he said. I know the sort ye are now. Aye, I do.

Darrin pulled up his pants and refastened his belt. As you can see, you can't deny it any longer. You're deformed. And I want to know why. I want to know your story, my friend. I can sit here all night if I have to, but you're gonna talk to me. You're gonna tell me all about yourself, or I'm gonna get mean. Believe me, you don't want that. He towered over the smaller man, the harsh overhead light creating an ominous shadow. Darrin's threatening stance was intentional. Patience had gotten him nowhere. It was time to resort to intimidation. He had lost his fear of the freak.

Larkensparkenbluertruerharken shrunk and fell back onto the metal bed. He sat with his hoary hands clasped between his knees and looked up with a contrite expression on his homely face. Ye win, ye giant. I'll talk. Come closer, for me throat is sore and 'tis hard to speak.

Darrin nodded and knelt before his prisoner.

A mite closer, Larkensparkenbluertruerharken whispered.

Darrin leaned in. Larkensparkenbluertruerharken opened his mouth, and instantly the orifice grew to an enormous gaping maw. Before surprise could register on the sheriff's face, Larkensparkenbluertruerharken grabbed Darrin's head inside his mouth, bit down, and swallowed, gulping the round object down his gullet into his belly. Blood spurted from Darrin's neck as his body collapsed onto the floor.

Larkensparkenbluertruerharken belched long and with great satisfaction. He then spoke to the wall again. A hole materialized in the concrete and the troll stepped inside and disappeared, leaving behind a mystery that would never be solved by the Macksburg County Sheriff's office.

Larkensparkenbluertruerharken materialized in a small village in England and took up residence under a bridge. It wasn’t long before the calls started coming in to the local constabulary and officers were sent to investigate…

Band Joe

Gara maneuvered her small ship so she could see Earth’s moon through the wide portal. She loved the round gray look of it; it resembled the hard-cooked yolk of the flanan-beast’s egg back home, a treat that made her mouth water at the mere thought. She was tired of eating her own hair for protein, tired of miniscule dried rations, tired of recycled urine, and tired of the pitiful yowls of her verline companion who was starving. She didn’t care that Earth had probably picked up her presence by now, or that its engineers and stargazers were likely panicking before their screens and monitors. She was simply tired, and so far off course she feared she would never make it home again. She wished there was enough fuel to make it to Mars where her appearance would not cause a stir, merely annoyance.

Breaking open one of her last ration cubes, she called softly to Quip who slunk weakly to her side.

Just a bite, now, Gara said, tenderly feeding the thin animal. No more than that or your stomach will rebel.

Quip would not eat slowly if Gara gave her the rations to hold. She had had too little for too long. So Gara only gave her a few morsels followed by several spoonfuls of their precious water. This was generous by their current standards. Quip looked up at her with anguished eyes but seemed to understand there would be no more, at least for now. Slinking to the cushioned dais mid-ship, she dropped into repose, staring with dull eyes at the moon hanging in the blackness outside.

Just a few more days and Quip would be dead. And a week after that, I will be, too. Gara knew from her body scans that she was malnourished and losing bone density in her plates at an alarming rate.

Earth probably should have drawn more admiration from Gara with its swirls of blue and green. But it didn’t look like food and the moon did. And that was that. It did, however, have an abundance of raw fuel. Fuel that was essential to her survival and eventual departure for home.

Now how to go about first contact? She, of course, knew several of the languages of this planet, and was well versed in an assortment of customs. She grappled with the decision. If she chose a third-world nation, she would be safer by far. She might even be regarded as a goddess. But, they would not have the technology she needed. Nations that might have the special technology she required would pose great danger to her. They might dissect her, would most certainly detain or imprison her for ‘scientific’ study. She must decide soon before a missile was sent to intercept her. She didn’t want to waste her dwindling fuel resources on evasive moves or counterattacks.

She must obtain what she needed and leave at the first available opportunity for better environs, perhaps Hagon or Riul, tame civilized places not given to wild lush vegetation and bizarre life forms. She knew Earth inhabitants ate each other on a regular basis. Not usually intra-species, she corrected herself. Still, species ate other species. It always came down to food, really. Maybe they would eat her. She shivered.

At the last possible minute, she locked in on one of the more advanced societies. She didn’t have enough resources to engage the cloaking mechanism. Still, her fuel ran short upon atmospheric contact, a miscalculation of air resistance, causing her landing to be harder than she’d hoped. Quip bounced inside her small cushioned enclosure. Crashing through treetops and barely missing the dip of