Dead

By Paul Block

Dead is a collection of eight short stories that all look at death from different angles. Ordinary people in ordinary circumstances that death just happens to play a leading role in.
Dead: What if you hatched a plan to make your circumstances better, except in order for your plan to work you would have to be dead? Old friends out for a few drinks, blue skying it in a bar. Or are they? Maybe there is more reality to the conversation they're having then there seems to be.

Firefight: A jungle in Vietnam is home to this story of a man that finds himself in circumstances not of his own making. He finds himself examining what he believes in as events unfold before him that take him farther away from anything safe and understandable.

Justice, Out along the Border, Blackness of the Soul, Private Investigations, After Death and Last Ride make up the balance of the stories in this collection. Each take a look at the role death plays in the circumstances of the people that find themselves interacting with it. Whether they are the people who may die, will die or just bystanders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. L. Norton
• Release date: Sep 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310754388

Book preview

DEAD

Collected Short Stories

By Paul Block

Published with Smashwords

Original Material Copyright © 2010, 2014, 2016 Wendell Sweet, all rights reserved, both foreign and domestic

PUBLISHED BY: Wendell Sweet

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book 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. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Foreword

Dead

Firefight

Justice

Out Along The Border

Blackness Of The Soul

Private Investigations

After Death

Last Ride

Preview of the Novel: Begins The End

About Dell Sweet

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual living persons places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

This novel is Copyright © 2016 Wendell Sweet. Paul Block, Geo Dell, W. W. Watson and Dell Sweet are publishing constructs used by Wendell Sweet. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the author's or his assignees permission.

Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print...

FOREWORD

This is a collection of short stories I have written over the last few years in between work on novels or the pay the bills stuff. This collection of eight short stories all have to do with, yes, you guessed it, death, a kind of macabre subject matter, but it has touched my life and influenced my life many times in the past. I suspect it will again.

In any case, here they are for your investigation. I hope you enjoy them,

Paul Block.

DEAD

Dead

---

No, Paul slurred, as he shifted around on his bar stool and looked directly at Jack, I mean dead as in gone! As in outta here, friggin' history, get it?

Yeah, dead as in dead, as in suicidal again, as in I told you, I don't know how many times you can't do that. You got resposisilillyties? No, resposabilities. To-hell-with-it, you know what I mean.

Apparently Jack couldn't talk any better than he could, Paul thought. But, they had both been drinking since eight this morning, and it was now nearing four PM, what else could you expect? Paul asked himself. And not beer either. If they had stuck to just beer, they'd be fine. But Jack had got him going on the Ginger Brandy chasers. Beer... Shot of Ginger Brandy... Beer... Shot of Ginger Brandy. And that was the way the day had gone. I knoooh, Paul said, still slurring his words, that I got them things, respectabilities, but I. Have. Had-it. Frigg it! I mean, less say I croaked right now. Jess sittin' right here on this Beer-stool, Beer-stool was a private joke. Neither of them could remember which had started calling it a Beer-stool, but they both knew one of them had drinkin', and then I croaked. Say a freakin' heart attack, prob'ly would be, or a stroke. Anyway! Dead, like right now... You're sitting right freakin' there, and I buy the farm. Then what?

Hey, for real, man, like mental health might be a thing to think about here.

Uh uh, you ain't got it yet, is all. I don't mean dead as in dead, I mean dead as in gone, get-it?

Same thing, man, same...

No it ain't, Paul said as he leaned forward from his stool, nearly surprising Jack into falling off his own stool. I mean the supposing thing is the same, but the premise ain't. Hey, I said premise right, I ain't too far gone. In other words, just play along for a quick sec., okay?

Fine, Jack said wearily. He tipped back his glass of beer, drained it, and looked at Paul.

Paul nodded.

Two more, and a couple a more shots too, Jack said, once he got the beertenders attention.

Beertender was another private joke, but one they had picked up rather than invented. Okay, Jack said, once the beers and shots had come, and he had downed his shot, and chased it with some of the beer. Gotta piss like a race horse, man. Then we'll get back to this.

Again? Man, you're pissin' like every ten minutes, Paul said, quickly cutting his eyes to the darkened rear area of the bar.

Yeah? Well so are you, man, he got up and staggered back towards the mens room. Laughing as he went.

Paul cut his eyes quickly toward the darkened rear area once more, as a shadow parted from the darkness and came forward quickly. Jack was back a few seconds later.

Okay, Jack said, picking up the conversation once again. You're croak city. Right here. Right now, so... I guess I call the cops, right? Friggin' Kojak or somethin'?

Sure you do, or the beertender does, but I mean after. After they come and get me and drag my ass down to the city morgue, or whatever it is they do, then what?

Well... he thought for a moment, not sure where Paul was trying to lead him. Okay, the funeral. Me, probly Randy from work, your brother'd fly down from Seattle probly. We all cry, an... An then we plant you. Over and done.

And?

And what? You're freaking worm food, there ain't no and then what.

Sure there is. There always is.

Got me swingin', man. I don't know where the hell you're goin' with this, and I see two of you sittin' there, and I ain't really sure which one of you came up with this bull-shit, but it sucks. It's morbid, man, kinda sick.

Yeah? well now I gotta piss, but you hold that thought, man. I'll be back in a flash.

Jack watched him go, and then turned away from the dark area at the rear of the bar. He ignored the slight rustling noise beside him. Concentrating instead on the back bar. Counting the bottles. He didn't turn back around until Paul came back, and seated himself on the barstool once again.

Okay, Paul said. Morbid... Sure it is. I know that, dick-wad, but death is always morbid, man, for real. The thing is what happens after, and that is that life goes on, am I right? I mean, my Bro. flies back to Seattle, he don't like me anyhow... Randy goes back to work bustin' his ass down the paper mill, and so do you. End of story. Oh, maybe you think of me tenderly from time to time.

Not freakin' hardly... I got somethin' you can tenderize, man, Jack said laughing.

Paul laughed right along with him. Okay, he said at last, that was cute. But for real, life will go on. End of story. I don't have that ever-lovin' Mortgage compny on my ass. Same for the bank that has my truck loan. Joan can't grab me for no more friggin' alimony, it's the end... The real end, it's over, and life goes on.

Jack stared back speculatively. Listen, for real now, You're startin' to scare me, man. There's no reason to do somethin' like that. Hire a friggin' lawyer, man. Go to court and fight her. Hand the Goddamn keys to the truck back and the keys to the house, and file bankruptcy. The end, problems gone, fini.

"Not true, man. I thought about it. Even talked to a lawyer. As long as Joan doesn't ever remarry I gotta pay her. If I don't have the money they'll throw me in the slammer