That's Not The Wind Out In The Trees: A Collection Of Short Stories By Buster Wellman

By Buster Wellman

Lovecraft, Poe, King, and Koontz have all scared the Hell out of you. It's time to add another name to that list. You may never be able to convince yourself that it was really just the wind out in the trees again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483541440

Book preview

Author

Foreword

After arguing with myself over whether or not I should ever publish any of my stories, one side won. Since you are reading this I am sure you can figure out which one. I wrote my first poem over 50 years ago. I began writing songs just six years later. However, I never tried my hand at writing a story until I was 40 years of age. Some of the stories found here are 18 years old while some were written in the last few months. I have never written a story for anyone, other than myself. Writing is good for me. A few close friends, and family members have been my only audience. This handful of readers have convinced me that others would enjoy reading some of these stories. Perhaps they are correct. Perhaps they are not. You will be the judge. I enjoyed writing each of these, and I have found a few of them entertaining to read as well. If any of them jar your senses in any way, that will be icing on the cake. Thank you for giving me your time, Dear Reader. It is after all, your most valuable possession.

Buster Wellman

1. Thoughts of a Friend

You never really liked being in a group when the topic came up. Yet, you couldn't come right out and say that the idea hadn't crossed your mind. You let a lot of things cross your mind that you won't allow to cross your lips, in public anyway. The rule of thumb is sort of like, you'll think some things that you won't say, and you'll say some things that you won't do. But once, a wise man that died young said, If you're going to think it you might as well do it. I'm not sure I cotton to that philosophy, but I must admit I wish I hadn't thought some things. I regret some thoughts because they led to speech and others that led to acts. But in the still of the night, when it's just the old racing mind and me, I regret the thoughts that lead to certain thoughts. You know the ones. The thoughts you wouldn't even whisper in an empty room. The thoughts that you don't believe, or wished you didn't. Those special thoughts that you wouldn't think if there was any way in Hell to keep from it. I knew someone that had thoughts like that. Perhaps you did too. Why don't we just label this someone our friend? Now we can be sort of certain that we aren't discussing you or me. These are simply some thoughts of a friend.

About three years ago, right here in this same town, our friend was getting along pretty much as usual. The last thing he wanted was trouble, or to cause any. We're not talking lofty ambitions here, no sir. Just let me get by was the motto. Keep the bills paid, what they used to call keeping the wolf away from the door. An OK car and a good TV with cable, and a certain amount of self medication was basically this version of the American dream. Most nights were too late, and almost every morning was too early. He had a little trouble sleeping. To some extent, it had always been a problem, but now it was growing worse. Remembering when two beers would insure a good night's sleep, and realizing that a six-pack was no longer a guarantee, was somewhat worrisome. But what the heck, we're all getting older. Lots of folks have trouble sleeping. Not being one to give in to an addiction, our hero decided to face the problem head on like a man. If he couldn't sleep sober, he would stay awake. When he got tired enough sleep would come. He was sure of it. There's an old saying that goes, there's only two things you can be sure of, death and taxes. Some old sayings have a truth for a basis.

Ten days, no beers, and twenty-three broken hours of sleep later, and our friend was a new man. He was new all right. Two hours of sleep a day more or less, and never more than fifty minutes or so straight hadn't taken any toll. Coffee and cigarettes by day, TV and cigarettes by night. This was the life. Insomnia seemed much too harsh a word. In fact, the only time he was tired was when he had to get up. At night, he'd lie awake in front of the TV for hours. No one seemed to notice any change. His coworkers appeared to be a bit harder to get along with than usual. His girl friend was developing some previously unnoticed tendency to bitch. But he was fine. Another few days and this would pass. Sleep would return to normal. It seemed like he had read, You only really need two hours of sleep a day, anyway. Don't believe everything you read.

Two more weeks passed, and things were becoming much clearer. The girl friend had been gone four days. It was hard to imagine that he had wasted almost two years on such a bitch. Well, it's good riddance to her. He had called in sick the last two days. He had plenty of leave, and the boss was becoming a candidate for hemorrhoid cream. You know, a real pain in the ass. Being off work had afforded him the opportunity for an amazing discovery, the afternoon nap. Two hours of solid sleep. The nap deprived him of any hope for sleep at night. But it was really no big deal. He liked the night.

Days passed and sick leave burned. He didn't really like that job anyway. He was looking for one when he found it. There was some money in the bank, and his bills were few. He could do without a paycheck for a while. He didn't need a job right now. What he needed was time, time away from all of those people, a little time alone to sort things out, and some time to think.

The phone stayed off the hook. He'd have it taken out if he didn't need it to order food. If he hung it up his mom would call. She was worried. What a shock. She had been worrying about him for the last forty-one years, and he was certain she had worried about something else the thirty years before that. Don't worry mom, everything is just peachy keen. The kid next door goes to the store for a nominal fee. He gets to smoke his crack, and leaving the house is no longer a necessity. It's a win-win situation.

He makes his home in the den on the couch in front of the good TV. The kitchen is to the left, and the bathroom is to the right. He closes off the rest of the house, and lowers the blinds on the outside world. Sleep is no longer an issue. He tells the time by what's on TV. He hasn't had a woman in six weeks, and he doesn't care. The routine is developed. In ten weeks, his life has evolved to this. Oddly enough, he's happy, or at least content. The 2:00 AM Law & Order is coming on A&E as he gets up to go take a whiz. As he flushes, he cusses where he pissed in the floor, and grabs a look in the minor on the way by. He stops and stares in disbelief at the empty glass before his eyes. In a panic, he runs to the den to find himself sleeping on the couch in front of the TV. He breathes a sigh of relief. There's a gasp for air, and a feeling of falling as he awakens on the couch. Sam is on the TV screen demanding that this rapist not go unpunished. He feels the need to urinate, and is relieved to know that he hasn't pissed on the couch during that bizarre dream.

He slowly gets up off the couch and slaps his own face, twice to make sure he's awake. He hears a noise in the bathroom. It sounds like someone is walking around in there. He heads toward the noise, not hurriedly though. He is a big believer in the idea that fools rush in. The bathroom light stays on 24/7. This is a long-standing rule that he is currently glad that he's followed. A quick look proves the bathroom to be empty. The noisemaker has vanished. He is focused on the closet door that is between him and the only potential hiding place in the room. He notices movement from the other side of the room. The old eyes can play tricks on you can't they? For a second he thought he saw the toe of a shoe disappearing into the mirror. OK. Get a grip. Focus on the problem, which is currently the unopened closet door. He takes a deep breath and marches straight to the closet. He yanks the door open and is greeted by towels, washcloths, and other harmless objects. He turns to have good laugh at himself in the mirror. He sees what he is almost certain is the back of his own head. He no longer needs to go to the bathroom. He has pissed all over himself as he is fainting and hitting the cold tile floor.

Being unconscious for ten hours may not qualify as sleep, but it has helped tremendously. His brain and the mirror are now both working properly, or so it seems. He is studying the reflection of a cut above his left eye. Evidently, his head caught the sink on the way to the floor. It must have been a glancing blow. The injury was not bad, but somewhat painful. The thought of food comes to mind. He realizes he's hungry and heads for the kitchen. Two turkey sandwiches and a box of pizza rolls seem to do the trick. Well, that is when you throw in three canned cokes and five cigarettes. Ah, the breakfast of champions. He punches in an all news channel, and is taken away by some execution story. Evidently, there is a large group of people concerned about hanging Chad. Jesus! Do they still hang people? Once he realizes that it's actually election coverage, the channel changes. Who gives a rat's ass which crook they put in office? He searches for something entertaining, like Mister Ed. While channel surfing he notices something odd. The kitchen is on the right, and the bathroom is on the left. Uncertain of the severity of his head injury, he wonders if his memory is wrong or his perception is blurred. But he is sure of one thing. Everything he sees is backwards from the way he remembers it.

This new phenomenon proves impossible to ignore. He opens up the rest of the house, and discovers everything is backwards. He looks out the window, and the crack head's house is on the wrong side. This is crazy. It has to be a dream. He slaps himself in the face, and winces at the pain from the cut above his right eye. Pardon the pun, but the right eye's the wrong eye. All of this shit started at the bathroom mirror. Retracing his steps seems logical. He returns to the bathroom. Staring into the mirror, he is confused. Once again, he is certain he is seeing the back of his own head. There has to be a way to figure this out. An idea strikes him. He turns and opens the closet. There, below a jumbo pack of off brand TP, he digs out a hand mirror. He peers into it only to see the back of his head. He turns back to the bathroom mirror, and again sees the back of his head. He turns his back to the mirror, and holds up the hand mirror the way he used to check for bald spots. Aha! You must get up pretty early to out smart this old boy. There in the hand mirror he saw the reflection of the back of his head, but he saw the reflection of the bathroom mirror as well. In the bathroom mirror, he saw his face. He saw his outstretched arm holding the hand mirror. No, it wasn't holding a mirror, it was reaching for something. It was reaching for … He felt the hand grab his throat and pull him into the mirror. Then there was only silent darkness.

Our friend woke up, and everything was fine. He actually hasn't had any trouble sleeping. He has totally overcome his fear of leaving a room, or even going outside. This is really amazing since he still sees his attacker often. He sees him every time he looks in the bathroom mirror. You see, one wanted to get out, and one wanted to stay in. It's another win-win situation.

2. Or Best Offer

It is a dangerous time to be alive. I'm not sure what that is supposed to mean. Would it be a better time to be dead? Given the option, most of us choose alive at least 90% of the time. Hasn't it always been this dangerous; or maybe even worse? In the sixties we worried about nuclear missiles. We used to get under our wooden school desks to protect us from atomic bombs, and we say what they are telling our children today is bullshit. Well, it is bullshit, but it was bullshit then too. I doubt that anyone in a teaching position during my lifetime has even known the truth, much less attempted to teach it. I'm not here to pick on teachers. None of us know the truth. It is kept from us and we are hand fed the propaganda that they want us to believe. Who are they anyway? Are we sure that they even know the truth anymore? Most likely they have drank their own Kool Aid somewhere along the way, and are as lost as the rest of us. That would mean that the people driving the bus don't even have a map. That is not good, because this is a very treacherous section of road that we are on. A very wise man once said something about the blind leading the blind, and I believe there was a ditch involved. This ditch looks like the Grand Canyon, which brings me back to my opening statement. It is a dangerous time to be alive.

After perusing Craigslist for a couple of hours, Marty decided to give it a rest for a bit. He needed to get something to eat, and watching TV didn't seem to