Deadly Short Stories

By Carl S. Plumer

Welcome to the universe of Carl S. Plumer. . .
. . . in which a young man contemplates the end of his short life at his birthday party. A depraved assassin considers one final act of goodness. Four brothers come to grips with the deadly consequences of losing their mother’s ashes. And a husband discovers too late that he’s been cuckolded by an Elvis impersonator.
Enjoy short stories and flash fiction of what can only be described as “Carl S. Plumer’s universe.” Unlike anything you may have read before, the stories herein are sometimes funny, many times horrendous, but always compassionate.
This collection of stories by Carl S. Plumer includes a special bonus:  “Contemporary Interpretations of Minute Mysteries.” It’s the first story Mr. Plumer ever told. And it’s a strange one, indeed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Someday Press
• Release date: Apr 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780988366978

Carl S. Plumer

CARL S. PLUMER was born in New York City, holds advanced degrees in writing, and has spent his life surrounded by words. He's delivered newspapers, worked at a printing press, managed a bookstore, taught writing, wrote for literary magazines, published technical and fiction books, and has always considered himself a writer. His first novel, Mad About Undead You, was an Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Quarterfinalist and a National Indie Excellence Award Finalist.

Book preview

A Note From the Author

I WON’T KEEP YOU, AS I KNOW you are probably eager to get to the stories. I just wanted to give you a quick background on how these tales came to be.

Short stories are a challenge all their own, a different challenge than long fiction. It’s about getting the plot and the mood down in as few words as possible. Capture a moment in a character’s life, a glimpse of a scene, and hope it resonates, seems real, and makes you reflect. More than that, makes you feel something.

A set of these tales were written strict to form as part of my experiment with a format called, flash fiction. Basically, this type of fiction involves telling a tale in under a thousand words, sometimes way under, as in only a hundred words.

100% Barney, Rat Trap, and Layers are all examples of a shorter (but not the shortest) form of flash fiction. Urban Jungle Boy and Things That Happened on My Last Birthday are examples of longer flash fiction.

The flash fiction stories in this collection were created with guidance and instruction of Pamelyn Casto. If you’re interested in learning how to write this way, participate in one of her classes. She is the first, the best, and the original when it comes to the art of flash fiction.

Some of these tales were the fruit of a single sitting; others, such as the longer ones, involved writing sessions over many days while the story grew out of my head and heart and into the real world.

I hope you enjoy the stories herein inscribed. I continue to write more of these short tales as I receive inspiration—which is why I foresee a Deadly Short Stories: Vol. 2 in the future.

Big Foot

EULOGY

HE WEREN’T GOING TO HAVE HIS LIFE stomped out by no big foot, said the one in the black plaid Goodwill suit, as he winged a shriveled rose down onto the coffin.

No, sir, he weren’t going to have his life stomped out by no size 170½ shoe, said the next, sprinkling dirt clumps into the grave. He weren’t going to; he wouldn’t have it. Lightning flashed across the cityscape behind them.

No matter which muthafuckin’ magazine editor’s size 170½ shoe was crushin’ the very life out of him, said the mystery girl, mascara running down her cheeks as thunder played drums across the coroner gray sky. The song of exultation in his black heart could not be snuffed out by no angry big foot. Charles Mansen, we hardly knew ya. . .

HISTORY

Given the name Charles Mansen by his folks as a grim joke (the Mansen part was for real, the Charles part unforgivable), Charles Mansen had put up with some serious ocean waves of shit in his young life.

It’s spelled with an ‘-e-n’! he’d shout as he fell, punches and kicks sending him to the ground.

But like the original Charles Manson’s gift for song, this Charles Mansen had a gift for pressing down onto paper little stories that meant a lot.

At least to young Charles Mansen. So he’d write them up, crazed little tales of mayhem, slaughter, and ritual torture, and shoot them off across the Internet like poison darts. Hoping for publication, but never seeing any. Every night, a new story, a new dart, and by daylight, another mocking (or perhaps distracted) rejection. This, Charles Mansen found tedious.

Sticky Dee, his girlfriend of fifteen months and three weeks, found it more than tedious. She found it repulsive. When she discovered Charlie’s stories on his hard drive—of maiming, torture, and rape—she could only think this: What a monster. She made plans to leave him while fearing for her life and packing her things surreptitiously.All the while, Charlie Mansen (the unfamous one) continued to just write, churning out one ghastly story after another, and pissing them into the gutter of the Internet, only to find them all flushed back at him in time, usually quick time.

So, um, Charlie, said Sticky Dee, who had never heard of the notorious Charles Manson, so that was never a problem. Like, what the fuck?

No, said Charlie. I don’t know.

Like, said Sticky Dee, what’s with all of these fuckin’ stories, anyway?

You been reading my stories? Charlie screamed, raising his hand to her.

She flinched, took a step back. No, Charlie, don’t . . .

He lowered his hand. Don’t what?

Sticky left that evening, standing briefly at the corner as the bus puffed to a stop. She looked up at Charlie Mansen’s bedroom window, knowing he had already composed another story and was trying to inject its fever