Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, vol. 2

By Mike Bozart

[[||]] ... from the [virtual] inside flap ...
All thirty-nine short stories from calendar year 2016 are gathered in this digital collection. Just like Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, Volume 1, these little tales run the gamut from the maniacally meta-real to the sometimes surreal to the oddly ordinary. Most fall between 1,300 and 2,500 words, with 1,700 words being the average run (perfect for the coffee/tea break or the train/bus/ferry commute).
The two primary characters in these tales of extricated intrigue are Agents 32 and 33 of a nebulous entity (which has an interactive Facebook page) known as psecret psociety (yes, with silent p’s). Agent 33 is the author (Parkaar) and Agent 32 is the author’s very-much-involved wife (Monique).
So, if you find yourself in need of some interesting (or at least different) reading material to fill those ten-to-fifteen-minute gaps in your earthly day, this may very well be your ticket to slide ... into knowhere. [sic]
Moreover, may the mirth lay with yew for an oddly spun pun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Bozart
• Release date: Mar 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370537228

Mike Bozart

Mike Bozart was born in the tidewater area of Virginia (US Navy kid) on a hot afternoon in 1964. He attended a mix of public and Catholic grade schools. After graduating with an Earth Science degree from UNC-Charlotte in 1986, he started doing safety technical writing.Former residences in North Carolina include Raleigh, Greensboro, Wilmington, Carolina Beach, Etowah and Asheville. Charlotte is his current residence. He has also lived in downtown San Francisco (early '90s).Mike has written numerous surreal poem-stories and over a dozen 1500-word quasi-real short stories under the psecret psociety heading. Gold, his first novel, was rough-drafted in just 27 days during a seven-week period (May 23 – July 11, 2013).Mike's first novella was To Morrow Tomorrow (2014); his second was Mysterieau of San Francisco (2015).Mike does artwork under the nom de brosse of m. van tryke.The author is happily remarried (Sharon) with a son (Kirk).

Book preview

[[||]] … from the [virtual] inside flap …

All thirty-nine short stories from calendar year 2016 are gathered in this digital collection. Just like Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, Volume 1, these little tales run the gamut from the maniacally meta-real to the sometimes surreal to the oddly ordinary. Most fall between 1,300 and 2,500 words, with 1,700 words being the average run (perfect for the coffee/tea break or the train/bus/ferry commute).

The two primary characters in these tales of extricated intrigue are Agents 32 and 33 of a nebulous entity (which has an interactive Facebook page) known as psecret psociety (yes, with silent p’s). Agent 33 is the author (Parkaar) and Agent 32 is the author’s very-much-involved wife (Monique).

So, if you find yourself in need of some interesting (or at least different) reading material to fill those ten-to-fifteen-minute gaps in your earthly day, this may very well be your ticket to slide … into knowhere. [sic]

Moreover, may the mirth lay with yew for an oddly spun pun.

The last time was once the next time … and so much for this time.

– Galerie Parcouer

Psecret psociety pshort pstories

Vol. II (2016)

by Mike Bozart

3-SW Edition

© 2017 Mike Bozart, all rights reserved

And now for some somber legalese … [Yes, I heard that yawn.]

First and foremost, this collection of short stories is a volume of fiction, and is not an entirely factual account of any slice of the space-time continuum on Earth or anywhere else. Names, characters, places, events, incidents, and situations are either the product of the author’s warped imagination or are used in a purely and wholly fictitious fashion. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or their otherworldly spirits, or any locales or proprietary objects, is entirely, and without exception, coincidental.

cover art by M. van Tryke

This collection of tales

is dedicated to those

of you who pause

to flagrantly wonder

on the outdoor scene

through a dirty window

as a lone leaf

f

a

l

l

s

~{~

Table of Contents

Cover

Inside flap

Title page

Disclaimer

Dedication

Foreword

Preface

Acknowledgments

Epigraph

About the Author

1. On the Gold Line

2. A Novella Idea

3. Powerballed

4. The Vault

5. The Mound

6. An April Fools’ Day

7. High Peak Revisited

8. Chimney Rocked

9. Uber and Under

10. RíRá Ruckus

11. The Pea

12. Common Dogs

13. Air Shafted

14. Strange Lady of the Woods

15. Waterfall Horror

16. The Well

17. The PKG

18. Channelling Kate Logue

19. Neutral Buoyancy

20. The Paper Route

21. Jane’s Final Piece

22. A Spring Hike

23. An Autumn Hike

24. A Winter Hike

25. A Summer Hike

26. 21 Park Place

27. Glen Park Girl

28. Fern Park Man

29. An Orlando Saturday

30. Memories of Malloy

31. Ball in the Creek

32. Slurpee Man

33. Tewahedo Woman

34. 10 Degrees at Random

35. PhragMeant

36. Drama and Kale

37. Tiki Wiki

38. Failed to Ignite

39. Eureka!

Foreword

So, now another collection of weird-ass short stories has arrived in my Gmail inbox. Lovely. Just what I needed – more clutter. I was really hoping that Mike would stop after the previous installment. [Volume 1] I mean, why dig a deeper moat around an abandoned house of forgotten cards? (Yeah, I bet he uses that line in a story.)

Well, our scribe really has no sense of what people like to read nowadays. Mike claims that he’s filling a niche of a niche (playing to an audience of a dozen, I bet). But, oh boy, it’s all just oh-so- hopelessly out of step with the times. Yes, I told him to do more media-tie-in pieces, but, I digress (and hopefully can digest).

It was during a late February snowstorm that I went ahead and read them. All of them. Groan. There were times when I wanted to slap him back to his senses. The puns, suspected thoughts, improbable inferences, stilted conversation, and overall suspicion of words grew almost tiresome. Well, almost. He kept me reading all the way through no. 39. Now, I am demanding a refund. I was had. Fooled. Fell into his open-pit, poorly guarded ruse. And, what’s worse, these strange vignettes have stained my brain. You see, I can’t un-remember what I read. I suspect it was intended. Bastard!

What is the subject matter you ask? Well, once again, most of them are rambling travel pieces with his wife, who he still insists on calling Monique (her code name) for some unbeknownst reason. And, why he needs to be called Parkaar is beyond me. It’s nuts.

Oh, and another thing: This psecret psociety gimmick is still in full force – or full farce. (I just had a nice chuckle.) The addressing of each other as Agent 32 and Agent 33 in public settings continues ad nauseam. I mean, really? That gag got old five years ago. Stop! What’s more, if these are the stories of a genuine secret society, why is he publishing them for all of the internet to read? It really makes no sense. But, who’s counting anymore? Certainly not me.

– Herman S. Goetze [Taos, New Mexico, USA]

Preface

Short stories. Poems expanded. Novels reduced and miniaturized. Succinct structures that spare the author’s blitheful blathering (if we’re lucky, maybe not). Perfectly sized literary vessels for this hectic, not-much-time-to-spare modern world. Oh, wait, my cell phone is beeping again.

Yes, I love the 1500-meter race. I mean, the 1500-word pace. It’s a nice distance. A nice section of the stream.

I really do enjoy composing them so that every word fits just right. An economy of tale. Ok, maybe there are a few misshapen clunkers. And, maybe I leave out just one piece of the puzzle and claim that the forever-staring-at-me bird took it. I just know that you will find it … and place it into your own teeming morpheme tapestry. It’s looking good so far.

These 39 short stories were posted online on various websites, completely independent of each other. Thus, some characters are explained in brackets and parentheses over and over (e.g., Parkaar, my ailing alias). I’m so very sorry about that repetition (as Herman Goetze has sorely noted).

Volume 1 comprised six years of short stories, spanning from 2010 through 2015. Volume 2 was filled in just one year: 2016. The Dell desktop keyboard was quite active those twelve months. The space bar’s spring has lost some.

I hope you enjoy some/most/all of them, and I surreally hope they spark some dormant neurons in your brain. Maybe a life-changing/money-harvesting idea emerges. Or, maybe a quarter-hour disappears from the clock. Win, lose or draw.

Acknowledgments

The author would like to thank his co-conspiratorial wife, code name Monique, for partaking in – and greatly expanding – these meta-real tales.

All appeared to be ho-hum, dumbly dumb-dumb …

1. On the Gold Line (Jan. 2016)

It was a snowy Sunday morning, the 17th of January 2016, which found Monique (Agent 32) and me (Agent 33) at the CATS (Charlotte Area Transit System) Gold Line’s eastern terminus on Hawthorne Lane at East 5th Street. It was 9:12 AM in the inner eastside neighborhood of Elizabeth. We were the only ones waiting under the plexiglass-covered shelter.

Well, Monique, the green trolley dog should be here in less than three minutes, I announced.

Green trolley dog! she exclaimed. That’s so funny, Parkaar. [my ailing alias] She then looked at my hands. You forgot your gloves, didn’t you, 33?

I did, but I remembered my digital audio recorder! I’ll be ok. Thirty-six Fahrenheit [2.22º Celsius] is not that bad. And, anyway, the snow and sleet is forecasted to end by 11 AM.

Just then we spotted old streetcar no. 91 turning onto Hawthorne from Elizabeth Avenue. It slowly closed in on the berth. Once stopped, the front and rear doors opened. We hopped up the front steps and sat in the middle of the electrically powered trolley. Ah, nice and warm in here.

The middle-age African American male driver was talking to two older white men – the only passengers who didn’t get off – who were sitting in the front bench seats. One was on the far left; the other, far right.

I can deal with the one or two snow events a winter down here, the trolley operator said from his front and center position. No, I don’t miss Buffalo [NY, USA] in January at all. You can have that four feet [1.3 meters] of lake-effect snow.

Monique wondered aloud: What is lake-effect snow?

I’ll tell you later, asawa. [wife in Filipino]

The older of the two white guys (on the left side), who had pony-tailed gray hair, just nodded.

The guy in front of us on the right side of the trolley then spoke up. I don’t miss those winters in Brooklyn, either. Nope.

Snow is just a novelty down here, I interjected, launching myself into their conversation as the vintage streetcar took off in a herky-jerky manner. My dad was born and raised in Brooklyn. He doesn’t miss it, either.

Oh, whereabouts in Brooklyn? the passenger in front of us, who also had gray hair, but shorter than the other fellow, quickly asked.

Avenue D – East Flatbush, I said.

Oh, yeah, I know that area well, the man in front of us said as the trolley rounded the curve onto Elizabeth Avenue.

I looked straight ahead through the windshield. Well, Monique, there’s where we’re headed. It’s now a straight shot to uptown. The Charlotte skyline was shrouded in low, gray clouds, interspersed with snow squalls.

The man in front of us heard my comment to Monique. He looked back at us. Are you guys going to the Panthers-Seahawks game by chance? Only by a lucky chance.

No, we’re just going to RíRá to watch the Liverpool – Man United match, and then we’ll watch the Panthers game in another sports bar, Monique explained.

We had Liverpool T-shirts on over our sweaters. Monique had an LFC beanie on and a Liverpool FC backpack in her lap (which had Panthers shirts inside for a changeover at 11:00 AM). The man studied these items.

RíRá? he asked.

It’s an Irish bar on North Tryon near 5th Street, I said. It’s the official Liverpool FC bar in Charlotte. They show all of their games. It’s a fun crowd.

So, you guys like both kinds of football? He smiled at us.

Yes, we most certainly do, Monique said. We root for the Reds and the Panthers.

The Reds? Cincinnati? He seemed honestly confused.

No, the Reds are the nickname for Liverpool’s soccer team, I told him. Though, I loved the Big Red Machine in the ‘70s.

And, LFC stands for Liverpool Football Club, Monique said as she pointed to the front of her red beanie.

I see. You learn something new every day. Soccer is really growing in popularity in this country.

Are you going to the Panthers game? Monique asked as the streetcar clanged to a stop at Charlottetowne Avenue.

Me? Ha! I wish. I’m just hoping to link up with a guy so that I can watch it at his house.

I see, Monique said.

We’d love to be in Bank of America Stadium at one o’clock, I said. "But, those ticket prices are way too rich for our blood. We is [sic] just plebs."

Yeah, no doubt. Playoffs are for the well-heeled patricians.

Or, the lucky, Monique tacked on. Winners of tickets.

The conversation ceased as the trolley went by CPCC (Central Piedmont Community College) and crossed Kings Drive. I watched the overhead bare wires as we passed under I-277 and noticed the yellow warning signs. High voltage. 600 volts of direct current, I think. That sure would warm up one’s chilly body.

The streetcar then stopped at McDowell Street for a red light. I looked to the left, spying the Mecklenburg County Courthouse. There’s that focking [sic] edifice that’s been the bane of my recent existence. I could have more time with my son, much more time, if it wasn’t for their crooked system. That worthless, immoral lawyer is probably giving that corrupt judge kickbacks. Ah, my son will chose to live with me very soon. He hates the witch’s new live-in boyfriend. Just a matter of time. Just be patient.

Suddenly my raging reverie was broken by the trolley stopping at Davidson Street. The man in front of us looked back at us again. He sneezed and wiped his nose with an old white handkerchief.

Sorry about that, he said. I’m having a hard time shaking this cold.

Same with me, Monique said.

What’s your name? I asked.

John, he said as he looked at his small cell phone and shook his head. Not looking good for the game.

Is your buddy ducking your calls? I asked.

Not sure. Maybe he’s hungover and not awake yet. I gave up the drink three months ago. I had to. I was headed for the grave.

Hey, more power to you, I said with genuine encouragement.

I don’t miss it that much. I just sip iced tea now. The next morning is a lot easier.

I hear ya, man, I added.

The streetcar crossed Brevard Street and came to a stop at its uptown terminus, which was between the CTC (Charlotte Transit Center) and Time Warner Cable Arena (where the NBA Hornets play). The stop was at a median in the middle of the street. We all rose to get off the trolley.

It’s been nice talking with you, John, I said.

Likewise, he said.

Where will you watch the game if you can’t link up with your pal? I asked.

Yeah, which sports bar is your backup plan, John? Monique quickly asked before John could answer.

Uh, no money for any sports bar, John said and then sighed. I’m homeless, he quietly announced as he wiped his nose again. I just hope that they will show the game at the shelter.

Neither Monique nor I said anything as we all got off the streetcar. Just silence chopped up by footsteps.

John and his buddy headed for the CTC and we walked towards the arena, en route to RíRá.

John didn’t look homeless, Monique said to me as we crossed the light-rail tracks at 5th Street.

No, he didn’t, I replied as we headed towards College Street as the snow picked up in intensity.

I guess you just never know.

No, you really don’t, Monique.

I wonder what his story is, 33. I just know that he has the recorder on.

Well, soon part of his story will be made public, 32.

What do you mean, 33?

His snowy Sunday morning ride on the Gold Line. I’ll write it up later at the office.

And, what are the chances of John ever seeing that short story, Parkaar?

Oh, maybe one in a million, Agent 32.

We should have got his full name and contact info.

I don’t know, Monique. I think most homeless people don’t want to be bothered. I think they prefer to lie low in anonymity.

But, what about that guy with the smooth radio voice. He became famous. He struck gold!

Yeah, I know.

Then we heard a shout from a car window as we walked under the public library overhang to stay out of the snow: Fuck Liverpool! Ah, a United fan.

2. A Novella Idea (Feb. 2016)

It was a cold, overcast, foreboding February day with an occasional fluttering snowflake at the midtown Charlotte (NC, USA) office when I got a text from an unsaved New York City phone number.

Any ideas for my next screenplay?

I was smartly dumbfounded and paused to consider the source. Who in this wacky world could this be? Wait … ideas ... screenplay. That must be Al Niño [Agent A~O] Yeah, it’s got to be him. He must have a new number.

I texted him back.

Screenplay ideas? Why yes, Al, as a matter of fact I do have a few novel notions clanking around in the old cranatorium. [sic]

He texted back just one minute later.

Cranatorium. Ha. You crack me up with your neologisms, Michael. [He insists on calling me Michael for annoyance reasons.] Let me guess, Michael, you’re writing a novel about an insane asylum.

I returned textual fire two minutes later.

Close, but no green cigar, Al. No, it’s a novella involving sex robots.

Five minutes went by. No reply from Al. Maybe he thinks that I’ve totally lost it and doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore. He’s living the good life now, jet-setting between New York and L.A. If I were him, would I want to get entangled in my nonsense? Probably not.

Then, twelve minutes later, he replied.

Sex robots? Well, I must admit, M. van Tryke, [my nickname and art-name] you completely lost me there. But, please do expound on the interface.

I paused to ponder his text. On the interface? Does he want graphic details about the robots’ genitalia?

Al, it’s set in the year 2080. All of the sex robots are just like humans. They’re very advanced. Anatomically identical. No plastic holes or lead pipes.

Three minutes later, Al’s reply popped up on my small smartphone’s screen.

Lead pipes? Michael, we’re already way beyond metal Frankendongs. [sic] Have you been in a sex shop lately?

I looked out my left window as a lone, tiny ice crystal swirled around in the air, and then disappeared when it contacted the asphalt parking lot. I composed a reply to Al.

Yes, Monique [Agent 32] and I were in one last November. You know, for research reasons. Well, let’s just say that the latex-hybrid creations 64 years from now are much truer to human actuality.

Al’s rejoinder was immediate.

Can I call you now, sex-robot-man?

Wait ten minutes, Al.

Why, still cleaning up?

Very funny, Al. Hardy-har-har-har. No, the boss will be gone then.

Al then called sixteen minutes later.

So, sex robots, Michael, Al said teasingly. Does Monique allow you to have one? Do you guys have threesomes with it – or her?

Always the comedian. Always a zinger. No letup. And, no, we don’t own a sex robot, Al.

Well, how does a novella revolving around sex robots get into your head, my dear friend named Michael? This Michael stuff is already getting really old. But, I’m not going to let him know that it is grating on me.

Al, I got the idea while watching a news report on CNN last October. Malaysia was banning sex robot conventions.

They actually have sex robot conventions?

Apparently so.

Do prospective buyers get to try them out for free?

I have no idea, Al. I’ve never been to one.

Oh, you can tell me, Michael. I won’t tell anyone.

"No, I haven’t been to one yet. Is that adverb good enough for you, Al?"

Carry on.

After seeing the news report, I did some research online. Some of these higher-end sex robots are already up to the manikin level in appearance. I image that in six decades, with such rapid technological advances and tactile improvements, they will be hard to tell from humans. It will be a very strange world. Maybe very isolated.

"I see where this is going. I sniffed your angle out, Michael. We will find out if most men are content with just an artificial female. Is that it? Is that the thrust of it?" He laughed.

"No, Al, that’s an angle for your book. Remember that one you promised to write, All You Need to Know about Women: A Guide for the Single Guy. And, how far have you gotten on it, if I might ask?"

"It’s been tabled

Reviews for Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, vol. 2

[Aaliyah Phillips · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

THIS MAN HAS CHILD PORN AND IS A PERVERT HE IS RUDE AND DSIGUSTING CANCEL THIS MAN