A Thousand Hearts: Short Story and Poem Anthology

By JM Robison

*If only he had one more heart to give...

*What happened to those days where your worth was proven by the strength of your arm and not by the inner office dramatics of whose turn it was to brew the coffee?...

*A new AC unit ran about $1000, but the 2003 hunk-a-junk only scored a worth of $500 even with a tank full of gas. The best he could do was sell it for a laugh. Or donate it to a charity for the poor. Which means he'd end up back with it when he went looking for his next car....

*I'm usually not this irritated with my boyfriend, but that violin cry just over the freaking wall has my nerves stretched as if the violin bow is sliding over them like strings...

This is a short story and poem anthology encompassing the genres of fantasy, horror, humor, contemporary, and religious. Discover more about me as an author at jmrobison.com.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JM Robison
• Release date: Sep 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370307708

JM Robison

Hello book worms! Unless you prefer book dragon? I am J.M. Robison. I write fantasy books where heroes don't follow the rules.FUN FACT: I joined the U.S. Army at 17 with the sole goal in mind to learn how to write battle scenes realistically and experience different cultures to add variety to my world building and characters (to date I have visited Italy, Germany, Romania, Bulgaria, Afghanistan, Qatar, U.A.E., and Kuwait.)PERSONALITY: Introverts unite! Separately, of course.WHAT I LIKE: reading! Because you should never trust an author who does not also read. I crochet. I strive to be chemical-free so I make my own body and household products which are cheap and non-toxic (shampoo, laundry soap, toothpaste, face cleaner, face moisturizer). I love mountain biking and camping. And video games! I'm on discord: Evermore#3394. Recently I started barefoot running...and I love it!WHAT I WANT: Going to become a hermit when I retire. Like, legit live in the mountains hunting, gathering, and building lean-tos.

Book preview

A THOUSAND HEARTS

A SHORT STORY & POEM ANTHOLOGY

By J.M. Robison

Author Copyright 2017 J.M. Robison

Cover Art: By J.M. Robison

Editor: J.M. Robison

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ABOUT THIS ANTHOLOGY

This is a collection of short stories and poems by J.M. Robison. They include the genres of horror, fantasy, thriller, contemporary, religious, and humor.

CONNECT WITH J.M. ROBISON

Website: jmrobison.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

SHORT STORIES

Træ Sko

Pakistan Interrupted

A Thousand Hearts

Mother’s Mirror

A Lawyered Mercenary

First Dance

POEMS

The Night Before Easter

The Warrior

Don’t Pick Your Nose

A Mother’s Lullaby

Message In A Bottle

Our Humble Bathroom

Santa’s Giving List

Contradox

Hey Grandma

To Fly To Time Beyond Your Reach

The Fiddle And The Boar

EXTRAS

The Hero’s Story, screenplay, humor

The War Queen, first chapter

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

TRÆ SKO

(horror)

AUTHOR NOTE:

This short story was written with the intent to follow the writing prompt given which was: A happy horror story with a wooden shoe. Plot being a fight between two people for one open job position.

I chew the back of the pen. A bad habit, I'm aware, because this pen is used by everyone and I know at least one other person in this department shares my habit. With the same pen. I feel remarkably detached from the possibility that I might catch something, and it has nothing to do with the reassurance that I’ve had my flu shot this year.

Andre Fearonce walks into my office. He leans against the doorframe and sips on his coffee loud enough I hear it burble over his tongue. I breath in. Out. In. Chew on the back of my pen.

How go the reports? he asks.

I hunch my shoulders to stifle the wave of cringes popping up and down my back. Fine. Single word responses are best. Any more than that and too many words will link together to form phrases that will make his French ancestors spring to life just to wave the white flag of retreat.

Need some help? I’ve already turned mine in.

It’s not Christian to hate Andre just because we’re both up for manager position that holds only one of us. Phillip pitting us together for the may the best man win battle royal, and my only weapons are office politics and breakroom bravado. Thrown in a Gladiator ring against Andre with nothing but my boxer shorts and sword would have been easier.

More manly too, with my wife watching on and ogling at my naked arms that haven’t seen the gym in two years. What happened to those days where your worth was proven by the strength of your arm and not by the inner office dramatics of whose turn it was to brew the coffee?

I’ve got it. Thanks. Too many words together.

My brusque responses where I didn’t turn around once clearly alerted Andre that I don’t want to talk to him. He leaves without another word. He’s smart, Andre. But he stands in my way for an extra thirty thousand a year. I wish Andre showed hostility toward me. I can deal with open hostility far easier than silent plotting.

I wrap up my report and dump it in Phillip’s box on my way out of the office.

Andre has me riled, though his greatest offense was stand in the doorway with his atrocious coffee imported from France. The man’s never been to Europe. His ancestors came to America two hundred years ago yet he seems to still have some affiliation with France despite he doesn’t even speak the language.

Enough about Andre. No need to bring him home with me. My heavy diesel chugs to life. I’m determined to leave work at work. I need to change my focus. My wife. Her smile always brightens my day. I need that right now.

I pull into Aromatics & Antiques. The truck shudders as I kill the engine. I jam the keys in my pocket and walk inside under the dingle of a bell. Ancient relics from other parts of the known world vie for attention to my left and right. It smells of wood and ancient things. Amber’s big into collecting such things not relevant to America. The further away and deeper underground it was found, the better.

Nobody else is in the store. Not even the store owner, apparently, as he is not at his counter.

I’ve no idea what to look for. I’ve come in with Amber who’s browsed the shelves as if looking for something specific, though ends up walking out with an African flute or an arrow head claimed to have come from the Middle Ages. If she has a method to what she buys, I can’t see it.

The floor creaks and I turn to see the store manager coming out of his office on crutches. He’s missing his right foot. Has he always been missing his right foot? He’s always been sitting when me and Amber have come it.

He hurries up his pace to get behind his counter.

He-hello. He smiles. Sweat beads on his forehead. Can I help you find something?

I don’t know. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. Just a surprise for my wife.

Oh, she’ll love this. He grabs a wooden shoe and sets it on the glass table top with a concerning thwack. From Denmark. Got it three days ago.

Just the one? Don’t shoes come in two’s?

Just the one. It’s a very old shoe. Dug up when they were plowing a field, so they told me. Anyway, it’s a beauty, isn’t it?

Sure. I take it from him. It’s small, likely for a child. Completely made of wood. Remnants of a blue paint cling in the dry cracks. I’m not sure what Amber will think of it as-is, but she could re-paint it herself if she feels so inclined. Wanting to get home and relax before I battle with Andre tomorrow, I pull out my wallet. How much?

The man releases a breath I didn’t realize he was holding. Two-two dollars.

He seems more jittery than I remember. But then I’ve never spoken to him before. Amber’s always been the one to exchange money with him. The owner thrusts my change at me. I take it and he grins wildly. All sales are finale.

K. I scoop the shoe off the counter and walk out, certain his gaze follows me.

I breathe easier back in my truck. I’ll pick Amber up a rose next time. This store made me more nervous than walking into Victorian Secrets.

I’ve forgotten about Andre