Relief Stories for a Nine Inning Game

By Richard Silverman

An eclectic mix of high-brow and low-brow cliffhangers with everything from extraterrestrials to an extramarital affair, Matzah to mayhem, bluster to fluster and everything in between.

Of general interest and suitable for everybody and anybody regardless of age, race, religion ethnic background, gender and weather.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Silverman
• Release date: Apr 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781946775535

Richard Silverman

This is Richard Silverman's first book. He always thought it was easier to speak through a 3rd (4th) person. They have to do what I tell them to do. He just felt the need to write this story. Often, he found the story played out in his mind before giving pen to paper. He has been writing on and off for twenty, maybe thirty years. The irony of is that he was never a good student in English. He was always behind and never really could focus on grammar, spelling or story content. But for some reason he found he could focus on what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it. To Richard, the most important aspect of his stories are that they are all original. To have an original idea and carry it through to completion is his goal. While he understands that writing can be a passion it is also difficult at times. When he reaches those points, he approaches the problem with a "Keep that pen moving and edit later" attitude. Richard was born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio and plans on staying there forever.

Book preview

THE PLEBEIANS

Once upon a time in a distant land there was a castle with a city right next to it. One day a great conflict came and swept all the people out of the city and destroyed all the houses. The only thing left was the castle.

The castle was high on a hilltop above the city. It was like a big brother to the city. But today the castle was deserted. There was not one person in the castle. All there was to this castle was the sound of the wind coming through a window, whistling down the long corridors, and then out another window at the other end.

Everything of value that wasn’t nailed down was gone, taken in a flash—stolen even. Everything but what was left on a stone table in the main hall.

On one side of this stone table lay a pen in a dried inkwell and a sword. On the other side of this stone table lay a pool of blood and a book filled with empty, blank pages.

Just then, as the wind came through the castle, it gave voice to these four objects.

What happened? the pen could barely say.

It’s over now. Everything is quiet now, the sword responded.

But what happened? the pen asked again.

They came through and ransacked our city and killed those who wouldn’t leave! the blood yelled. They, the people on the other side of the river, the ones who left with everything!

The sword then spoke with a steely edge. They only came to get back what was theirs to begin with. If everybody had cooperated, nobody would have gotten hurt. It’s only when your side fought back that they got hurt. They should have given us what we wanted and we would have left peacefully.

You came to conquer, to take whatever you wanted, to steal everything we had. How could we not fight back? To defend what we had, against you? How absurd of you to say that, the blood responded.

We’re not going to get anywhere by arguing. Let’s try to figure out what happened, the pen shot in.

The book then spoke in a quiet tone, Let’s go over what happened here. The people from the other side of the river came here and killed people and took things back with them to the other side.

Murdered and stole! shouted the blood.

Reclaimed and defended themselves! interjected the sword.

Quiet, quiet. We know what happened. People were killed and property was taken. But what started it? Who did what? the book questioned.

They started it. They came over and not just killed us, but murdered us, lots of us, in cold blood, for no reason, said the blood.

We didn’t start it, they started by attacking first and taking our belongings before. And we lost people, too. So, it wasn’t just your side that suffered, came a sharp-worded answer from the sword.

For any of this to have meaning, it must be recorded, written down for all time, so that people can learn from it. It must be nonbiased and present all the facts in meaningful ways. I offer myself for that purpose. The book was very proud of itself.

It doesn’t matter, book, my inkwell is dry, said the pen.

What are we to do? With nothing to write with, we risk losing history to pass on to the future. Repeating our mistakes. What can we do? The book was sullen.

Just then the blood spoke, I have an idea.

What is it? asked the pen.

On one condition.

What is it? asked the book.

That you don’t write history with a dry eye. That you represent us as real people who were murdered, in cold blood, for no reason.

No way, said the pen.

Wait a minute. If we don’t write down what happened now, it might get misinterpreted later. While it is still fresh in our minds, let’s hear what the blood has to say before the rest of us say anything. What’s your idea? asked the book.

You use me as you would the ink, to write history down.

The book thought long and hard about this, the pen was just still, the sword a little ashamed, for the sword is what spilled the blood in the first place.

After a long pause the book broke the silence. I will do it. What choice do we have?

The pen only mumbled and the sword was quiet.

The pen then perked up and asked, What will become of us, even if we write history using blood? What will happen to us? Who will come for us?

That’s a good question, the sword agreed.

Nobody knew what to say then. It hadn’t come up before.

Let’s look at it like this, the book started. The history that fills my pages would make me valuable to anybody that ever came back here.

But depending on what side comes back first, they will decide on what slant history gets. But either way, somebody will take you, once you are written. As for me, I don’t know, commented the blood.

The book retorted, Once spilled, you become sacrilegious to take. You, I’m afraid, will be here forever.

What about us? demanded the sword and pen. What’s going to happen to us?

The book surmised, The pen will probably be left behind also, because it was brought in haste and as an afterthought. Once history is written, that pen would not be needed again. As for the sword, I suspect that in their haste to get everything they could get, they left the sword behind. They will be back for you. And with you, me, too. Now we write our story and wait.

But what have we learned? Not just what has happened, but what we’ve learned from what has happened? What is the moral of this story, of history? What is this experience trying to tell us? pleaded the blood.

I know, I know! the pen exclaimed. The failure of war to prove anything. Also, our involvement in it. The four of us are always in the middle of every conflict. That’s what I’ve learned.

How do we explain what we know in a simple and concise way? requested the blood.

That history is written in blood! the pen shouted out.

Is that all we’ve learned? quizzed the blood. Is there not more?

One thing I’ve learned, said the sword. Is that as strong as I am, made out of steel, even, the pen is stronger than me. I am used only by the mighty. The pen is used by the masses.

So what, what does that mean? quipped the blood.

The pen is mightier than the sword, uttered the sword.

But is that all it tells us? Is there even a bigger moral to be learned? Something even bigger than that? asked the book.

What? I give up. I don’t know, said the pen.

That’s it. That’s all there is. Isn’t it? What else could there be? asked the sword.

The book finally broke the silence. There is something more. Something I can barely figure out. The pen writes the history in blood…no, no, no…the blood is spilled by the sword…or, or, or…I know it now, said the book. The sword spills the blood, that fills the pen that writes the history…or, or, or…here it is: history is written in the blood that is spilled by the sword that fills the pen that is mightier than the sword that again spills the blood that history is written in, or, or, or…

THE CITY DESK

I work the city desk in this one-horse, one-paper town. Some people call it news. I call it gossip.

I’m Frank—Frank Bull—and it was just a day, like all the other Fridays I’ve worked, until this woman showed up at just the wrong time.

Here’s my story.

It was 11:27 a.m. I was tying my shoes, hunched over the laces, one shoe on the chair and the other on the floor. I felt my hernia acting up, when I looked up. There she was, standing in front of me, all six feet of her.

But what a view I got. All I could think was that her feet were barely able to reach the floor. She had to be wearing the highest heels I’d ever seen, just for the balls of her feet to contact the hardwood. She wore a long black dress that was open at the seam. I would have offered her my seamstress, but I didn’t have one.

Her face looked like a million dollars. I could almost see the price tags hanging from her face. Her hair was long and blonde.

She asked me, You work here?

I said, "Yeah, what’s it to you?’

I could tell by her question that she had never been here before.

I’ve got a story that will knock your socks off, she told me. She didn’t know I’m not easily impressed. I also don’t wear socks.

What is it, dollface? That’s the best I could come up with on short notice.

You know the mayor? I’ve got the mayor in the middle of the biggest scandal this city has seen in ten years. She thought she had me.

If you’re going to tell me about Smith’s wife love affair with the dog warden, can it, babe. That’s old news. I was sure she was going to leave now.

Smith hasn’t been mayor for five years. I’m talking about Jones. Mayor Jones. Get it? Mayor Jones. The mayor now. Not Smith. For somebody who works the city desk, I thought you’d know who the mayor is. She looked a little upset when she delivered that speech.

Now I knew why I hadn’t heard anything about Smith for a while.

Okay, you got me on that one. But if I don’t start to hear something good soon, I’m going to get very bored. What have you got? And make it snappy. It’s almost lunch. She was getting under my skin.

Well, I don’t know how to begin, but to say the mayor is stealing money from the city. Thousands and thousands of dollars, every week.

Just then my lunch alarm went off. I asked her if her little tale could wait till after lunch. She looked surprised by my request. She must not have known how hard it is to get a seat at the local greasy spoon at lunchtime. I told her to wait in my office till I got back. I also let her know I might bring her back something if her tale turned out to be believable.

I ran down the stairs and out the doors to my favorite greasy spoon. She almost made me late. They were beginning to look for me when I walked in.

The usual, two grease burgers, oily fries, and a side order of mayo, at the counter. As long as I’ve been coming here, to Slimesy, I’ve never noticed anything different about the place. Today was almost no exception.

I saw the usual suspects: car thieves, hooligans, mafia and politicians that are always there, but for the first time that I could remember, one of the politicians couldn’t eat his second burger.

I said to him, You don’t know how many people have come to me with stories about the slaughterhouse you own, that I’ve kept quiet, just so you could eat that burger, there. If you don’t want it, I know someone who does.

It was the closest I’ve come to having someone faint on their food while I’m reaching for his second burger. I wrapped it in a napkin, one the politician hadn’t wiped his mouth with, to take back to the vixenish filly.

When I got back, it was almost two o’clock. A two-and-a-half-hour lunch. It was very busy and I’d have to be careful not to give myself gas by eating too fast. I work with lots of people.

She was fit to be tied. The only problem was there was no string around.

I was ready to leave an hour ago. What took you so long? She was pacing back and forth.

Look, sweetie, I’m the one who asks the questions around here. Now, tell me what’s got your lather all worked up. And I need names and dates and what happened. You got those, cutie?

She started with her own name. I thought that was a good idea.

My name, she went on, is Voila. Voila Trophy. And I don’t want any jokes about that.

Then she continued The reason I asked if you know the mayor, Jones not Smith, is that he’s helping himself to the city’s coffins, I mean coffers, and also the coffins, too. He calls it ‘liberating’ money. He thinks the taxes are too high and this is his way of lowering his own taxes.

I went on So you’re telling me the mayor is stealing money from the city. Is that it, honey?

Yes, that’s it. He’s stealing money and burying it in city coffins in the city cemetery. He calls that planning for the future. She had my interest but I couldn’t let on.

Places, dates, amounts, proof, I went on. I need all of that or I’m afraid we ain’t got a story.

She went to her purse and pulled out a copy of a bill. This is only the beginning. Five thousand dollars, cash, for a phony bill. I know, I forged it myself. It’s six feet under by now, in the cemetery. After he leaves office he plans to dig up his money and take off with it. That’s what he told me. At least someone was telling somebody something.

Lookie, here, miss, or is it Mrs. Trophy.

It’s Voila Trophy and that all you need to know. She’d been using a lot of words that started with the letter T, I noticed.

You got a good story, but not a great story. To be on the level with yah, I can tell right now, you got a dime store novel, and I’ve got a quarter brain. So if you don’t come up with fifteen more cents’ worth of story, I can’t promise you I’d print it, even in the sports page, under the losers column. I showed her.

But she insisted, I’ve got all the proof I need. He told me everything and showed me all the phony bills. I saw everything for myself. How about that.

I began to like her cocky attitude. So I played off of it.

So let me understand. You have all this stuff on the mayor and he told you everything because he knows he can trust your big mouth. Just like that he calls you into his office and tells you everything. I could see she was beginning to weaken.

She gave me this look and now it came to me. Those baby blues, that toothy smile, all that makeup, she was a real charmer. But I needed her to tell me herself that she was his secretary.

I’m having an affair with the mayor and he wants to leave his wife for me when he’s out of office. That’s why he’s telling me. So we can be in cahoots together. Plus, she went on, I think he wants someone to blame if he gets caught with his pants down.

You could have knocked me over with a feather. I was so stupid, I didn’t see it coming. Now it all made sense. The two working together for their own personal gain. Why didn’t I see it before?

I told her, You got a good story here. I have to get in touch with my sources at city hall to see what they can tell me. Get back with me on Monday, after the weekend, and we’ll go from there.

She protested, What about me? What if he finds out that I’ve been here? I fear for my life, now.

It was obvious to me. The mayor weighed 350 pounds. I’d be afraid for my life if I were her, too.

It was now three o’clock and I was ready for my two-day vacation, where I put all my work and cares behind me till that menacing alarm would go off on Monday morning at ten o’clock.

I can’t say what I did that weekend, only because I consider it private and doesn’t have anything to do with this story. So there.

Mondays are the opposite of Fridays. Whereas Fridays I usually work my hardest, Mondays I try and take it easy. But there was something about Voila’s story that on the weekend I could put out of my mind, but on Monday began to get me.

What if she really had the goods on the mayor? I couldn’t let that get by me. I would have to investigate. But, how and where and when? I decided to let Voila do that for me.

It was after 11:00 a.m. when Voila showed up, and showed me up. She looked like a million dollars, and me, a 50-cent jackpot.

Are you ready to print my story? I thought she was trying to come on to me. Did you think about it over the weekend? I thought maybe she should be the reporter.

Listen, cutie doll, I’ve been in this position for 20 years and there are three things I’ve learned. First is luck. It’s what got me this job. Second, I only print news that’s believable. That’s it. In a nutshell. If it’s not believable, I don’t print it. If the President of the United States called me on that phone there, I had to take it out of the desk drawer to show her, to tell me that he’s resigning as President, I wouldn’t print it. It’s just not believable. Only after he resigns then I’d print it. Anyway, why would he call me? I run the city desk. If by chance he did, though, I would just tell him to call the country desk. What’s more, if E.T. asked to use my phone to call home, I still wouldn’t print anything about it. It’s just not believable and if E.T. wanted to call home, he should go to the Earth desk, they have long distance. I only run the city desk. News only about this city. The third thing I’ve learned in my position is that I don’t know nothing. If the readers knew anything, they wouldn’t be buying the paper. Why? Because all the news is, is rehashed old news with a different slant to it. So if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I know squat. So, if your story fits into either of those three things, we got something. I dropped the word things like a bomb.

She was just speechless for at least three seconds. I came to you because I needed help.

I didn’t think it was out of civic pride. Otherwise, she would have gone to the police.

You’re the only one who can tell the public what’s going on with their tax dollars. They have a right to know, don’t they? I could see those T words coming up again, also a few D words, too.

"Here it is. You and me, both, we go down to city hall and talk to the mayor, together, capiche? That was Italian for, Are you with me."

Don’t you have to keep your sources secret, so that the mayor doesn’t know I said anything? She was starting to show some intelligence, now, after helping the mayor clean out our money.

Believe me when I tell you this. Without you there with me, he’s just going to deny everything. And I’m not wasting my time listening to a politician lie to me for the millionth time. So you go with me or the story goes away.

Just then a short woman burst into my office, without knocking.

She started with, I’ve got names, I’ve got dates, I’ve got pictures, I’ve got location. Right here. Finally a story I thought I could sink my teeth into.

I had to excuse Voila for a minute while I listened to this woman almost lose it.

She reached into her purse and pulled out pictures, but didn’t show me, at first.

She led with, Their names are Tiger, and Lucky, and Shortie and Trustie and Eskimo and Kosher. And the dates are every day of the week. Here’s the pictures, with my house as the location.

She handed me the pictures in her hand. I was intrigued. Those dogs are using my house as—as— she could hardly go on —as a dumping ground. A flat, non-flushing toilet. Those dogs and more. Those dogs’ friends are also doing the same thing. I’ve called their owners many times, but they never call me back.

I glanced at the pictures in my hand. I thought I could blow the lid of this city with this story. The Holy Grail of reporting just fell into my lap.

I now studied the pictures closely. She pointed at the dogs and named them as I looked at their mugs. That’s Lucky, he’s the biggest dog and leaves the biggest mess. That’s Tiger, meaner than mean, why, he almost bites me when I tried to clean up his mess. That’s Kosher. The one wearing a hat. I followed her bony finger down the picture to a white dog. It looked more like a chicken then a dog to me, a chicken with four legs. Maybe that’s why they called it Kosher. Then I noticed the inflection in her voice. I looked at her and she looked at me.

Ma’am, if there’s something you’re not telling me, I’ll find out anyway, and it will come back to you. So don’t hold back. You’ve got a great story here.

Well, it’s just that, he’s the rabbi’s dog and, and he never goes on my lawn on Saturday. That’s all. She quickly regained her composure and said But all the other dogs do use my tree, even on Saturday.

I could feel the journalist coming out now. This was the reason I got into reporting. The meat and potatoes