A Collection of Short Stories

By Roger E. Dunlap

The stories in this collection are all character driven. From the cat snatching neighbor in the short, short story, “The Catnapper” (250 words) to the delightfully long, short story of Crud (official name is Darnibus Silius Crudicum called Crud for short.) In A Deep Forest (9000 words). Some stories are heartwarming others funny but all are thought provoking. In two of the stories, “A Closet Writer” and “Hey, I Have Cancer” the author shares his own personal experience as a struggling writer and cancer survivor. The last pages of the book are devoted to a writing exercise called “Alphabet Stories.” The author spent a few months going through the alphabet, choosing a word for each letter, and writing a short (under 600 words) story for each of them. From A, “Anticipation” to Z, “Zealot,” the author demonstrates his versatile and fertile imagination as a compelling storyteller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664138643

Book preview

AN ENCOUNTER IN MANHATTAN

He had it made. He had the best of everything. Whatever the standards for success, he met them before others started looking. The right things came natural to him and without effort. He combined exceptional intelligence with a street instinct for survival which eliminated fear. To be fair, he wasn’t always correct in his decisions but it didn’t matter. The odds were on his side, and that he banked on. Today would be a true test.

She, on the other hand, had to look both ways at every street corner and never crossed without a green light. The light could not be amber. It had to have turned completely green and, if there was a car nearby, she made sure it came to a complete stop before she would proceed. This hesitancy did create problems because by the time she was ready to attempt the street, the light would begin to cycle and a flashing "DON’T WALK" would start shouting at her in red blinking anger for her ineptitude and lack of courage.

One day, as fate would have it, he was driving in from his home on Long Island to an important meeting in Manhattan. She was trying to make her way via the crowded sidewalks to Central Park, where she hoped there would be an empty bench by the pond and the ducks. In her hand were two paper bags. One held her lunch. She had made a sandwich of thinly sliced turkey with a piece of Romaine lettuce and a thin coating of fat-free mayonnaise between two slices of wheat bread. The other bag held broken pieces of old bread that she saved for the animals at the park.

He held the wheel with one hand and a cellular phone to his ear with the other. The traffic was light by Manhattan standards, and he was making good time. The traffic lights were favorable. He knew the best way to the Chrysler Building and it included a short cut around the park. Hold everything until I get there. I’ll be there in ten minutes. He ended the conversation by putting the phone back in its cradle.

She was walking west on 65th Street. At the corner of 65th and Fifth Avenue she stopped to wait for a red light before crossing. He was traveling south on Fifth Avenue approaching 65th. He saw the traffic light and he knew it was going to change to red very quickly. With both hands on the wheel he nudged the accelerator.

She patiently watched the amber light start to stop traffic along Fifth Avenue. She then waited for her own green light to allow her to cross to the pond and the bench and the ducks.

It happened in one heartbeat. She heard the tires squealing. Her head turned to see the front end of a large black car aiming directly at her and traveling very fast. Her hands instinctively raised to her face and she let go of the paper bags that flew upward and away. His arms were outstretched and rigid, holding the wheel in a death-grip as his foot jammed the brake pedal into the floor. At the end of that heartbeat the car came to a dead stop.

The bumper was inches away from her legs. Through the glass of the windshield their eyes met in a fixed stare that neither will ever forget. She stood there motionless, holding her breath. He continued to grip the wheel with whitening knuckles and stared back at her without moving a muscle. One more heartbeat passed. A bead of sweat was forming on his brow and then his hands began to shake. Her arms were becoming relaxed as they moved down to her sides but she felt herself getting very angry.

Another heartbeat passed. And then another.

SPARROW DOWN

(JUNE 2013)

Throw me the ball, god-damn-it! screamed Lieutenant Colonel Briggs, United States Marine Corps, retired. He maneuvered his wheelchair toward the back of the basketball court between the chairs of two beefy sailors. The game clock showed eight seconds remaining. He positioned himself beneath the basket waving his hands above his head. I’m open Donohue, throw it.

Bite me flyboy, cried out Master Sergeant Donohue who rolled his chair to the end of the key and flicked the ball high to the hoop. It hit the backboard, ricocheted off the front of the rim, bounced straight up and fell through. Two more for the Army, yelled Donohue. …and that’s the game, he bellowed, waving one fist in the air as he rocked back and forth on the rear wheels with his other hand.

Briggs grabbed both hand rims of his chair and rolled toward Donohue, gathering speed as he passed the free throw line. He only stopped when his footrests banged into the back of Donohue’s wheelchair that was slowly rolling away. I was wide open, dogface. Didn’t they teach you teamwork in the Army?

Donohue wheeled around facing Briggs. The sergeant wore a sleeveless camouflage tank top with "82nd Airborne, ALL THE WAY" written around the Army insignia. The muscles in his arms tightened as he faced Briggs. Two of his teammates with similar shirts rolled behind him.

You listen to me, you washed-up air jockey. I learned teamwork on the ground where it mattered. Not in the air, safe above the real fighting. When a target was clear, I was taught to take the shot. I hit my target with no need for air cover. And we won. And you’re welcome. Donohue smiled and began to back away but stopped. I mean, you’re welcome, SIR. He spun his chair around 180-degrees and wheeled away.

Lieutenant Colonel Briggs remained sitting at the free throw line as the rest of his teammates crowded around Donohue. They paraded off the court bumping wheels, cheering and clapping.

We still have three more games to play now that you guys won. The voice behind Briggs startled him for a moment. He wheeled around to see his coach, Lieutenant Harry Borne resting his arms on aluminum crutches. Borne’s only leg was firmly set on the floor forming a stable tripod. He wore his usual bright yellow gym shoe. The empty pant leg was tied in a knot half-way up his thigh. You might take a minute to enjoy the victory, Borne continued, even if it was because Donohue sunk a lucky shot.

You’re right, Borne. It’s only a game, said Briggs. But, he’s still an asshole.

Maybe so, the Lieutenant replied. But, thanks to him, we’re in the tournament.

Doesn’t mean I have to like it, said Briggs.

No, it doesn’t, answered Borne. By the way, you made some nice moves out there. He swung around on his crutches and stood directly in front of Briggs. You must have flown jets in the Corps. I watched you swerve in and out between those guys. They never saw you coming. Not bad for an old man. He smiled at the Colonel.

Briggs lowered his head to conceal the grin forming on his own face. Every now and then it comes back to me. I’m in the air, dodging missiles, searching for enemy planes or ground fire, looking out for my wingmen. His eyes focused on what was left of his legs. At the end of each thigh, pulled over the stubs where his knees should be, was a scarlet and gray, knit cap emblazoned with OHIO STATE BUCKEYES in brilliant red. His wife bought him the caps to remind him of his days as a point guard for the Buckeyes. He scored twenty-six points during the NCAA tournament his senior year. They came in fourth.

Briggs looked up at Borne. When I flew with my guys, we were a tightly bunched team. We had to be. Everybody kept an eye on everyone else. We couldn’t afford an opening anywhere. No grandstanding, no showoffs, no assholes. That’s how we stayed alive. I never lost a man all the time we were there.

That was a long time ago, said Borne.

I want to win those next three games, Briggs said. We won’t do it with Donohue taking a long shot every time he sees an opening. You know that, Borne. We were lucky today. I don’t want to bet on luck. He patted his legs. I did once and it didn’t work out very well.

Briggs grabbed the hand rims to spin himself around but Lieutenant Borne leaned away from his crutches and fell forward, his hands landing on the top of Briggs’s wheels. The crutches clanged to the floor. Borne balanced himself on his one leg and clung to the wheels with both hands. He held them so tight Briggs couldn’t turn or move. What the hell you doing? Briggs said.

Are we feeling a little sorry for ourselves, Colonel? said Borne. The dumb ass, loud-mouth sergeant, who happens to be ten years your junior, sunk a lucky shot to win the game, and you’re mad because he didn’t show you enough teamwork? Bullshit. You wanted that shot to win the game yourself and he stole it from you. Suck it up birdman. The infantry won the battle this time.

Briggs glared at his coach. In two seconds, lieutenant, I’m going to back away and you’re going to fall flat on your face. If you have any brains left in that scattered head of yours, you will let go of my wheels, pick up your aluminum walking sticks and skip out of here.

Borne released Brigg’s wheels pushing himself to a standing position on his yellow sneaker. He bent from the waist and scooped up the crutches placing them under his arms. Let it go, colonel. Think about what you’d do if you were on a mission and one of your wingmen suddenly dove out of formation. You’d be pissed as hell and ready to chew him another orifice. Then you’d realize he broke ranks to attack a bogey nobody else saw. He saved the day. Everybody won. Borne turned to leave. I need five good men out there next Saturday and you’re one of them. Be there. The war’s been over for some time now. This is a basketball game.

Briggs watched him walk away swinging his only leg between the silver crutches.

That evening after arguing with his wife during dinner about an undercooked potato, Briggs went to bed. His night’s sleep was restless and intermittent. The clock read 3:43 AM and he was wide awake. Looking out his bedroom window he watched the stars as they disappeared into a covering of clouds.

Rain? he thought. I don’t need rain. Not today. He pulled the cover around him and closed his eyes.

At 6:45 AM a ray of morning sunlight burst through his bedroom window waking him. His wife rustled a bit and pulled the covers over her shoulders. Her breathing was slow and steady. He resisted the urge to lean over and put his arm around her.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked out his bedroom window to the maple trees that marked the end of his three acres of land. Piles of red, orange, and brown leaves were building up on the small basketball court he had made behind his patio. Fall had arrived. A basketball was rolling slowly across the court from the wind that scattered some of the leaves.

He reached for his wheelchair, pulling it toward him. At that instant something banged into the window. He caught a glimpse of something as it fell out of sight. A cloudy gray smudge about the size of a half dollar remained. He pulled a sweatshirt over his head and slid into the chair. He wheeled through the house and out into the back patio under his bedroom window.

A lounge chair was nearby and sitting on it was his wife’s black Persian cat, Malfy, who was staring intently at something on the ground beneath the window. Whatever it was fluttered under a pile of leaves. Briggs wheeled closer and watched as the movement died down and soon stopped. The cat slid closer to the edge of the chair, his back legs hunched up in a striking position.

Briggs moved his chair blocking the cat. Back off, you big pile of useless fur. He pointed his finger at the cat. His wife had been given the cat last Christmas by her brother. Briggs had no love for his wife’s brother or the cat. Briggs had no idea why she named it Malfy. He would have chosen a more appropriate name, like, Useless or Trouble or other names he remembered from his days in the Corps that he wouldn’t speak in front of his wife. Yeah, he thought. Shithead or Maggot would have been his choice.

The cat jumped off the chair and circled around Briggs, edging closer to the struggling victim. Malfy’s head was low and his tail dragged along the ground slowly behind him.

Briggs picked up a garden rake that was leaning against the patio table. He repositioned his wheelchair closer to the cat. Leaning forward he put the rake in front of the cat and using his other hand he began to move the leaves away, carefully removing them one by one. Malfy settled down on his stomach. His head strained forward.

There was another sudden flutter of the leaves and Briggs pulled his hand away. A tiny wing appeared moving back and forth pushing the leaves away. The body of a sparrow emerged lying on its side. The spindly legs convulsed in a twitching movement. The body lay still again, and the head barely moved at all. Malfy stood up and uttered a long, low meow.

Briggs leaned farther over. He touched the wing with his finger. The head moved a bit but the wings remained still.

Tough luck little fella, he whispered to the bird. He stroked the back of the bird’s head with the tip of his finger. Looks like you were fed some bad data on that last flight.

Briggs saw Malfy move around the rake. He knew the cat was not giving up in his quest for a tasty breakfast. Several times in the past, Briggs found feathers scattered around the back patio. The cat would just perch on the patio table with his yellow eyes watching as Briggs would wheel around looking for dead birds. He never found any.

He leaned down again and slid his hand under the bird, scooping it up. Let’s see if there’s any hope, little fella. The black cat moved silently to the front of the wheelchair where he sat on his haunches, looking up at Briggs and meowing a little louder.

The bird was breathing. There was slight movement in the chest area. Briggs continued to stroke the bird’s head with his finger. Malfy moved around the rake and stood on his hind legs putting his front paws on the chair seat. His eyes fixed on the bird. A soft guttural purr caused Briggs to look down at the cat. In that instant the bird flew up and away.

Well, I’ll be, muttered Briggs. He watched the jagged flight of the bird that flew into one of his maple trees and disappeared. You’re welcome, Briggs hollered after the bird.

He looked at Malfy who was still standing with his paws on the chair, his head turned in the direction of the bird’s flight. Briggs reached down and put his hand on the cat’s head. Too bad, Shithead. Looks like he didn’t want any part of either of us.

Malfy lifted his head to the colonel, then leapt into his lap curling into a ball with his head down and his eyes closed. A quiet rumbling emitted from the cat. Brigg’s felt the weight of Malfy spread over his legs. He began to stroke the soft fur. Okay, Malfy. I guess this war is over, said Colonel Briggs.

Honey, you out there? his wife called from the kitchen.

He pulled his hand away from the cat and turned his chair toward the window.

Yeah, I’m here. I’ll be in, in a minute, he answered. He placed Malfy on the ground and rolled over to his basketball court. He scooped up the basketball and sped toward the basket scattering the dead leaves in his path.

JUST BY CHANCE

(MAY 2000)

Phyllis enjoyed classical music, picnics, romantic movies, and cats. She hoped to marry someone who liked to travel and would enjoy camping at the Grand Canyon. She lived across the street from Billie who sat in his room with headphones, listening to heavy metal. Late at night he would go out with his friends to smoke pot and talk. When he came back, he went to his room and played his guitar but he didn’t plug it in. He owned two cats.

Six blocks away was Robert who sat on his porch at night reading books by Sir Walter Scott, Hemingway, and Robert Louis Stevenson. He had a telescope on his roof that was strong enough to see the canals on the moon. He knew all the constellations and charted their movements in a large book he kept locked away. Robert was allergic to cats. Phyllis didn’t know Robert.

Phyllis took a night class at the community college in town. Billie started a band that practiced in the gym at the community college. Robert was asked to teach a class in astronomy near the gym in the community college.

One night after class Phyllis saw Billie practicing and went in to watch him. Robert went to the gym to complain about the noise that disrupted his class. Robert noticed Phyllis who was watching Billie. Billie saw them both coming over to him. He packed up his guitar and left. Robert stood next to Phyllis and commented how strange that was. Then he introduced himself.

MARVIN’S GARDEN

(APRIL 2012)

Marvin didn’t like or dislike flowers. He just never thought much about