Playing with Imaginary People: A Collection of Short Stories

By John W Partington

This is a series of short stories I have written over the last few years. They are a jumping point for ideas, but all self-contained. There is fiction, science-fiction, poetry, and just weird stuff.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John W Partington
• Release date: Sep 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781989973271

John W Partington

I have been writing for most of my life: as a child, as a soldier, and now as an independent author. My favourite colour is purple. I have two cats, who choose to annoy me most when I am trying to write. I'm a middle aged white dude suffering from psychosis, but with medication am perfectly stable (except for singing to my cats).

Book preview

Playing with Imaginary People – A Collection of Short Stories

John W Partington

ISBN: 9781989973271

© John W Partington 2021

Cover art © https://www.123rf.com/profile_peshkov

If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then please return to your favourite book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Introduction

The Danger of Door-to-Door Sales

The Sniper

A Spire

The Concert of the Gods

Vacation from Work

The Great Barrier

Absolution

Bicycle

July

Stone

Grandpa

Christmas One

Christmas Two

Not Sick from Kissing Chickens

Have yourself a scary little Christmas

Extra Baggage

Decision

Work all night

Point of View

The Art of Profanity

Pam’s Dowry

The Eternal Struggle

The Cold Morning

The Blanket of Destiny

Diary of a Prophet

Party

The Ladies’ Man

Untitled

Head Shots Only

Reunion

Harvest

Knitting and Drinking

Interview with the Horsemen

Catz Defence

Choice At a Crossroad

Growing Pains

Shoe Patrol

About John W Partington

Other Books by John W Partington

Books by other members of the Stittsville Creative Writing Group

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my editor, Gerry Kroll, for his fastidiousness with words. Though he does claim not to be an editor, just picky about language, that is the mark of a good editor. I’d also like to thank my friends at the Stittsville Creative Writing Group, for listening week after week to the stories I’ve written. Also, a special thanks to my good friend John W Egan, for starting the group in the first place. He quit attending the club, but his intentions are still there.

Foreword

I founded the Stittsville Creative Writing Group nine years ago. Each week, I gave the group a word that each writer would use in a short story to be read the next week’s meeting. I quickly discovered how we can each take the same word and write such different stories, or write the same stories so differently. To write and to read a story is an intimate act as it is an exchange of our views and ourselves. And so every week when we met and read our stories, our laughter, sighs, gasps, and sometimes the silence were our recognition of what each story said. Our responses were our connection with the story, the author, and one another. Stories must be shared; that is why they are written, even if an author does not know it or accept it.

There is always something of an author in their story. Autobiographies are obvious examples. Historical fictions are often filtered by the author’s view of those events and the world in general. Short stories often bring out the author more than novels do. The short stories written by the authors I know certainly do. And knowing their lives, their joys, their pains, and the experiences they have shared, it is easy to see these personal elements in their stories no matter if the story is a science fiction, fantasy, drama, or comedy.

Although I left the group five years ago to tackle other challenges, its members still meet each week and rise to the challenge of the word given to them. The short stories and poems in this collection were written for and read to the writing group. Through them, I get to visit old friends and meet new ones through what John W Partington has written. Whatever you take from each contribution herein will be your intimate experience with a writer you likely have never met. What they write may resonate with your own stories, or they might add something new. Read them and find out.

John W. Egan

Author of: the Roman Sky, Beyond 1812, and Angel & Mercy series.

Introduction

I’ve frequently seen a meme which states, in one way or another, I write because it’s safer making the imaginary people in my head do things, rather than kidnap strangers and force them to act out my drama. That’s why I write. I’m full of stories, and coffee, and a sleep disorder which gets me up at all hours of the night.

I’ve written several novels, but this book is different. This is a collection of short stories I’ve written for my writing group. Every week we meet and read stories we’ve written over the previous week. I usually read from my current work in progress, but when I first joined the group, in September 2012, I wrote short stories.

Since then, my writing, the club, and I have evolved. We’ve undertaken a number of initiatives, such as the Creative Musings anthology series, but at heart I’m happy with a pen and paper (keyboard) scratching out a story.

I’m not in the writing game for glory or money, though if offered, I’ll take both. Why write and publish? Because I want to drive. Drive? Yeah, let me explain:

I had a friend, a long time ago, named Chris. His hobby was restoring classic sports cars. That is an expensive hobby, but one he found deeply satisfying. One day he was showing me his collection of cars.

Let’s take one for a spin! I shouted, and headed toward the peg board where the keys were displayed.

Whoa! Chris hollered. We can’t drive these. They’re for display only.

You restore cars that you never drive?

Yeah.

Then what’s the point? It’s a car. It’s meant to be driven.

That’s why I publish my stories. Writing a book is pointless unless it’s published. It becomes a car you never drive. It sits in a binder on a shelf yearning to feel the moist thumb of a reader scrolling through pages as surely as Chris’ cars wanted to feel blacktop under their wheels. A story untold, unpublished, is essentially one that was never written. About half of these stories are in the Creative Musings anthologies by the Stittsville Creative Writers Group. Half are not; they’ve been read out loud but are, essentially, undriven. They are presented, roughly, in the order they were written. Strap on your belt. We’re going for a ride.

The Danger of Door-to-Door Sales

Adam woke up, showered, shaved, and then brushed his teeth. Next, he checked for subcutaneous semi-organic transponders implanted on his face by aliens while he slept; he found none. A hermetically sealed cereal bar was his breakfast as he hurriedly dressed in a lycra full-body suit. Adam didn’t really know whether the suit would disrupt any heat signature his body gave off, but it made him feel more comfortable. He put a green sport coat on over the lycra. Next, he checked outside the window of his remote house; finding no alien bounty hunters armed with carbon lasers, he stepped outside.

The public transit bus arrived at his doorstep moments later. The driver twitched slightly as Adam got on, displayed his bus pass, and sat down in the far back corner. The driver kept darting nervous glances into the rear-view mirror. Adam smiled appreciatively, though the scar on his lip turned the smile into a leering snarl. The city had reorganized the bus route so that Adam had a ride to work in the morning. Adam was comforted that the driver continually checked to make sure no alien hover destroyers were following.

Just before the bus reached his office, Adam picked up his briefcase. The smooth grip of the handle reminded Adam of the pistol grip of an assault rifle. He held the comforting weight of his briefcase against his chest as he started to quiver. The driver had to remind Adam to step down, which activated the exit door.

Nut, Adam heard one of the other passengers mutter as he reached the sidewalk. He glanced back at the bus; the comment had come from a bitter old man. The passenger was no threat. The bus drove off, leaving Adam in the hazy pre-shower morning of a gloomy Monday.

Good morning, Sir. An imposing guard stepped around from behind a desk as Adam walked into the foyer of his building. Adam didn’t recognize the guard, who was tall and muscular, and most likely from another planet. The guard started to reach for something on his belt, probably a weapon. Adam casually put his hand up his opposite sleeve and started to stroke the handle of a stiletto blade.

I don’t recognize you, Adam said. His voice was completely devoid of emotion, as if inspecting a purchase form.

Whoa! a familiar voice shouted. Samuel, an elderly and somewhat pudgy guard, came out of a door behind the security desk. He was tugging the zipper of his pants while using the other hand to pat away the young guard’s arm. The young guard held out his hand; in it was a business card.

Marcus, this is Mister Adam Smith, Samuel introduced. Adam, this is Marcus McAllister. It’s his first day. Adam took the business card.

He’s the one you told me… Marcus started.

The one I told you to have a paper ready for. Samuel handed Adam a neatly rolled paper from a pile on the desk.

Thank you, Adam mumbled as he stepped into the elevator, looking at the business card as if it might bite him and shaking the paper to see if it contained any microfilm tracking devices.

The elevator made whooshing sounds as it passed between floors. Adam had a minor bout of claustrophobia as the walls closed in. The slight smell of machine oil and the grinding of gears started him quivering. The rhythmic clash of cable blocks was like the clanking of tank treads passing over a mineshaft. The sides squeezed, and he smelled the loose earth rattle around as the steel walls tried to hold up. Somewhere somebody shouted incoherently; rain started to pepper down Adam’s face as the bunker wall bent. A shaft of light broke through, and then a rush of cool air. Somebody shouted, They’re inside!

Adam stepped off the elevator. He took a drink from the nearby fountain and pretended to straighten his tie. He glanced anxiously over the sea of cubicles. Everything was in place as it should be, or was it? Was it too much in place? Was it like the sound of too much silence? No, Adam decided things were as much in place as they should be. Even Nicole, the too-short secretary, was just the right amount of too-short. Nothing had been altered overnight. Everybody was as they should be. Adam carefully picked his way to his office.

He wasn’t really ranked for an office, much less a corner unit. Anybody that walked into his office, which was a rare occurrence to begin with, would hardly recognize that it was in fact on the outer edge of the building. The windows were boarded over with sheet metal that had been painstakingly dragged in, a panel at a time. Everywhere there were plants, so that the office