Fairway to Heaven and other stories...

By Joe Cleary

An enticing new collection of six short stories from Joe Cleary, author of Blood Writer and other stories... and The Adventures of Oscar and Midge!

From the ghostly tale of a father trying to come to terms with the loss of his son in Fairway to Heaven, to the tension of Thanksgiving dinner and a family at the breaking point in King of the Kitchen Table, each story in this collection resonates with emotional impact.

Includes the next chapter of the Mickey McAllister story, Working Class Hero, along with a joyfully tense Oscar and Midge adventure, The World's Strongest Puppy.

Also included, two people question the paths they have chosen in Foul Ball and A Story Without End.

A special preview of Joe's new Shore Point novel, The Witch of Short Point, is included.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barker Press
• Release date: Oct 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781956416046

Book preview

Fairway to Heaven

and other stories...

Joe Cleary

Fairway to Heaven and other stories... is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by Joe Cleary

All rights reserved.

joeclearyauthor.com

Published by Barker Press.

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book The Witch of Shore Point by Joe Cleary. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming editions.

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-956416-04-6

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-956416-05-3

Cover Design: Joe Cleary

Cover Illustration: stock.sokolov.com.ua/depositphotos

For my father, Jim,

always a dreamer.

Contents

An Introduction

Working Class Hero

Foul Ball

King of the Kitchen Table

Fairway to Heaven

A Story Without End

The World’s Strongest Puppy

The Witch of Shore Point

About the Author

An Introduction

It’s hard to believe I’m here on a Sunday morning in October writing the introduction to my third collection of short stories. Six months ago, when I sat down with the idea of writing a short story a week, I had no idea what was ahead. I just knew, finally, that I had to write.

Now, I’m six months and twenty-five stories in, including two short novels, and I’m loving every minute of it. I’m learning more every day, writing a little better than I was, and just trying to remember to have fun.

There are times when I worry about things that are outside my control. When I want to hurry up and get somewhere, and I have to remind myself to slow down and write the next word, the next sentence, the next paragraph. The next story. When I do that, the worry fades and everything seems to take care of itself.

The stories contained in this collection are of a wide variety. There’s a ghost story, a puppy story, and a slice of life story with literary pretensions, though I didn’t set out to write it that way.

In truth, when I sit down to write a story, the only thing I have is the germ of an idea. It might be a character, a setting, an event, a scene in my head. I just try to get it out on the page as best I can, to follow along with the story as it’s told to me from that mystical place I seem to have access to when I park my butt in the chair and put my fingers on the keyboard, and to use whatever tools I have to fashion into something that someone might like to read.

The only thing I can do, that any of us can ever do, is do the best we can in the moment and hope that, with enough time and enough practice, we’ll continue to improve, continue to develop. Most importantly, though, we must continue to have fun.

My life is richer by far since I’ve given it over to listening to the voices in my head and letting the results come out on paper. I don’t know what your voices tell you, and maybe you don’t, either. Maybe, like I did for so long, you block them out and set them aside, hoping that someday you’ll have time for them.

You won’t. Not if you wait. You have to make the time. The sooner you do, the better your life will be.

Langston Hughes once asked in his poem, Harlem:

What happens to a dream deferred?

We all have to answer that question for ourselves. Seek your answer, friend.

With love and thanks,

Joe Cleary

October 17, 2021

Shrewsbury Township, New Jersey

Working Class Hero

Working Class Hero #2

Mickey had never been fond of hospitals. They reminded him of his mother too much, of the last year and a half of her life spent withering away beneath crisp white sheets, punctured and wired like a carburetor. He’d visited her every day after school right up until the day she died. The doctor said she’d died peacefully in here sleep, like he hadn’t been around for the eighteen months of constant anguish as her ability to speak, to think, even to breathe, decayed before Mickey’s eyes. When she died, it had been a blessing, a release from the pain for both of them. Mickey had been seventeen, which he knew was more time plenty of people get with their mother, but all the rationalization in the world didn’t dull the emptiness.

But now, he sat on the edge of a hospital bed occupied by a man he barely knew, waiting for a camera crew to come interview them. They’d been given a few minutes to get to know each other, and just like the year and a half he’d had to say goodbye to his mother, it felt entirely insufficient.

The man in the bed was Raymond Quinn, known throughout the city as the New York Knight. He and Mickey had taken down a man named Henry Jacobs, who it turned out was suspected of raping thirty-one women in the past six months. It hadn’t been a planned takedown or some heroic deed. It had been a simple matter of survival.

The man known as the New York Knight had come upon the scene on his way home from his evening rounds. He was one of a handful of real-life superheroes, which is not to say he had any special powers. He and others like him dressed up like their comic book counterparts, but they had no extraordinary abilities. There were men and women who thought seeing folks dressed up and out on the streets, helping people however they could in their spare time, would inspire others to be better people and create a greater sense of community. Before last night, the most newsworthy thing the New York Knight had done was rescue a dog from a hot car, though if you asked him, he’d tell you his time at the community center teaching young men and women basic economics, things like opening a savings account and making a budget, was his most important contribution. Raymond Quinn was one of the good ones, and he was trying to make a difference.

Unfortunately, the doctors said it was unlikely he would ever walk again.

The bullet Henry Jacobs had fired had struck Henry’s spine, shattering two vertebrae. The man who spent his days as an accountant and his nights as costumed hero and impromptu civics and economics teacher would probably spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

Mickey, on the other hand, had just been doing his job, providing information in the Fulton Street subway station, when he’d witnessed Henry Jacobs latest attempted crime, the rape of a woman named Marissa Alvarez. Mickey hadn’t wanted to step in, but there had been no other option, and it was luck and desperation more than anything that had helped Mickey come out alive.

Mickey was no hero. He wasn’t anything like Raymond. He preferred to keep to himself and mind his own business, and his greatest desire was to be left alone as much as possible. The booth in the subway had been a natural landing spot for him. With it’s high walls and thick safety glass, it had separated him from the thing he feared the most – other people.

But now he was here, sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, waiting for a news crew to come and interview him and Raymond. He had no idea what they wanted. The police knew what had happened and could give them a better account than Mickey. It was all a blur to him. Everything had happened so fast, and his adrenaline had been pumping so hard, it felt like a weird nightmare that he’d just as soon forget. Raymond didn’t have a much better version of the story. He’d gotten there late, by accident, and spent most of the incident bleeding and unconscious on the concrete floor of the station.

Raymond was still weak from surgery and could only talk in a low voice. Despite the way he must have been feeling and the news he had received about his chances of walking again, Raymond managed to summon a smile whenever Mickey looked at him.

I don’t know why you’re smiling, said Mickey. This sucks.

Nah, man, Raymond whispered, it’s all good. I’m alive because of you.

Mickey winced. I could say the same of you. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, that guy would have killed me and had his way with the girl.

Yeah. We were both lucky, said Raymond.

Mickey shook his head. You don’t look lucky to me.

Depends on how you look at it, Raymond said, smiling.

There was a knock at the door, and a second later it opened. A woman in a dark blue blazer opened the door and beamed a smile at them. Hi! We’re ready when you are? Mickey couldn’t figure out how she made it sound like a question.

Now’s as good a time as any, said Raymond.

Great, said the woman. She stepped into the room, a microphone in her hand. A man holding a large steady cam walked in behind her. Another man slipped in and turned on the lights they’d set up earlier, bathing the room in unnaturally bright light. Mickey knew it was for the sake of the camera, but he felt like he was in an interrogation room. He started to sweat.

The woman stood with her back to them and faced the camera. She adjusted her blazer and waited for a signal. Mickey saw the light on the camera turn red, and after another moment, the woman