Imperfect Tales

By Shane Pinnegar

In Shane Pinnegar's first anthology of short stories, you will discover demons and dragons, zombies and ghosts, cults and murderers, bullies and the broken hearted. There are supernatural stories, a little science fiction, some psychological thrillers, some blood splattered murder most foul, some heartbreak and mental health issues.

These short tales are (mostly) dark, Gothic, and creepy.

A couple are true.

Some you will hope could never be true.

These are Imperfect Tales - a perfect reflection of our imperfect world.

 

 

Shane Pinnegar's Imperfect Tales

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bark Side Books
• Release date: Jul 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9780648576877

Book preview

NO WAY FORWARDS, NO WAY BACK

The child hesitated, losing valuable moments.

There was no way forwards, no way back. Not to anything resembling safety. It was an impossible choice.

Ahead of him the wide path through the forest glowed with the eerie yellow and orange light of the massive fire that was trying to consume the entire region. With every step forwards he had felt the heat rising, could hear the distant growling of the inferno as it feasted on the forest, dry as tinder after a long summer. He strained his ears to hear, even further away, every firefighter for miles doing their best to extinguish the monstrous blaze.

Massive helicopters swooped in above the flames to drop their benign payloads of water in a vain attempt to calm the intensely hellacious beast, but so far they had barely made a dent. He waved his arms as if frantically beckoning to the angels, praying that the helicopter’s inhabitants would see him from on high, even though he knew the canopy of trees would make it almost impossible.

He heard the cracking of boots on branches back the way he had come, and he jumped with fear, snapping out of his wishful reverie. The child had every right to be skittish: behind him, he knew, were the two men who he had caught starting the fire, and who were now chasing him.

Come on kid, let’s get you safe and sound, one hollered through the trees.

Rory knew that anywhere safe and sound was the last place they were going to get him to, so he breathed in deeply, exhaled shakily, and kept running forwards, towards the intense heat and unnatural glow.

He realised that he was exposed on this natural pathway, that as soon as the men chasing him made their way to the track, they would have him in plain sight and not be hampered by having to follow his tracks through the undergrowth and brittle forest debris.

He tried to keep to one side of the track, hoping the trees would shield him from their sight, but it didn’t work, and within minutes he heard them yelling as they saw him.

He kept running, even though he knew that they would catch him soon. He had wounded them and slowed them down, but their adult legs were still far longer than his, so all he could do was try to carry on and hope for a miracle.

Rory thought of his Mum and Dad, somewhere on the other side of this out-of-control blaze, fighting the fire like the heroes they were. He wished he had told them how much he loved and respected them more often.

He’d been out checking their traps that morning, when he had seen the two men laying down a gasoline trail on the edge of the tree line that marked the start of the Arrowhead State Park. He’d called out to them to stop, just like he knew his parents would have. He knew that when he was old enough he’d become a Ranger, just like them.

The men gave chase, but not before they had ignited the blaze, and even as Rory ran, he could hear it taking hold in minutes.

He’d led the men through the forest for a good ten minutes before they’d caught him, dragging him out of a foxhole he had tried to hide in. They’d dragged him to the East, thrown him into the trunk of their beat-up old Buick, and slammed the lid, shutting him in darkness.

Rory listened intently, hearing the duo talking about what to do with him, and in between the banging of the rusted old car on the rough forest tracks, he clearly heard them say they would have to get rid of the kid.

He knew he had to escape or never see his parents or schoolfriends again.

The two men kept talking. It seems the fire was a diversion for them to rob the bank in town. Not just the bank, one insisted – they’d knock over every business while the community was taking care of this threat to McGulliver. The fire, he said, was only 3 miles from town, and just about everybody would be on hand to battle the blaze.

Rory felt around the trunk trying to find something to jimmy open the lid, settling on a tyre iron. At least he could also use that if they tried to stop him, he reasoned.

He tried his darnedest to lever the trunk open, until the Buick hit one particularly nasty bump, which its suspension was practically useless against, and the trunk flew upwards, as did Rory. It was all he could do to hang on and not tumble violently out of the back of the car.

He could hear the men as they noticed the trunk had sprung up, and readied himself as they slowed, leaping out as soon as he felt it was safe.

His instinct was to run as fast and as far away as possible, but he knew that he needed to slow them down if at all possible.

He darted towards the front of the car as it skidded to a halt, and slammed the tyre iron through the open driver’s side window as hard as he could manage, connecting with the man driving. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he may have knocked the man out.

Rory ran behind the car and threw a stick as far as he could, and the man in the passenger side took the bait, thinking that was him running away through the forest. As the man ran past the back of the car, Rory let fly with all his might and could hear the crowbar crunch through the man’s shin, sending him splayed forwards onto the ground.

The force of the impact jarred the metal tool from his hands, but Rory wasted no time looking for it, running for all his worth, eventually finding the path through the forest towards the inferno.

He dared a glance backwards and saw that the men were about thirty yards behind him, one limping heavily, one with a bloodied face. Both looked as though they would kill him with their bare hands when they caught him.

On he ran, battling the stitch in his side, and his lack of breath, not to mention the burning in both of his legs. He felt like he couldn’t go on, but with head hung low, he kept putting one exhausted foot in front of the other, until suddenly he stopped in his tracks.

He slowly raised his head and saw the fire right in front of him. It had taken a sudden leap several yards forwards, and the heat of it scalded his bare face and arms.

Rory turned, knowing now that there was no escape. The voracious fire could lunge at him again at any moment, and there was nothing he could do to escape it, not while his pursuers were right behind him. No doubt they were counting on that.

He could only just hear the shouts of the firefighters on the other side of the wall of flame above the roaring and growling of the beast-like fire itself. It sounded like a monster gnashing at its prey, its appetite unquenchable. Rory spun around to face the fire again, as he could have sworn he heard his name being called above the near-deafening din.

Then he saw her – his mother, only twenty yards away, but separated by an impenetrable chasm of flame that may as well have been wider than an ocean.

Mooooooooooooom, Rory screamed, the exhaustion and fear finally taking hold of him as the two men finally reached him and manhandled him into their arms.

You little bastard, it’s time to finish you off!

A crack rang out above the roar of the inferno, then another. Rory recognised the rifle shots and saw little spurts of dust right near the two men, even before he heard the sound of the police helicopter above the trees.

Put him down, or the next ones won’t be warning shots, came the voice through the megaphone. Rory recognised it as Sherriff Swiftwater, but he wasn’t breathing a sigh of relief yet.

The two men looked at each other grimly.

He’s dead if you don’t back off! the bloodied-faced man yelled, holding Rory up to use him as a human shield. The limping man crept behind them both to also hide from the Sherriff’s gun.

I told you we should have left the kid and gone and done the job! hissed the limping man.

He’d seen our faces. We were screwed either way.

Rory stopped wriggling and hung limply in the man’s grip as they sought the shelter of the trees, the flames far too close for comfort. Suddenly he summonsed all his strength and kicked downwards into the man’s tenderest parts, as well as thrusting his head backwards with all his might, delivering a reverse headbutt to seal the deal.

The man flew backwards in pain, blood spurting from his nose and hands clutching at his privates. He pushed the other man off balance as he fell, and they both sprawled out on the leafy forest floor. Rory struggled to his feet and ran, putting himself out of the Sherriff’s firing line and further away from the lethal blaze.

Two more warning shots rang out, missing the injured men by inches, yet still both clambered to their feet and attempted to run.

Rory couldn’t help but laugh as they both started to hobble away comically, one limping seriously from his damaged shin, the other huddled over trying to protect his aching private parts.

Two more shots rang out and both men flailed awkwardly to the ground, and Rory stopped laughing with a shocked gasp. He quickly realised that neither was dead, though, that Sherriff Swiftwater had shot both in the leg to immobilise them.

He heard another familiar sound and spun himself around to look down the forest track, and there was his parent’s pickup racing towards them across the bumpy track, kicking a cloud of dust up in its wake.

The pickup skidded to a halt and his Mom and Dad leapt out, his Mom checking him for injuries as his Dad cautiously secured the two arsonist bandits, holstering his weapon only when he was certain they had weren’t armed.

As Rory melted into a bearhug with both of his parents, the fire again growled at them. He knew what to expect – the blaze was about to leap forward again at any moment. He broke from the embrace and yelled, quickly! as he ran to the would-be bank robbers.

His father quickly realised what Rory was doing just as the fire began surging forwards, hungry for more food, and together they dragged the two criminals out of danger.

Let’s get out of here, his Dad said, hugging Rory again before looking at his two detainees. You are damned unlucky you ran into my boy today... but you’re damned lucky he’s a far better person than either of you are.

Rory looked back through the pickup’s rear window as they drove away, watching the fire continue to consume so much of the forest.

All those birds and animals, Dad... they’ve all lost their homes now, he whispered sadly, a tear rolling down his freckled cheek. We’ll help regenerate it, though, won’t we?

You bet we will, son – we’ll do it together. You bet we will. 

A group of people's legs Description automatically generated with low confidence

ONE MERRY CHRISTMAS

Any big city is an unforgiving place: a harsh and dirty unnatural landscape, harbouring harsh and dirty people. Danger lurks in every shadow, and wariness is essential when life is cheap. Of course, sometimes we exercise no caution, for better or for worse...

Our story starts on the back foot, on a cold and angry Christmas Eve, where the best laid plans never even stood the slightest chance of being hatched. I was all alone at Christmas time, on the wrong side of the world. All of my family and friends in and around London had found better places to be, and better things to do, none of which involved this freeloading, impoverished Australian backpacker.

Work had been scarce, which meant money was, too. I had managed to save a precious few pounds doing shitty agency work – a few quid here moving furniture, a few quid there from the dole, a few more from a little light labouring. It added up to a few bottles of wine and a roast dinner, even if it was only for one. I made sure there were a few coins left over to phone home, and miraculously still had a tiny amount left over.

I had the crumbling, three-story Streatham hovel to myself for a few days in my housemate’s absence. I’d prepared my Christmas feast, all ready to pop in the oven on Christmas morning, but I was restless. I looked out of the window: it was Christmas Eve, the weather was just nasty, and I knew no-one at all in the neighbourhood. Even the couple of nameless faces I had previously nodded at during occasional visits to the local pub were strangers.

Christmas spirit was non-existent. There was literally no good reason for me to venture out, but still my restlessness persisted.

All good adventures start with the unknown. I chose to ignore the fact that plenty of bad times do as well, in favour of believing that life is for the taking and many of the very best of times are summoned as if by sorcery from nothing. Besides, when you’re young and reckless, every night alone is a regret to add to an ever-growing pile which will, sooner or later, break your spirit under the weight of failure and disappointment.

I checked my wallet. There was enough for a few pints if I didn’t bother with any dinner.

I squinted again through the heavy velvet curtains – relics of a dusty decade long gone - and convinced myself that the grey rain lashing down wouldn’t last all night.

I donned The Wolf – a heavy fur jacket I had purchased second hand in Camden Markets, made in Finland if the label was to be believed. Being a bit of a long-haired hippy, I always maintained that the jacket was faux fur, but it wasn’t, not by any stretch. This was 1992 – I would never buy anything like that nowadays, but on a cold night such as that Christmas, I was so thankful for The Wolf. I pulled my warmest beanie down over my long, curly hair, and set off, door locked behind me, into the merciless London night.

Arriving at the pub around half past eight, sodden and already regretting my decision, I nodded greetings to the owner and barman. Names escape me now, so many years later. The owner was Irish, that much I do recall. The barman possibly also. Or more local. I remained the least local person in the local.

I ordered a Guinness and nursed it quietly by the fire reading the Daily Telegraph.

One pint turned to two, then to three, and the clock made a steady march onwards as I dried out and mellowed out.

It being Christmas, spirits were festive, and soon conversation ensued with a myriad of local characters, all of whose names and faces are lost in the fuzz of a decades-old alcoholic haze. I don’t recall ever seeing them again – such was often the nature of the free-wheeling life of an itinerate and insouciant traveller. If it was now I would doubtless have Facebook memories reminding me of who and what and where, but considering some of the inappropriateness I managed to get involved in, I am thankful for living my stupider and more reckless years before the advent of social media.

It wasn’t yet midnight by the time I exhausted my meagre funds, but luckily the Christmas spirit was strong in the bar that night, and I found my glass refreshed several times by benevolent strangers feeling sorry for the thirsty soul with the exotic accent and cheeky grin.

With the clock nudging closing time, someone suggested a ‘lock in’, but that was shot down summarily by the boss.

It’s fookin’ Christmas – ‘aven’t you got fooking homes to go to? Last call, then piss off, the lot of you! he had growled in his thick brogue.

The plan evolved from there: a lock-in it would be, but at one of the patrons’ gaff. I honestly have no idea whose – I must have known on the night, but boozehounds can make firm friends in the time it takes a seasoned pro to pour a pint, then forget them before the dawn brings a percussion band to strike up a chorus of hell in our heads the following morning, and by cripes, I have always been considerably more fond of a drink than I am of calling a night over.

Drinks and laughter flowed at this unknown person’s abode. Beer, wine, Pimms, tall tales and slurred protestations of undying kinship, all to be forgotten in a few short hours in the cold, unforgiving light of a new day.

It was late when I left there – or early, if you prefer – with a few more drinks under my belt and a shitfaced grin on my dial.

I carefully made my way down the metal staircase at rear of their apartment, trying hard not to slip on the wet steps. Luckily there was no ice – the stairs were already a deathtrap without the added danger – but still I managed to slip, and more than once, but somehow, magically avoided taking a proper tumble, hanging tightly on to the railings for life and limb.

I reached the laneway and stopped to breathe a sigh of relief and a giggle at having survived the treacherous descent. The rain was an ultra-fine mist now, almost as refreshing as a soothing face towel in the sort of fancy restaurant I hadn’t been able to afford since I’d embarked on my ultra-low budget world tour, albeit a damn sight colder.

The past four and a half months had been one hell of an adventure for me: I’d traversed the globe, toured through Europe, made friends and made love with a succession of strangers, had fun times and disasters, and proven to myself that I could look after myself, all alone, a very long way from home. As my breath turned to smoky vapour before my eyes in the freezing air of the wee hours, I smiled a dumb smile. This was far from the first or last time I would be leaving a party on the wrong side of the stroke of midnight, and I often felt that the meaning of life was to have a good time, all the time. (With