Threat Along The Homestretch And Other Stories

By Kreffan Bunker

Consider this book. Beyond these pages is my collection of stories centered on mental health and multigenerational relationships. This is my first book since the one I finished in high school, Mr. Rot’s Garden (2018). It may seem curious there’s just nine short stories I’ve tucked in here, but I am quite proud of all of them and feel they well represent my strengths as a writer.

The first I’d like to mention is “An Assessment In Frailty” which picks up right at the end of a home tour. Eighty-four year-old Franklin Sprawl is put down by homeowner Robert Lash who claims the senior hasn’t made any meaningful contribution to society during his lifetime of work. This spark’s Sprawl’s relentless need to prove lash wrong by making an art piece that says more about Lash’s flaws than anything else. The second, “Surface Street Shades,” follows Elderly widow, Geraldine Fade, who drives in a weathered truck with a distinctive gash on its tailgate. The old woman is aghast when a white SUV is stalking her, though she manages to lose them momentarily and sets upon inviting her handyman over to do work and quell her stress, she learns the hard way about the many faces of appreciation.

Thirdly, my title story, "Threat Along The Homestretch" concerns an anxious young adult, with unbidden urges, who just wants to get home. But when road work redirects him away from the shorter path to his house, he must enter a senior center where he thinks he is increasingly susceptible to striking out. “The Welcoming Bench,” shows a young teen boy’s perspective change thanks to a story an old Quaker gives him about her dear deceased friend Nanette Looking. It’s a cozy premise with memorable characters which tackles greater themes of religion and universal needs for companionship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798369409312

Kreffan Bunker

Kreffan Bunker was born in 2001. After writing his novel, Mr. Rot’s Garden in late 2018, he tried short fiction for the first time a year later. He loved it and gradually pursued writing more complex characters and themes. However, in late 2020 he was hospitalized for 3 weeks due to worsening mental health. Coming to terms with this breakdown led to a desire to write fictional pieces addressing mental health crises. Also from his early life forward, he has connected with people of many different ages, drawing from that in his recent work. He intends to write more and publish other collections after he appreciates the fruits of this second project.

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Copyright © 2023 by Kreffan Bunker.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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

Rev. date: 10/18/2023

Xlibris

844-714-8691

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Preface

Threat Along The Homestretch

Curb-Stomp The Casket

Surface Street Shades

An Assessment In Frailty

The Welcoming Bench

How He Bled His Time

Rattled Men Are Senseless

To Wailing Drawers Unvisited

Let My Community Remain Tomorrow

Acknowledgements

This book is dedicated to my mom, Pamela, who was my faithful editor throughout this project. The story Threat Along The Homestretch was largely rooted in fact, in a part of my life circa 2020 where I struggled with my moral identity and what that meant to me. Without my mom’s encouragement, I may never have opened up and come to terms with those circumstances publicly. I have had joy reading various short fiction collections from other writers with her and hope to equally bond when rereading this collection.

Threat Along The Homestretch And Other Stories gradually came to center on mental health and multi-generational relationships. In application, they stressed also the universal needs for companionship and discerning perception versus reality. Tying in with those themes is a basis and appreciation for community and artistry and how it later shapes our legacies. My legacy would not have begun to be so defined as it is now without having these individuals in my life: my father, Robert; my brothers, Keaton, Kaden, and Khirin; my Auntie Phyllis and Uncle B.; my long-time friends, Nat, Angelo, and Izzy; and my art mentor, Merrilyn. A special thanks to valued Friend, Katrina, who not only read and gave feedback on many of the stories in this collection but was also an invaluable advisor for The Welcoming Bench due to her tireless work with the homeless in our local community. Thank you all so very much!

Preface

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I began writing the Threat Along The Homestretch collection at a time when I believed I was close to death. In late 2020, I had a mental health crisis which led to a three-week hospitalization. Because of the impact of the global Covid pandemic, resources were scarce and I found myself in a facility staffed by overtaxed nurses and doctors, many of whom were poorly trained to deal with the crisis nature of that environment. Many of the individuals stuck there, like me, were facing acute mental health issues which were only exacerbated by the seeming indifference of ‘caretakers’ and social workers who were quick to delegitimize our humanity. It is perhaps unsurprising that, when finally released, I felt my life was endangered and had heavy paranoia.

In reaction to this sense of imminent demise and having formerly found comfort in reading and writing short stories, I sought to craft a set of meaningful fictional tales in a desperate attempt to solidify my legacy. It ultimately became a healing process. The first story I completed after my hospitalization was An Assessment In Frailty (November 2020) which had strong themes of artistry and legacy-building. It held reference to themes of physical and emotional health as well. Initially the longer I survived, the more alienated I felt given that cognitive dissonance and thus came stories like Curb-Stomp The Casket (first conceived in 2022) with characters concerned with death and how they were to be remembered. Such contemplation led to discussion of how we as humans naturally exist morally in shades of gray, without absolutes.

Coming in retrospect with Covid predictive themes of social isolation and loss, Let My Community Remain Tomorrow (circa 2019) showcased my ongoing mental health issues, which impeded any relationships with non-family members and, indeed, even some former best friends. The kernels of this story began years prior and evinced how hiding our fears is a personal choice that often comes with regret. Contrastingly, the title story Threat Along The Homestretch (October 2021) is about overcoming that avoidance and how re-embracing the outside world can be rewarding. The Welcoming Bench (dating to November 2022) intended to validate the humanity of all people and reclaim what was denied me in my own time of crisis, reaffirming that that no one should ever be unfairly othered. "Rattled Men Are Senseless" (February 2022) deals primarily in the same vein of multi-generational themes with an unnamed middle aged man and his older female counterpart who seem almost unable to stand one another. The story has an additional comment on social avoidance and carries on brilliantly.

Surface Street Shades (finished in January 2021) stresses how someone facing mental health challenges may not be appreciative of what they have. Unfortunately, anxiety often clouds one’s perceptions and may keep us from recognizing what is actually going our way. I challenge the reader to dive deep and consider that juxtaposition in the story. Yet another story, To Wailing Drawers Unvisited, (June 2022) skirts the edges of my own experience as a writer with mental health problems but, more essentially, shows the trials of anyone who has too much riding on one single project. The pressure of achieving a goal can easily undermine the enjoyment of the process. Anxiety and obsession are twin thieves who rob us of living a life that can be otherwise satisfying, even when acknowledged as imperfect. How He Bled His Time (April 2023) starts with that imperfection in each of its characters but shows how, ultimately pulling together as a unit, people can prevail. Nature and nurture can do strange things to humans who may consequently feel limited. But it takes just one champion—however flawed—to reach out to others to begin the chain. I thank those who have reached out to me—despite my often ongoing hesitance—you have offered me the chance to reach out to others through this work.

I’ve enjoyed writing this first short fiction collection. It has been therapeutic, and I hope it can be that in turn for its readers. My audience may notice that I have included the word lantana at least once in each of these stories. A keen reader may set out to find all the times it is mentioned. I have included these flowers in my stories because they make me happy and always seem to bloom even in harsh circumstances. I hope to try to do the same.

Threat Along The Homestretch

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I’m a loaded pogo stick spring of murderous urges only anticipating their release. Raw from the bus on a Thursday, I gallop towards home. I pass cars, then church, then cars, then I face the street, Lantana, startlingly taffy-pulled and lasting the full side of the senior center before I resume viewing the bodies in front of me; my obstacles. Arriving at Lantana, I become alert, as one short haired senior accompanied by her leashed dog emerges from the lower gate just ahead. Hesitant and unfiltered becomes my breath, a tweed tightrope runs the length of my upper jaw. I hope she picks up the pace or peels off the street. She does neither. Being only four feet behind, I take out my phone and check the time obsessively. She was ever so slow, so I debate using the bike lane for an escape. I’m behind her, a single lunge would be all it’d take. Suddenly, the dog parks on a tree within the planter between the pathway and bike lane. She shifts herself to face the tree, leaving room enough beside for an ordinary pedestrian to pardon themselves past. While waiting on her dog, she glanced towards me. The woman finally bags her dog’s waste. Just one tug on the leash gears the dog back to the walk. The spacing remains generous, until finally she reenters the senior center at the next gate.

I didn’t expect the sidewalk construction work on the last stretch of houses. Since my eyes monitored the woman alone, I practically bump the coned perimeter before the realization. I consider alternative routes home, the quickest was through the senior center. Going inside may very well have less crowds, but often the people one comes across there are the peak of human sociability. If I’m intercepted by any local resident in this current state of mine, it wouldn’t be pretty. They’d either see me and be rattled by my demeanor, or secondly, be so naïve as to converse with me until I lash out. I don’t want to see anyone else: despite reservations, I opt to take my chances with the old people.

For a while, I don’t see any obstacle nearby. And it’s a familiar ground, with beautifully modest houses. It’s unfortunate that I couldn’t stop; I kept on galloping, eager to get home. During my flight, I think of the grand offerings of the immediate community. Yearly, it holds a festival to raise money for its financially starved residents. I’ve been met with feelings one of a kind, when purchasing such things as antique French field binoculars and an Indian copper letter opener there. And then there’s the art gallery, regularly open with exhibits donated by locals. There was a religious house on the outskirts which had welcomed me just the same, despite my increasingly unfaithful attendance. It was less that I’d grown out of those offerings and more that I was so concerned I avoided what I could.

At this point, I’m midway through the center of the community, on a sheltered road. Coming up on a dry-stream bridge from the main café, a second old woman crosses just ahead. I hesitate to move, as she takes minute steps. She appears embarrassed by her slow pace, no doubt wishing for the stamina of her youth. She remarks, I’m horribly slow. Sorry. No no, you have an admirable pace, my backfiring plea. The old woman is invigorated, and pauses her walk in front of me, in the middle of the road. She beams, declaring, Your youth hasn’t harmed your manners any. I’m Abilene, now she offers her hand. I’m a loaded pogo stick spring, so I skim her hand. Very good. I live rather close, could you maybe… Uh. I will indeed. Where is your home, then? I ask. "My home’s up this street, make a right onto Keeper and it’s the fourth on the left side. I really am grateful!" Her home’s already on the street I anticipated on using to get home myself so I can’t easily duck out. Desperation takes hold; I couldn’t tolerate a longer route.

She does not know I’ve trouble baring our intimate spacing. We talk, at her request, of college: I surf details of the curriculum of my classes, I’ve none on the social aspects. As to not speak superficially, I solely stay on what I know. I cuff my dominant hand with the other, and habitually step quicker than needed. She’s a token example of the second kind of obstacle. She laughs at my school comments and keeps likening my looks to hometown crushes. While fawning over me, urges stick. Though they’re insane, their resilience must translate to a desire.

My breath becomes labored. I have to tell her what I’m thinking Give me space, I might kill you! She laughs. I’m not making eye contact in fact I never do. That’s rich, but I’d break you! I have some weight (130 pounds) even still it’s true I couldn’t overpower her. She’s old, but solid and I’m still too weak. Although I suppose if I’m really motivated, I could do a number on her. There’s no point in attacking her. She might have a whistle for all I know, then I’d be outnumbered as all her neighbors would quickly come to her aid. Of course, they don’t have their own security, but it’s localized enough where the police could respond in a minute.

We pass people’s yards and see mature citrus trees. Hey, wasn’t the fall festival just the other week? Yes, but I’m upset because I had a fairy garden beside the path leading up to my door. However, I put a miniature cottage on the curb so I’d remember the roof was in need of repair and someone thought I was giving it away. Next thing I know they’re selling my cottage at one of their booths! I feverishly search for it, but it’s sold before I come to the correct booth. Although they raised 2,000 dollars, it didn’t make up for the fact that my cottage was forever gone! I feel bad; clearly, she loved her cottage. But think what that money will do for your neighbors! Fine. I just hope they got their money’s worth for it, I noticed she was forced to relinquish ownership of it as she’d suffer otherwise, I paid eighty dollars for it and that was eleven years ago. Despite having doubt, I say, I bet they did. I expect combined the other booths make upwards of 1,800 dollars. That was a not so educated guess. Let’s hope! At least, I have more miniatures. And yet, my fairy garden just isn’t the same without the cottage.

She keeps walking, while I stop in place. She turns her head back to look at me. I can’t go on. Sure, you can. It just so happens that you’ve been making one old woman’s day. Come along. Don’t expect me to fetch a red wagon and wheel you the rest of the way. I wouldn’t make you do that. I feel like you’re just too trusting; you don’t even know me. Why I could- I’d put you down. Oh, how I admire her confidence! I resume walking. That’s reassuring. I’m glad you think so. We walk farther and saw some rabbits. Accordingly, the two of us begin to take count. When I was on walks with my family, we’d hit sixteen at one time or another. Now, we are only seeing nine. It must be the coyotes; they’re a plenty here. Some of them are scrawny; they’ll eat anything.

So for your college, do you commute? Yes, but I take the bus. Earth friendly or can’t afford? Though she was thinking practically, she didn’t hit the nail on the head at all. I’m afraid I’ll hit people! You’re a card! I mean it. How do you think you’re a killer if you’re afraid of people?! I had no answer. She tried to raise my spirits. Still, it seems like you have everything going for you. I’m just thankful that she isn’t one to beat a dead horse. Was this a reality check? The urges, however, showed that I wasn’t exactly right in the head. It is what it is. Huh?! I’m unsure of what I meant by that. I’ve noticed that you’re quite intelligent, but sometimes forget to think before you speak. A compliment and an insult rolled into one. You’re right. There’s no way I could argue with her. She pulled out a Tejava bottle from her satchel and let me waterfall some. For us having just met, she’s very sweet.

I trip over my feet and fall. She helps me up. I’m surprised you didn’t break in half, when you hit the asphalt. She had a point. Having landed on my right elbow, I’m in great pain. I have a chunk of skin missing and a bloody mess where it once was. That will scar. At least if one of us was to be injured, it was me and not her. I request more of her drink and she hands it over. Just don’t drink it all. As she says that, I drink a fair amount. Watch it! Here’s your drink back. She puts it in her satchel once more. Think you can keep to your feet? That depends. On what? On if you’ll be faster and catch my fall. She rolls her eyes. I see you like teasing people. Only if they’re asking for it. She says, Is that so? and kicks my shin. I’m not irritated, rather I’m amused.

Though she’s affectionate, she likes to screw around. You’re a momma’s boy, aren’t you? Yes, I frequently read short stories with her. Ha, I knew it! Your mannerisms told me that much. How old are you? Nineteen. It figures, I awaited further explanation, You still act pubescent. Are you mean or… tell me what it is! Calm down. I was a little too offended. It didn’t become me. I know I cared some for her, because that’s when I get irate with people. I forgave her and left that distasteful conversation in the past. The urges resurfaced, I still might kill you. Shut up! I want to show you something. She pulls out her late husband’s combat knife concealed in her jeans. I snatch the knife and hold it away from her. She punches me in the gut and takes the knife back. That’s as physical as I ever got with a woman! That’s mine! I just wanted to show you that you couldn’t take me. Now, will you quit worrying? That is a tall order.

Becoming so well acquainted, it’s like she’s an old time friend. Hold my hand. At least if our hands are locked, I’ll have a harder time killing her. Sure. I feel the warmth of her wool gloves. She looks at my nails. You have feminine hands. Mine are man’s hands. She ungloves her left and I see stubby calloused fingers. No, they’re delicate. She’s such a sweet woman. If I was going to kill her, I could at least be somewhat polite. The urges were exceptionally strong willed. Though we were almost to her home, I worry for her safety. I white knuckle her. She complains about the grip of my