Upside Down: Upside Down Short Story Collections, #1

By J. E. Turnbo

Broad, dark, funny, and terrifying, these 13 stories in volume 1 will not disappoint. They'll make you laugh (at another's misfortune), cry as a man gets taken away far too young, and cower in the corner under a blanket as the monster waits for the right time to come take you away. 

 

Volume 1 Titles Include:

Get Over

Hangdogged

3 Hours of Menace

If At First, Drink Coffee

Man Who Sees Through

The Stationary Room

Cat In The Box

First Ascent

Little Teddy's Johnny

If I Could I Would, But I Can't Never

Sooner Rather Than Later

Stuffed By Cotton

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.E. Turnbo
• Release date: Dec 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223210061

Book preview

LET’S CHAT

There’s always something to chat about. For anything writing related – and sometimes about my cat (which I absolutely hate (less and less every year)) – join my reader’s club for news, free stories, and more about that hated cat at:

www.JETurnboBooks.com

This book is dedicated to everyone

who has encouraged me to keep going.

Get Over

Proceed to the route

Proceed to the route

Proceed to the route

Shut up!

Recalculating

Proceed to the route.

I AM proceeding to the fricken route!

Robert Wignar pounded his fist on the steering wheel and chucked the phone at the passenger door. From behind, a car horn blared as a red Chevy Impala swerved around his white Prius and raced on past. Out of habit, he flipped the driver a double bird as the Impala’s brake lights lit. Just then, the car’s nose dipped forward.

Oh boy. You did it again dumbass, he said mentally preparing for what might come his way.

Proceed to the route.

Wignar gave a half turn to the passenger seat, suddenly dreaming of a life without technology. At what depths would this stupid thing go to drive him over the edge?

He inhaled, each heartbeat thudded in his temple, and looked at the bottom of the steering wheel, rubbing his temples hard enough to stretch the skin around his eyes.

Proceed to the route.

Recalculating.

He grunted, shook his head, and gripped the steering wheel until his white knuckles ached. When he looked back at the Impala, he saw nothing but an old man wearing blue bib overalls, a red checkered flannel shirt and a tattered straw hat straddling the curb. With one bare foot on the edge of Hilltop Ave. and the other on the sidewalk, the old man jabbed a crooked walking stick in the air yelling loud enough for his face to turn the color of blood.

You can’t make this shit up, Wignar said pressing the window button down. After a brief second he stopped and thought better of it.

Later, when his mind had a chance to process, he’d say the man reminded him of a backwoods Moses lifting his Holy stick towards heaven before parting the Red Sea.

Wignar breathed a sigh. The last thing he needed was another bout of fist-throwing road rage.

Recalculating.

He closed his eyes trying to understand why people idolized these stupid little devices; always thumb-fucking their phones as if whatever glared back on those tiny screens held any importance. No matter how much they made his life easier, he refused to call his a smart phone.

Something – ANYTHING considered smart was supposed to make life easier.

In theory.

He turned towards the passenger seat and waited.

After a couple drinks he’d be the first to tell you the only invention more worthless than the cell... the shake weight. 

Stupid, he chuckled. Naah, call a spade a spade. More like worthless. Unless, then thought tapping the steering wheel, you wanted a strong Kung Fu grip for those urges to strangle your flopper.

This made him laugh louder.

Thoughts of crankin’ one off took him down a rabbit hole he never enjoyed. For the last five years, his flopper, was just that – a flopper. Use it or lose it Dr. Waddsford told him when he inquired about his lack of desire. That same desire disappeared soon after Beth bought the farm. Getting splattered by a drunk driver took more from him than just the love of his life.

Recalculating.

That’s it fucker. Wignar leaned over the center console and jammed his hand in the space between the passenger door and seat.

Grabbing it by the top edge of the case (You’ll want a good cover to protect your investment from damage the young pencil dick salesman told him) he pulled the phone from the gap, squeezing hard enough to strangle the damn thing, and lifted it into view. Without realizing so, Wignar pressed the lone button on the case and turned the screen towards him.

You stupid piece of shit, he said to the phone as if it understood his hatred.

Lifting his thumb from the button, a female voice said, I won’t respond to that.

Wignar rotated the phone inadvertently pressing the same button again. 

What the fu-

That’s not nice, the same female voice said.

I can’t believe this stupid thing. It knows what I’m sayin’.

He swiped upward as the Maps App reappeared. It’s orientation rotated each way as if north kept changing directions from a stationary position. It reminded him of playing pin the tail on the donkey after spinning around in circles. On the screen: Proceed to the route stood front and center and seemed to mock him. A man’s gotta work, he grunted. Even if work means... this, he said squeezing the phone the same way you’d strangle a doll that wouldn’t shut up. 

Wignar checked his destination one last time and cranked his wheel a hard left, gassed the engine, and then stomped on the brakes. The Prius rocked forward when his phone, clipboard, and a half drank cup of coffee spilled onto the passenger floor.

To his left, a dark gray F-150 screeched to a halt. In the driver’s seat, a big burley man wearing a black wife beater grimaced back at him.

Hey man, you should rethink the way you drive with those decals on your car. The man pointed at Wignar. You, he continued emphasizing You, give the profession a skid mark across the face, son.

Baffled, Wignar gazed at the man as if seeing a three-legged dog for the first time. Son? At least two decades his senior, Wignar opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

The burly man sat motionless for several uncomfortable moments. Then, akin to a flipped switch, his head started swaying from side to side like a peckerwood bobblehead. Wignar tilted his own head left and studied the man as if he suddenly developed Parkinson’s.

The shape of his head was a perfect circle that reminded him of a bowling ball: two eyes and a mouth passing as finger holes. His pig shaped nose gave the impression of someone trying to identify a foul odor.

Get that rolling vagina off the road, he said, head still bobbling.

Hey jerkoff, Wignar started, but didn’t have the chance. The F-150 tore off and made a hard left onto Hilltop.

Wignar watched in disbelief as the backwoods country Moses - still straddling the curb - jutted his redneck staff towards the heavens as if calling down a plague on everyone who turned onto his street.

If this day wasn’t gonna bring trouble, then he didn’t want to see the one that did.

HOW’S WORK TREAT’N ya? The young woman’s voice asked from the other end of the connection.

Wignar glared at the passing world as he sat behind the wheel of his Prius. The backwoods country Moses finally disappeared behind a building as the rest of the world seemed to calm down. Hi Sandra, he said wishing for a different start to his day.

Dad, you okay? You don’t sound like yourself.

I’m fine now. It’s always nice to hear from you kiddo.

Thanks dad. Can you do lunch or are you working today?

Yes to both. I’m sure this nimrod scheduled before lunch will go fast. You can say he’s a regular customer.

You should either take a different line of work or take a deep breath before you say or do something, Sandra said.

Yeah, I may have heard something along those lines recently, he said referring to the guy he flipped the bird - after he passed of course - a few measly minutes ago.

Wanna do the usual? Say, 12:15, she said.

It’s a date young lady.

Perfect. I can’t wait to catch up. Love you dad.

Love you too Sandra.

THE LONG STRAIGHT TWO-lane lifted and fell in a way that made Wignar think of a boat riding a subtle wave. He set the cruise for forty, settled back onto the headrest and watched the cornfields sail past on both sides. Some of them as much as six feet high.

So much for knee high by the Fourth of July.

Occasionally, during high humidity mornings and evenings, fog danced across the tops of the stalks and settled in the low spots of these same open fields. He used the five minutes on this (mostly) quiet road to remember life as it used to be.

Beth, before, would hold his hand and smile as the two enjoyed their periodic country drives, and take in the sun beating through the windshield, warming every part of their exposed skin. When the mood dictated, she’d lean over the center console and nibble on his right ear; sometimes biting and pulling his earlobe with her teeth.

Never enough to hurt, but just the opposite; enough to want her to keep going.

Even after 30 years together, 25 married and 5 acting the part, she had a knack of making his daddy parts - her playful way of letting him know momma was in the mood - tingle and make him want to drop everything and ravage the love of his life.

Those days however, had come and gone. That drunk bastard got what he deserved, Wignar thought, though dying of a heart attack waiting for his vehicular homicide trial didn’t seem like enough.

No matter how much he wished he could forgive, deep down he wanted Armond Delooge to live with what he’d done behind bars, being violated by everything, and everyone crossing his path.

A mile ahead, Wignar spotted the approaching red stoplight. On a subconscious level it’s red hue offered a crude reminder of how precious, and short life is.

He turned off the cruise and sat up taking in a deep breath.

Why had he chosen this new path for his life? There had to be better things to do than letting strangers drive his car. 

On the rare occasion, after a full days’ work, he’d have to park the car near the garage and open each of the four doors. After dragging out his big ass garage fan, he’d point it towards the car’s interior and crank up the power full blast. A half hour later... well, you get the idea.

Thank you Sandra, he said. He and Beth’s only child made it her life’s mission to keep him focused on anything other than the loss of her mother... his wife.

Two lefts and three rights later, he pulled up to the curb and switched his rolling vagina into park.

THE SIGHT OF THE TALL skinny kid made Wignar realize why - in the wild - some species ate their young.

He sat impatiently for a moment and then got out of the driver’s side; meandering around the back of the car, tapping the trunk and rear quarter panel until he stood next to the front passenger door. Opening it, he dropped into the seat, swung his legs in and kicked his coffee cup in the process. Frustrated, he slammed the door hard enough to shake the car and sat ramrod straight staring ahead. 

Mother f..., he grumbled picking up his stuff that nose dove onto the floor back when he had the ordeal with the bowling ball headed F-150 driver.

Two seconds later he kicked the now empty coffee cup under the seat and brushed off his pants. With the clipboard on his lap, he waited as patiently as an impatient person could.

Thirty seconds passed.

Then one minute.

Then ninety seconds.

Wignar refused to say any more than he had to and kept his head and eyes straight forward, sitting as statuesque as possible. Eventually, he figured – it always had in the past - his stoic body language would serve as a psychological probe and get the skinny kid to move into action instead of standing there like a homeless PVC pipe wearing oversized jeans and a too tight shirt.

Two minutes had passed.

He inhaled a deep breath and wrapped his knuckles on the glass.

The kid looked down as Wignar raised his hands palms up. What gives, he mouthed.

Ten seconds later, the skinny kid dropped behind the steering wheel and slammed the driver’s door. Umm, sorry, he said.

Okay, Wignar asked with a sigh. Should we bypass the foreplay and get to the money shot? I have my mighty red pen right here. He raised the red Pilot G-2 pen and hovered it over the box with the word FAILED next to it in large bold letters.

The tall skinny kid tried to fight off the fear in his eyes. Don’t be such a dick, he said.

Wignar raised an eyebrow, then held back a smile.

Why wouldn’t I be a dick?

Nervous, he squirmed in the driver’s seat and tapped the dashboard with his fingertips. I’m ready this time.

A pause. Then Wignar let out the loudest laugh he had in a long, long time. "Three failures and that last one... all I can say is that I’m glad the rental agency didn’t ask too many questions. Good thing for rental insurance. The bonehead behind the counter ate up the story as if he were telling it himself."

You’re kidding me, the skinny kid said.

"Yeah ding dong. I’ll give ya credit for coming up with that one. Telling the guy someone mistook my rental for her ex’s car worked better than I expected. The clown behind the counter never even batted an eye.

To think about it, she had to be pretty pissed..., Wignar said and paused. To key the entire right side of the car, from headlight to taillight.

The skinny kid laughed with both hands wrapped around the steering wheel, and drew them inward as if rolling back the throttle on a motorcycle.

What the hell are you laughing at? I still can’t figure out how you scraped the other car’s bumper the entire length of the rental car.

What can I say, parallel parking isn’t my thing, the skinny kid said with a sheepish grin.

Wignar looked at him sideways.

Hey, you can’t blame me. You’re supposed to be my eyes on that side of the car.

"Ha! On the first attempt yeah. Maybe even the second. But on the third. No. Way.

Want to hear something funny? I would’ve passed you even though you almost got us t-boned, ran a red light, and just about took out a pedestrian. The custom body work however, was the point of no return.

The skinny kid shrugged and presented a smile that tried to say: I’m sorry?

Wignar turned towards the passenger window and shook his head.

Just shut up and drive. And try not to kill someone – or me for that matter. 

THE STRING OF ROW HOUSES floated by the passenger window and blurred into obscurity until the next one came into view. The only differences between them – other than the color and the side of the house the garage sat, was the occasional oak tree and/or the white picket fence in the front yards. As if on a loop, this happened until they passed the end of each block when the next row of houses started.

The view reminded Wignar of growing up as a young boy in Western Pennsylvania. (In hindsight, he figured his love for going out on the proverbial Sunday Drive