Posts Tagged ‘speculative fiction’

THE BEST FRIEND YOU CAN FIND, a Free Speculative-Fiction Title on Kindle

April 23, 2020

 

The Best Friend You Can Find is my second  title published under the pen name Berwyd Stone. It consists of the title story and “Little Booper Becomes a Man.”

The two short stories in this pair both fall under the umbrella of Speculative Fiction. Both also deal with a main character who is coming of age, but neither is the heart-warming, made-for-television tale you might expect from that genre.

“The Best Friend You Can Find” is a fairytale takeoff on “The Ugly Duckling.” It is set on a little farm in Maine but quickly goes in a very different and much darker direction than the original.

“Little Booper Becomes a Man” is Magical Realism or Slipstream. It involves fear, courage, and the best of parental intentions.

Like the other books I have published on Kindle, this new book is listed at the minimum price of 99¢.

If anyone is interested, The Best Friend You Can Find and my previous SF title Bringing Home Our Dead are available free, Thursday and Friday, April 23-24.

You do not need a Kindle device. Books can be read on a PC, Mac or phone. These book can be reached by clicking on the images below.

 

 

Book cover for The Best Friend You Can Find by Berwyd StoneBook cover for Bringing Home Our Dead by Berwyd Stone

Bringing Home Our Dead, Free SF Story on Kindle

April 19, 2020

 

Bringing Home Our Dead is my first Speculative Fiction title published under my new pen name Berwyd Stone.

Bringing Home is a Science Fiction story of about 4000 words. It begins with a rescue and recovery team arriving at their destination in an alternate world of the past. The thoughts and flashbacks of the team’s intuitive Paul reveal past personal losses which have left him with an intense need to bring home the dead. A mission that the team hopes will be a quick in and out is immediately beset by unexpected problems.

Like the other books I have published on Kindle, this new book is listed at the minimum price of 99¢.

If anyone is interested, Bringing Home Our Dead is available free, Sunday and Monday, April 19-20.

You do not need a Kindle device. The books can be read on a PC, Mac or phone. This book can be reached by clicking on the image below

 

Book cover for Bringing Home Our Dead by Berwyd Stone

Story’s Opening

That morning, the rescue and recovery team’s hired truck left the dry wadi they had been following and wound up a trail to the top of a rocky ridge. Far off on the shrubby plains below they saw the skyline of the city called Tel-on-the-Plains.

“I don’t see any vehicles on the plains,” said Stan.

“No,” said Paul, “and by the end of the twentieth century, Tel must have had an electric line.”

Their driver stopped so his brother could climb up to man the machine gun mounted behind the truck’s cab.

Paul and his teammates were riding under a canvas in the truck’s bed. They were tired and sore from two days of bad shocks and the desert heat. The four men strapped on their sidearms as the driver let out the clutch and the truck descended onto the plains.

“I want this to be quick in and quick out!” announced Stan.

Paul looked closely at Stan. Not just his jaw was set. All the muscles in his body were tight. Stan reminded him of the drawn whipcord on a crossbow. He remembered the ones their escorts had used during the team’s mission to Genoa. Stan was intent on his goal and eager to act. He had always been that way, even when they were cadets.

Steve, the team’s linguist, looked old and tired. He was. This was his last mission before retirement. He was also sad, with the sadness of a man who has lost too many friends over too many years.

The fourth man, Andrew, was new to the team. He had been transferred into Rescue and Recovery from Personnel Records, to cover losses. He was a big guy and very fit, but the way he pulled in his arms and legs said he did not want to be there. He already had the start of a twitching tick below his left eye.

While his teammates studied the distant city, Paul closed his eyes to relax.

 

# # #

 

It was late November and just after dark. Paul’s parents led him, each taking a hand into the boarded-up house where his grandmother was waiting.

“You will be safe here,” his father told him.

The house had no electricity, no heat. Paul’s grandmother patted his head. Paul knew from her touch she was sick.

“We will come back when we can,” Paul’s mother told him. “No matter what happens, we love you, Paul.” His mother and father both hugged him goodbye, then hurried out to their car.

“I still have some food,” his grandmother reassured him.

Paul watched his parents’ car slip away through the dark with its lights off. He knew he would never see them, never again.

 

# # #

 

How I Died Like a Dork

July 13, 2018

It’s Sunday night, February 1st, just before closing. Of course, I’m stuck at the supermarket finishing my duties as a Sanitary Maintenance associate (i.e. janitor). I take the last compost barrel out of the produce department. It’s overloaded. Over-ripe melons from Florida. Moldy potatoes from Aroostook County. Along with the usual fruit and vegetable waste. The lid won’t even close. These barrels are on wheels, thank God, but they are industrial sized: 95 gallons. This one easily weighs five hundred pounds.

The two jokers who are supposed to close produce have whined to the EOM until he finally let them go early. So I can’t even give them shit about overloading the barrel.  Why do they want to go home early anyway? Neither one has had a date since summer. They’re just going home to play games. They live with their moms, for Christ’s sake!

I wheel the monster barrel through the sales floor to the back room. Two guys from the night crew are there already breaking down the night’s load. Some kid and a guy in his forties. Classic grunge more than drowns out the Muzak that will play all night on the sales floor. These guys are ripping boxes off palettes and building U-boats, but you’d think they were plugging leaks in the last dike separating an ice-dammed river and their family’s trailer. Normal humans just don’t move that fast — not from drinking Dunkin’s coffee.

The older guy is telling stories about harpooning that night-crew girl who just got fired for stealing. Stealing in plain view! Like we didn’t all see those Loss Prevention geeks up on ladders installing new cameras. They didn’t even want to catch anyone. They know we all steal when we get a chance. They just wanted to scare us into thinking they were watching so many angles we didn’t have a play. And why is this guy bragging about doing her anyway? The girl’s got a face like a hungry gerbil!

Then the young guy starts up with all the stuff he thinks he’s done but really just watched on Pornhub. I block open the back door and start the compost barrel down the icy ramp off the loading dock. Yeah, I should have salted the ice and chipped the worst of it off before I went down. But it was closing time, damn it, and I had had it with all these dickheads I work with. And our customers! Most of them smell like they wandered off from some nursing home. Without changing their diapers! You should try cleaning the toilets in this place! I’m out of here for good as soon as I pay off my court costs and attorney fees. Until then, come 9 p.m., I’m trucking home for beer.

So, of course, that monster compost barrel gets away from me on the ice. I try to hold it back, like a dork, because I don’t want to stay and shovel up a mess at the bottom. And, yeah sure, maybe I forget for a moment I’m not the Incredible Hulk.  The barrel and I start sliding, knocking down the empty milk crates stacked along the inside of the ramp.

Then the barrel spins back around and slams me hard against the iron railing on the outside of the ramp. I must have broken some ribs right then! That’s when I lost my footing and the compost barrel tipped over. Last thing I remember I’m lying on the ice at the bottom of the ramp with the monster barrel on top of my chest and a generous pillow of rotten vegetable matter all around and over my head.

Then it’s like I’m in some woo-woo movie.  I’m watching the back room from outside my body. I know that stuff’s corny on the screen. But when it happens to you, it’s really creepy! The night crew guys finally realize they’re cold. Of course, with all their lying about deep throat and double penetration, my presence didn’t even register when I went through the back room. Not that it would have been much different if they’d been singing hymns.

Being a maintenance associate puts you down so low the other associates don’t even see you crawling along. I’m just an ant moving through the dirt on the floor. We’re socially invisible – until they happen to look down at the bottom of their shoes! “Eww! What was that?”

Anyway, the older guy just walks over and he shuts the door.

Back on the sales floor, the EOM assumes I must have left since it’s now past closing time, and, of course, he’s in a hurry to go home himself. So he herds the last customers and the evening crew out the exit door and locks up the front of the store for the night. Crap! Am I screwed! Worse than that rodent-faced girl when they escorted her to the Security Room to wait for the police.

The next morning the receiver comes in early to open the back room for the milk delivery. I’m still hanging around in the astral plane looking down at myself when he finds me, stiff and cold and frozen into the rotten vegetables from that barrel. He pages the night crew chief, and they talk about me for a while. None too politely! And they make some jokes about whether they should chip me out with the ice chipper or go find a cutting torch.

They finally wake up the store manager at home and he says call the cops. The cops just shrug and call in the bone wagon.

Those bone-wagon guys are not happy they have to deal with this frozen mess, but eventually they get me out without too much salad stuck on my face. I tune out most of what follows and go off flying my astral plane with Timothy Leary. Yeah, Leary’s still out there in space. Pretty mellow guy, really. More like a computer geek than I would have thought.

So I miss the autopsy. Fine with me. I hated dissection in high school. Finally some self-important ass in a color-coordinated suit, shirt and tie signs me over to the funeral industry as their latest item of commerce.

Next stop my funeral. I rate a few quick but dramatic tears from some of the chronically emotional girls that work the front end. I only know a few of their names. But I know they are only here to escape working the registers. Anyway, they all have a good cry. The store manager and assistant manager are there in a corner. They are talking quietly about how much they can milk out of the wine vendors for letting them set up promotional displays in the prime spots. OK. Hell, everybody needs extra money.

And I hear my half brother bragging to everyone how he could have built a box for me out of oak-veneer boards salvaged from old desks. Without wasting all that life insurance money. You know, it is the thought that counts, Bro!

Then it’s lights out for my astral body, and I’m six feet down in a water-tight cooler waiting my last judgment. Which it turns out is not going to happen as a big cattle call at the end of time but on a first-come-first-served basis.  So step right up, sir. Saint Peter hops through these judgments faster than a flea in a kennel.

So next thing I know I’m standing like a job applicant in my best-and-only suit in front of this big red-hot metal desk in hell. Just where Brother Hardbottom warned me I was going when I was twelve. I can’t believe that pious ass got this one right!

Hell is a stinking mess with pits of burning sulfur roiling out fumes that burn your lungs when you breathe. Drawn and quartered criminals from Merry Olde England are lying around where their parts were dumped centuries ago. Their quartered bodies are decomposed but still squirming, struggling to get back together. The place is filthy with slobbering demons feeding on the juicy innards of the screaming damned. Their entertainment is creating widening pools of blood, drool and gore.

The space in front of the devil’s desk is crowded with foul-smelling and desperate people. I know most of us don’t worry much about hell while we are alive, but the devil’s desk is where we meet our eternal punishment face to face. It pretty much scares the shit out of all of us. You can’t avoid stepping in it!

The devil is sitting at his desk reading my file. He’s yawning, eating a bagel, and trying to ignore the stink and noise. Strikes me he has a strong resemblance to Brother Hardbottom. Anyway, he couldn’t be more bored. Suddenly he looks up at me. And, yes, his eyes really do burn like fiery coals.

“Mr. Smetzer!” he says with a widening smile, “I see you’ve worked Sanitary Maintenance.”

MY END

 

Copyright © 2018 by Michael B. Smetzer

 

The Journey Down. Photo by Bernie Smetzer.

The Journey Down. Photo by Bernie Smetzer.