Short Stories Series
By L. J. Martin, David Sheppard, Rik Hunik and
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About this series
It is easy to think that the reality we know is the only one. But the galaxy is immense and full of other possibilities. There are also dimensions where existence is not tangible for its inhabitants.
We would call them ghosts.
With illustrations.
Titles in the series (35)
- Grave Yarns, a Collection of Short Stories
1
There's nothing better for a night-time read than a scary tale. T. M. Simmons provides some of the best available, fiction and non-fiction. The fiction stories in Grave Yarns, as the title suggests, are set in graveyards, a suitably spooky place at Halloween... or any other time, for that matter. A ghost and his motorcycle in Sweet Revenge achieve payback for murder. The butterflies in Butterfly Kisses are not something you would enjoy seeing day or night. Dark and Stormy Night is a tale about a writer who scorns his craft and learns to regret it. Permission Denied shows you what happens if you disrespect supernatural entities. The Devil's Due makes it clear you should not bargain with Satan or any of his minions. For a romp on the humerous side of the paranormal, Pitiless Pumpkin Patch Pirates closes the selection of fiction. For your reading enjoyment, Simmons has added Midnight Ferry, a true ghost story from her Ghost Hunting Diary Volume I. As always, read if you dare.
- Grand Canyon Lament, A Fateful Lesson in Extraordinary Measures: Short Stories, #3
3
You are blind and standing at the south rim of the Canyon. Gently and with kind words, as if performing a long overdue service for a patient of some convalescent hospital, he takes the cane from you, and you listen to the dull clunk of wood as he leans it against a rock. You learn that place, knowing you may have to return to it alone. The heat of midday sun is on your head, and you wish to see the wall of the north rim, realizing that the image can be nothing more than a mental fabrication. He returns, encourages you to stand a little closer to the edge. "To see," he says, "if you can sense what she must have — the ground plunge downward to the first plateau." He solicits more courage, urging you ahead, creating a comforting, therapeutic confidence in your action. "Don't be so timid. That's where they found her, you know, on the first plateau more than 2,000 feet below, which now has a thin covering of desert grass, just enough to give it a tinge of green. That's where she stopped." This world is a stranger to you, to both of you. But with the untimeliness of her passing, you must take extraordinary measures. And surely, it was your fault. You, who see even the fall of the least sparrow, failed to see the fall of your only daughter, the Little One. And so you are here. And since you refuse to discuss it, he treats it as amnesia. You feel strange standing on the very spot where the accident occurred. It was a very human event, simply a death. Now taking his suggestion, you lean, tentatively at first, then take a short step, feeling the ground gently slope off, the gravel move under your feet. Knowing he's close, you touch the thick hair and flesh of his arm, then feel him move from you, slightly back but still in touch, leaving you a little unsteady. An updraft rushes by, and then you detect a difference, an absence of reflected sound, a void in front of you as deep as that left in the heart from a sudden death. You yearn to cry out, to bounce an echo from the far wall, to make the abyss finite, to make it part of the Canyon. Instead, from within it comes the wordless cry of a human voice, a sound so strange, yet so complete in intent, young and old at the same time like that of a reincarnated child, lost and doomed to walk the face of the earth as an unaging spirit. "Do you hear that?" you ask. "Do you hear the voice from the Canyon?" "I hear nothing but someone on horseback hurrying away on the dirt path and the occasional caw of a crow." His voice is now stiff and unconvincing. "If I try to listen with the ears of the blind, I hear the claws of squirrels in the trees behind us and just now the sound of children's laughter around the bend. But if I can't hear it, perhaps it is she calling you. Perhaps it would be only fitting for you to follow." "No. This is nothing like that. It comes from below. Maybe a climber stranded on a cliff," you lie. "There. I hear it again. It comes on the updraft." He leaves your touch and moves away from the edge as if seeking some strategic position. You hear him behind you, shuffling among the rocks, and you wonder if he's moving your cane. You wish to feel the tip on the ground, rake it from side to side, feel the dirt and push around loose rocks. You reach out in front as if with cane in hand, the other arm out to the side for balance. He's talking to you again, his voice subtly changed, hardly disguising an air of inquisition, asking if you remember being here, asking if the presence of the Canyon is somewhat familiar? Is it filtering through your darkness? He's close behind you, too close. "In the past, your eyes would have filled with a palette of colors, painting," he suggests, "the layered rim that cuts off the blue sky and the strata that goes from dirt-pink to chalk-white to rust, and the cliffs that fall away to the green valley and the river below."
- Walking That Short Distance, Childhood Enlightenment in the '50s: Short Stories, #2
2
As the bull ran, his huge pink testicles swung from side to side like the clapper of a bell. The year was 1952 and eleven year old Michael was standing in the dirt yard in front of the house with the milk barn off to his left, looking across the corral into Mr Olson's field where the Holstein bull followed a heifer in a half run, his nose at her tail. Michael's father had called his attention to the bull and heifer and had then disappeared into the barn where he was working on the milking machines. His father was sometimes like that, calling Michael's attention to something disgusting and then laughing while Michael watched. But Michael was fascinated with what the bull was doing even though he was ashamed of himself for continuing to watch. He didn't like to cater to his father's more base tendencies. As Michael watched, the heifer slowed and the bull jumped easily with his front hooves, placing his chin on her rump, elevating his chest and mounting her. His hind legs, now carrying his full load, struggled to keep up. The patch of scraggly hair and hide that hung from the center of his belly puckered and out came a thin pointed shaft, so red and dripping wet that Michael thought at first that it was bleeding, and the trembling end of it bent down like it was broken. The shaft was shooting out, hitting her rear end, then off to the side along her hip, lashing around like a whip, until it found the right spot and disappeared inside. Michael thought it must hurt the cow to have that thing in her but then realized that she was running with him not from him, that she was really helping him. But it is so long, he thought, what could it be doing inside her? He visualized it inside her wrapping around her intestines, nudging her organs. Why wouldn't that hurt? He thought of the bull's raw looking shaft and how sensitive it must be, how warm it must be inside that heifer. While Michael was thinking, the bull's front hooves dangled about her shoulders, and his knotty head stared straight ahead, bulging eyes drilling holes in the sky as his huge hips churned. Michael swallowed deeply, looked down at his black-cloth tennis shoes, then raised his dark brown eyes and looked across the pasture to the green fields of cotton and corn. He heard the screen door slam and turned to see his mother, with her apron on, watching him through a frown, her hands on her hips. He didn't understand what the bull and cow were doing, but he knew there was something indecent about it. His mother was making sure he knew. He felt wedged between his father and mother. He would set Michael up, and she would chop him down. Why wouldn't they talk to him about these things? he wondered, as he brushed curly blond hair out of his eyes. First it was the two dogs that got hooked together some how and couldn't get loose. His father had simply laughed and walked away. Michael had tried to talk to his mother about it, but she just shut him up and fell into a mad silence. And now this silent disapproval over the bull and heifer. Why did his mother just stand there like that? Why didn't she say something? Why didn't his father say something? * Michael sat in a chair at the kitchen table with his right leg folded under him, constructing a totem pole for his class on North American Indians, an orange and white striped cat named Tiger sleeping in his lap. He was alone in the house with his mother, and he like that. She switched off the static coming from the small Philco radio and leaned against the sink as she hummed "Just a Closer Walk With Thee," peeling and slicing potatoes into a large glass bowl. It was dark outside, and through the house walls, Michael heard the deep hum of the vacuum pump, the machine that sucked milk from the cow's teats, coming from the milk barn. Through the night air, the hum alternated from high to low pitch. Michael felt comforted by this pulsing heartbeat from the barn.
- Short Stories For Older, and Not Quite So Old, Children
1
Tales about sticky confectionary, talking fish, restless gargoyles, mysterious magical eggs in the depths of space, a reasonable giant rat, worlds made with words and worlds drowned in rivers of chocolate... For teenagers and children. (Some suitable for adults as well.)
- Short Stories, Sweet and Sour Fiction
2
The bonds people forge can be glorious, everlasting and filled with devotion. All too often they are problematic and dogged by regrets. Many more are not what they seem. Devotion to a lost partner is one thing, devotion to the long dead quite another, and an orang-utan with a sweet tooth can be more appreciative than the family everything has been sacrificed for.
- High Heels, With a Touch of Prufrock: Short Stories, #1
1
Brenda is sitting up in bed leaning against the headboard with the white sheet and pink quilt pulled to her neck. She's naked and has her right hand down between her legs and her left hand on her right nipple squeezing hard. She's also thinking hard about Norman Todd, so hard in fact sweat is breaking out on her forehead and in her armpits. Spit is filling her mouth so fast she has to keep swallowing to keep it from running down her chin. She's thinking of the future, on a fantasy date with Norman, and he's got her where she wants to be most, pinned on her back in the seat of his brand new '57 T-Bird. She's also thinking of the past, about losing her virginity two months ago with Thomas Powers in the grassy foothills just outside of town (wondering why it happened with him, he's such a jerk), and the steamy date she had with Melvin Swensen last night. She can't believe how delicious he was. Her problem is, she can hear her mother's high heels clicking rapidly on the hardwood floor down the hall toward her bedroom. Brenda hopes she can come before her mother does. And, she's wondering why her mother is wearing high heals. The reason Brenda's mother has hurried down the hall and is now turning the doorknob to Brenda's bedroom (Brenda is at this very second in the throes of ecstasy) has a lot to do with the reason she's wearing high heels. Her name is Ramona, and today she is forty. Just yesterday she was thinking that when she was born, her grandmother was forty, and she had always thought her grandmother was very old. Now Ramona is the same age her grandmother was then. That's bugging the shit out of her, even though she's not a grandmother, maybe in part because she is not a grandmother; maybe she could accept her age if she was a grandmother; but the fact is, she's not. She exists in this woman's no-woman's-land; she still feels young and vital, and she has never crossed over into that state of mind, that state of mental existence, that state of being old and knowing it, as she expected she would. She specifically does not mean a state of acceptance; no that is not what she means at all. When you are old, she thinks, it should be like you were always old. You shouldn't have to accept it. You're just that — old. Enough said. It is on you just like skin. You don't even have to think about it. Someone asking about your age should be like asking about your skin. "Do you have skin?" "Yes, I have skin, of course I have skin," you would reply. Just like that. No question about it. "Are you old?" "Of course I'm old. I'm forty. I've always been old. What a silly question." But it just isn't that way. That isn't the way she feels at all. So Ramona at her advanced age, and yet still feeling very young, put on her high heels this morning just after breakfast, after she fixed a breakfast of ham, eggs and toast...
- Widdershins
1
When Roland's daughter and his wife Berdine disappear into thin air right in front of his eyes in his own back yard he is shocked. When his eccentric old neighbor comes around and tells him his family has been taken to Elfland he is skeptical at first, but he will go there if he must and face the Goblin King to get his family back. (This story is a modern retelling of an old English folktale.)
- The Gold Watch
2
While prospecting a creek in the Cariboo Mountains near Barkerville in 1866, Pete comes across the corpse of a murdered man clutching a gold watch in his hand. Pete decides to return the watch to Sylvia, the name engraved on the back, but the owner of the watch, even though he is dead, has vengeance in mind, and a job for Pete. This story first appeared in Crimson Online Magazine #13, 2000.
- To All a Good Night, a Short Story
3
He knew immediately he was dead. No soldier worth his salt ignored the possibility of instant death in a war zone. He'd seen death happen seven times in the weeks before it bit him. Seven men from his platoon. Each went home, not to joyous families, but laid out in a six-foot dead box. He would be number eight. He hovered over that blown apart, used-to-be body. strewn in pieces amidst the thigh-high wavering grass, sinking into muddy water, and knew he would never breathe another breath of life; never hold Leanne and Gabe again. A bright light appeared in the east. It exerted a powerful pull, a promise of peace. Then something whispered in his mind about unfinished business. To All a Good Night is T. M. Simmons' annual Christmas story for her readers and family. She wishes everyone love, family, friends, and happy endings for Christmas.
- Dragon's Dishonor, A Short Story
2
Dragon's Dishonor is a short story, published for my readers who enjoy October and Halloween with me. It also contains the first chapter of Dead Man Hand, my paranormnal mystery. Devastated and left severely injured in the wreck that killed his wife, Rose, and their unborn child, Matt finds something unbelievable on a periodic visit to his wife's grave. No veterinarian on earth would ever think he'd be called to treat a wounded dragon lying in a cemetery. But Matt's not dreaming up the dragon's friends, who insist he join them on their knights-of-old quest to free the dragon's mate from the evil Milara.
- Key Service
3
Robert Jarvis has a problem with losing or misplacing his keys far more than the average person. Fortunately he has one of those little plastic "Key Service" tags on his key ring so they keep getting returned to him. So far the service has been free. Until a strange-looking dwarf shows up at his door asking for a dollar before handing over his keys.
- Lakeside Motel
13
(2970 words) When Dwight has an argument with his wife and storms out of the house he is forced to take a motel room for the night. All the motels in the small town are full but at the Lakeside Motel he finagles his way into a room reserved for someone with a similar name. Later that night he has an unusual visitor.
- Short SF Stories, Tales for Technophobes
3
Sentient beings who refuse to accept that they could have evolved from such lowly origins as the primeval slime often end up surrendering to their own technology. From supercomputers that control Earth to plasma beings created to protect space museums, there is always that glitch which compels them to think again. And what hope do the electronically dependant, who expect nanobots to clean their fingernails have when confronted by a moon-sized greenhouse occupied by voracious vegetables hunting for new pastures, or a monster munching its way through the fairyland characters around which their lives revolve? Survival does not necessarily depend on the fittest.
- Witch's Skin
While cleaning the attic in her inherited old house Suzi finds a secret room containing a shelf full of mysterious items and a shrine dedicated to a murder trial from decades ago. The room also contains a booby trap, a spell that compels her to don the long-dead witch's skin like a garment. A slightly different version of this story appeared in Tales Of The Talisman, Vol.4 #4, Apr. 2009.
- Upon a Midnight Clear
6
A short story. Can ghosts travel into the past? Is the magic around Christmas time strong enough that past wrongs can be righted? Upon Midnight Clear is T. M. Simmons' annual Christmas short story for her readers. Enjoy!
- To Ride A Tall Horse
A Western short story by L. J. Martin, takes a youth, who's family is starving, from near Paso Robles into the great, dry, western San Joaquin Valley, where he accepts a horseback ride from a group of vaqueros. Based on a true story. When the Anglos won California from the Mexicans, little law prevailed, and some very bad things resulted. A Western short story by L. J. Martin. Works by L. J. Martin: Shadow of the Mast Tenkiller Mojave Showdown El Lazo Against the 7th Flag The Devil’s Bounty The Benicia Belle Shadow of the Grizzly Rush to Destiny Windfall Condor Canyon Blood Mountain Stranahan McKeag’s Mountain McCreed’s Law O’Rourke’s Revenge Wolf Mountain Nemesis Venomous (Fourplay) Sounding Drum (Last Stand) From The Pea Patch Write Compelling Fiction Killing Cancer Internet Rich (with Mike Bray) Google+ (with Mike Bray) Tin Angel (with Kat Martin) Crimson Hit (with Bob Burton) Bullet Blues (with Bob Burton) Quiet Ops (with Bob Burton) Myrtle Mae (cartoons) Cooking Wild & Wonderful
- Incident In A Tomb
6
A short H.P. Lovecraft-inspired horror story. When Joe and his cousin Ward broke into a tomb to try out a spell to raise an ancestor they got some unexpected results.
- Dry Winter
4
In this short story a family man ends up in the Colorado high plains to take care of business after the dead of his alcoholic father who he has not seen in almost twenty years. The father he knew and had the displeasure of growing up with is not the man buried in the wind swept cemetery. Something has happened in the years since and a journey of discovery starts.
- The Ghost In The Kettle
A slightly different version of this ghost story was published in Midnight Times # 18, Summer 2007, under the title "In The Kettle". When Jeff first heard about the ghost at the Phoenix Tire Retreading Plant he thought the old timer was pulling his leg, but when a young coworker told him the ghost wanted to talk to him he had to change his thinking. Author's note: Yes, I actually worked in a tire retreading plant one summer, many years ago.
- Winterland
(5850 words) After Bryce's eight-year-old daughter tells him she can't remember last summer, or any summer for that matter, he starts to notice discrepancies in the world of his cozy little town. How long has this winter lasted? And why does he feel so cold all the time? A slightly different version of this story appeared in Wild Violet, Feb. 2013.
- Joyride
9
A slightly shorter version of this story originally appeared in “Tales Of The Talisman”, Volume 1, Issue 2, Sep. 2005. Darien thought he was pretty clever when he stole the Black and Gold Special Edition 1977 Trans Am before Fast Eddy could get to it, but before he can sell it he has to endure a road trip fraught with mishaps. And what's with that license plate?
- Forces Of Evil: The Board Game
(6300 words) A horror short story about a young couple at a cabin in the woods who find a role playing board game about defending a warehouse from an army of zombies. By playing the game and losing they shift the balance, giving evil the upper hand. As evil runs rampant in the world they race against time and zombies to set things right.
- The Eruption At Mount Sarna
Zakk has it made; a legitimate store front selling relics of the past, an illegal operation selling fake artifacts in other cities, and an entire buried city to loot, as long as he can keep it secret. Then the temple is discovered, with a sealed door protected by spells in a chamber below the subbasement, and his regular wizard is unavailable.
- When Dogs Bark The Short Story
When Dogs Bark, The Short Story made its debut in 1995 in Story Magazine. Soulfires published it in 1996, followed by publication in the iconic and awe-inspiring anthology SHADE, edited by Bruce Morrow and Charles H. Rowell. The writer reissued it in 2000 as part of his personal collection. You may think with a name like Jethro, our story is the tale of a country bumpkin on a visit to New York City. It’s deeper. There’s a rumbling deep in Jethro’s soul. He has the quirky habit of barking when he’s nervous. It starts with a low growl when he’s mildly agitated, to a ferocious bark when he feels endangered. One day after he gets fed up with his wife and her cousin Jethro decides to step out and explore New York on his own. As he rides the subway he’s doing his low growl thing the keep the creeps away (just imagine). He catches the attention of Toni a cross dresser recently released from the army. It becomes a wild weekend of sex and self-discovery until a dangerous encounter with a gang of boys sends Jethro back to the arms of his wife, Eartha Pearl. Is Jethro a changed man? Only time will tell. Harvey captures te flavor of New York with the best of them. Excerpt: I say, “Now wait a minute, Jethro, you ain’t gonna have no cultural experiences stuck scared here on this stoop. Suppose Columbus had just sat on a stoop all his life. Just suppose. Shit. A man must take action!” While I sit debating, this big white dude in chains and leather walks toward me. Now, these chains ain’t dainty little things you get from Spiegel’s catalog. These chains come from the Navy yard. I mean these chains can lift submarines. He wears three around his neck, five on each wrist, and two on each ankle. Now the chains do not bother me. The fact that he has on funky raw uncured leather does not bother me. Even the glass eye--I hope it’s glass--dangling from his left earlobe on a chain does not bother me. What bothers me is when he turns in my direction, and grabs his grapefruit sized crotch and smiles—that’s what bothers ol’ Jethro here. I say, “Uh oh Jethro, somebody wants you to swing a certain way. And I don’t swing that way.” I wonder why he pick on me? So what if I do have on these black high top sneakers, shorts with Texas bluebonnets all over them, and a pink tee-shirt that says, “I BRAKE FOR MOONERS--that don’t mean I’m gay. Shit. I’m just a colorful dude. Well okay if you want to count that time when I was in the eighth grade and me and Johnny Scardino grabbed each other’s rods behind the gym bleachers. I wouldn’t have gone back there with him, but he told me he had two and he would show me if I showed him mine. Okay, it tickled and I got a hard-on when he grabbed me and I grabbed him out of reflexes, but I haven’t seen Johnny since the eighth grade. I dreamed about him once, since I been married to Eartha Pearl. But I woke up and made love to Eartha real quick. So anyway I hang my head and growl softly at the man in leather. He must think I’m calling him to dinner ‘cause he moves a little closer. When I see him step, I bark louder. And not yap yap like a poodle either. I’m Doberman and Great Dane combined. I rattle nearby windows. New York people stare at me as they walk by. And they tell me you’re doing something when you can get a New Yorker to stare at you eye-level on the street. The dude slinks away like he’s carrying a tail between his legs.
- Late Night Delivery
(4230 words) A librarian, working night shift in a library, gets an unexpected shipment of unusual books. Because she signed for the order she feels responsible, so when the crates of books are stolen right in front of her she tries to intervene. She is kidnapped and taken for a wild ride in a horse-drawn coach in an alternate world. (Author's note: This is mostly my wife's story.)
- Short Stories, Found Online
Aspirations and desires that were once out of reach are now available with a brief word search. Feeling the weight of the world? Float above it in a Body Balloon. Need an angel to rescue you from the purgatory of an offspring? The dog with the smiley face will show you how. Or just want to crochet a different dimension? Click "pay now" and change your life.
- Monsters Among Us
Monsters Among Us, a novella, is T. M. Simmons annual Halloween story. Collin Cassidy, known as The Slayer, has enemies in the demon underground who will do anything to kill him. Faytareena has her own reason for seeking revenge against The Slayer, who killed her demon father and human mother. She's also bound by the contract Baltheezer tricked her into signing, and racing against the approaching deadline that will change her life one way or another: Halloween at midnight. Come join T. M. Simmons as she takes you deep into the mountains where not only do monsters roam, but good has battled evil through the centuries.
- Short Stories, Sinister Tales for Teens
Don’t look now because the clown from Hell is right behind you, the smog is melting people away into another dimension, and monsters roam the golf course. Your friendly, helpful smartphone could be the portal to Purgatory and that mysterious toyshop holds a secret to turn the toughest teenage mind. Not suitable for younger children.
- Short Stories: Fantasy, Fiction and Horror
The individual often has a more original outlook on life than those who always crave company. With no distractions, the unexpected can also seek them out - for better or worse. They can cure the ills of the world, discover what older sisters really do for a living, choose between a fortune or life, bring down the wrath of demons with unbridled petulance, and touch entities from another dimension.
- Short Stories, Crimes, Cults and Curious Cats
Review by Waverley: Worth the money for the cover alone (a stunning combination of colours enhancing an intricate design), but there's more on offer than just a nice cover. The alliterative title gives the clue to the content, although I had the sense that the curious cats were slightly tacked on as an afterthought to the crimes and the cults. Jonathan Day writes sharply and amusingly, with a nice line in wry/snide social comment that will raise more than the occasional smile, but he's also a gifted story-teller - almost too gifted, really, for the chosen format, because so many of these stories feel as if they could (perhaps should) have been developed further - most contain enough material for a novella, if not a full-length novel. Although the style of writing is light and humorous, some of the stories have serious subtexts (on occasion, the subtexts threaten to subvert the actual narrative, as in "Behold, the Face of God", even though the twist in this, possibly one of the less convincing stories, is cleverly managed). The author's art and achievement is to combine fast-moving and entertaining narrative with thought-provoking reflection about a world (or worlds) that can prove to be nastier places than we'd ideally like them to be.
L. J. Martin
L. J. Martin is the author of four dozen published works. He lives in Montana with his wife, NYT best-selling romantic suspense and historical romance author Kat Martin. They enjoy travel, cooking, hunting, fishing, photography, and wintering in California. Learn more about L. J. at www.ljmartin.com, www.wolfpackranch.com, and more about Kat at www.katmartin.com. Or search facebook and other social media sites for L. J. Martin and Kat Martin.
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