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    Jumble Sale
    Jumble Sale
    Jumble Sale
    Ebook214 pages2 hours

    Jumble Sale

    By Dale T. Phillips

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    About this ebook

    This blend of previously-published stories crosses many genres: science fiction, crime, fantasy, horror, humor, magic realism, and mainstream. There are fractured fairy tales, cautionary parables, peeks into disturbed minds, and amusing little romps. Everything from people with problems to giant lobsters, demonic creatures, small-time gangsters, and perverted dwarves. They are a mix of many types, with something for just about anyone. Stories of odd happenings, of criminals, of ordinary people with issues, of strange worlds. Something that gives you a shiver of frisson or a chuckle, or a chance to think about the world in a new way. Come take a sip from the dark myth pool of the human psyche, and taste a strange wine.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGenretarium Publishing
    Release dateJan 3, 2014
    ISBN9781386094111
    Jumble Sale
    Author

    Dale T. Phillips

    A lifelong student of mysteries, Maine, and the martial arts, Dale T. Phillips has combined all of these into the Zack Taylor series. His travels and background allow him to paint a compelling picture of a man with a mission, but one at odds with himself and his new environment. A longtime follower of mystery fiction, the author has crafted a hero in the mold of Travis McGee, Doc Ford, and John Cain, a moral man at heart who finds himself faced with difficult choices in a dangerous world. But Maine is different from the mean, big-city streets of New York, Boston, or L.A., and Zack must learn quickly if he is to survive. Dale studied writing with Stephen King, and has published over 70 short stories, non-fiction, and more. He has appeared on stage, television (including Jeopardy), and in an independent feature film. He co-wrote and acted in a short political satire film. He has traveled to all 50 states, Mexico, Canada, and through Europe. He can be found at www.daletphillips.com

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      Book preview

      Jumble Sale - Dale T. Phillips

      Copyright © 2012 Dale T. Phillips

      Cover Design copyright 2012 Melinda Phillips http://www.snapichic.com

      All rights reserved.

      Yesterday and Today was first published in Space and Time, Summer 1996, and later in Atomjack, Issue #87

      Tree of Sorrows was first published in Plot, Summer 1996

      Bootleggers was first published in Short-Story.Me!, June 2010, and in their Best Genre Stories Anthology #2, Nov 2010

      Night of the Annoying Dead was first published in

      Flashes in the Dark, Dec 2010

      The Pit was first published in Ethereal Gazette, Dec 2007

      The Great Snipe Hunt was first published in

      New Myths, March 2010

      Nighthawks was first published in Big Pulp, Nov 2008

      Blades and Butchery was first published in

      Aofie’s Kiss, March 2009

      Diary of an At-Home Writer was first published in

      Eric’s Hysterics, May 2011

      Kamikaze Hipsters was first published in

      Dark Valentine, Dec 2010

      The Little Guy was first published in Sorcerous Signals, Feb 2010

      Carnival of Pain was first published in Dark Valentine, Oct 2010

      Rummy was first published in House of Horror, Dec 2009

      God Save the Queen was first published in Kasma, March 2010

      The Easiest Man to Kill was first published in

      Crime and Suspense, Dec, 2008

      Locust Time was first published in Fungi, #20, March 2011

      Body English was first published in

      Gluttonlumps Chilling Tales, Oct 2008

      The Thriller Writer was first published in

      The Funny Times, April 2011

      The Mousetrap was first published in

      Over My Dead Body, Aug-Sept. 2011

      Heartsounds was first published in Every Day Fiction, Jan. 2011

      Try these other works by Dale T. Phillips

      Shadow of the Wendigo (Supernatural Thriller)

      The Zack Taylor Mystery Series

      A Memory of Grief

      A Fall From Grace

      A Shadow on the Wall

      A Certain Slant of Light

      A Sharp Medicine

      Story Collections

      Fables and Fantasies (Fantasy)

      More Fables and Fantasies (Fantasy)

      Crooked Paths (Mystery/Crime)

      More Crooked Paths (Mystery/Crime)

      The Last Crooked Paths (Mystery/Crime)

      More Crooked Paths (Mystery/Crime)

      Strange Tales (Magic Realism, Paranormal)

      Apocalypse Tango (Science Fiction)

      Halls of Horror (Horror)

      Jumble Sale (Different Genres)

      The Big Book of Genre Stories (Different Genres)

      Non-fiction Career Help

      How to Improve Your Interviewing Skills

      With Other Authors

      ROGUE WAVE: BEST NEW England Crime Stories 2015

      Red Dawn: Best New England Crime Stories 2016

      Windward: Best New England Crime Stories 2017

      Insanity Tales

      Insanity Tales II: The Sense of Fear

      Sign up for my newsletter to get special offers

      http://www.daletphillips.com

      DEDICATION

      To Regina, who always cheered and supported as the words piled up and got better.

      CONTENTS

      Foreword

      Welcome to the jumble ! A jumble sale is a term from the British Isles, describing a sale/social function, often run by a church or local organization, with odd lots of mismatched stuff for sale at bargain prices.

      In America, we’d call it a rummage sale, yard sale, or tag sale. But those are different, and not appropriate as a title for this collection. These stories are jumbled, a mixture of things that are not matched. They’re a blend of science fiction, crime, fantasy, horror, humor, magic realism, and mainstream. All of these stories were previously published, either for a print or an online magazine. They were selected from hundreds of submissions, and thought worthy of pay and publication. And now you have hundreds of dollars’ worth of stories for a bargain price.

      In a jumble sale, like an old antique shop, you never know what you’ll find. That’s part of the fun, making serendipitous discoveries by poking into odd corners. There’s the familiar, there’s oddball stuff that you’ve never seen before—but looks fun to play with, and every so often, a real treasure, like an antique cameo or a genuine ruby ring in amongst the costume jewelry. All previously owned, all available for mere pennies.

      But in a jumble sale somebody liked each piece that is displayed, like these stories that were bought by various editors. It is my hope you will find a treasure or two here, something to carry back to the workaday world and share with like-minded people. Something that gives you a shiver of fright or a chuckle, or a chance to think about the world in a new way.

      To the question Where do you get your ideas? the answer is the same as many have said before. The stories come from the great myth pool, that dark watering hole of the human race. People from Jung to Stephen King have written of this process, of bringing back a tale from some corner of that wine-dark sea. Writers go to mental places off the beaten track, to return with a taste of something different. Whether disturbing, funny, or weird, they are all a part of us, and all have a reason to be.

      Not everyone likes the taste of what is brought back:, a dark, powerful, strong flavor, mixed with the clay dredged up with it. We writers mold that clay, taking days, weeks, or even years to make something out of it, some figure that will have meaning. We make continual trips to the myth pool, and keep folding in more and stranger stuff. Sometimes the finished product will represent the material it’s made of, and the result is good and powerful, multi-layered and multi-hued, and presenting a refreshingly new view when seen from different angles.

      The work is not easy, like most things that matter. There’s sweat and blood and a lot of frustrated tears in the work, and that’s why it matters. Real writers are born to it, and keep going despite the opinion of the world. Every work day, the writer looks at that white sheet of blank paper, like a lump of new clay, and tries to create art.

      It’s akin to taking off all your clothes and giving an extemporaneous, exerting, and entertaining speech in front of the world, with abusive hecklers in the audience.

      So when someone responds to the things we’ve created, and comments intelligently, we’re pleased. We’ve created a resonance, something that has affected someone. Even the ugly, embarrassing pieces have meaning to someone.

      So come and poke around in the jumble. There are fractured fairy tales, cautionary parables, peeks into disturbed minds, and amusing little romps. Everything from giant lobsters to perverted dwarves. Here’s hoping you have an interesting time, and find something of value.

      As a writer, I’ve had many influences, and I’d like to acknowledge and thank three of the great short story writers, Harlan Ellison, Stephen King, and Ray Bradbury. With over a century and a half of work between them, they have made innumerable trips to the darkest, scariest, most painful parts of the myth pool, and returned to shape myriad pieces of shattering brilliance and beauty.

      As humans, we’re squishy meat sacks full of guts, and these writers understand that, and do not shy away from showing us the messy bits. To understand what we are, we have to see that, even if we don’t want to, and they force us to look, but they hold our hand when we do. They don’t tell us pretty lies that everything will be alright, but they acknowledge the pain we feel as we take our brief spin atop this big blue ball of dirt.

      But they also tell us we can be more—gods instead of mudworms, courageous instead of trembling and fearful. We can, and should, stand and face the darkest, most evil thing going—and spit in its horrid, three-lobed eye.

      That’s a very important message, and one of the many reasons they should be saluted and read. I don’t have a fraction of their enormous talent, but I understand parts of what they’re saying, and I appreciate the eloquence and style in which they say it. Much, if not all of what is here would not be anything like it is without their work.

      If you like these tales, please check out other titles. And thanks for reading.

      http://www.daletphillips.com

      Yesterday and Today

      Corman awoke with a clear head and no confusion, all ghosts of the past in their proper places. It was heady and frightening to be this lucid again. Corman lay on the bed, carefully sorting memories, pleased when none dragged him down another tributary of the past. He lay in an unfamiliar room that had no reminders, no traps to lead him into the shifting maze of times before. The room had an odd, musty smell, but not one that triggered any memories.

      Corman was therefore not surprised to find himself alone in the bed. Unlike so many other mornings, he didn’t expect any wives or lovers he had once known. Naked, he sat up and swung his feet to the floor. The cool surface felt good. Corman stood and stretched, his 200 years feeling light on his healthy, muscular body. His bladder alerted him with pressure, and he went to relieve himself. The disposal unit wasn’t working, but he used the imitation porcelain out of habit.

      Returning to the bedside, he looked around the room. There were no loose items, other than his clothing and knapsack. He checked the Autostore unit by habit; it was of course not functioning. Corman rummaged in his pack and came up with a container of food. The preservatives left his mouth dusty and dry, but there was no liquid to wash it down with. His trip to the relieving room had been disappointing; water had not flowed through to these rooms for years.

      Corman tried to open the window. The mechanism was unfamiliar and fairly ancient, but with determination he created an opening. The sky was an ugly, pallid gray. Corman couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a blue sky. There were so many things he couldn’t remember. He could see the street, but detected no movement. He judged himself five stories up, and wondered what had possessed him the previous evening to climb five flights. Corman pulled on his jumpsuit, shouldered the knapsack, and left the room.

      Despite the leaden sky, Corman felt good. In the open air, he pondered what to do. He had no idea how long he had before the random access of PreSen deposited him in some hole of times gone by. Finding he recognized this part of the city, he began walking toward the park.

      There were no people about, which disturbed Corman. Despite PreSen, this had been a populous city; somebody should be visible. He noted the dismal decay, the weeds poking up through the streets. The wind blew cold, vengefully biting Corman through the jumpsuit’s insulation. It was late Autumn; Winter was not far away. More people died in Winter. Some were suicides, others just wandered out into the cold. These bodies, seemingly forever young, could still be halted by neglect.

      Corman looked around, and realized with a start that he was near to where he had met Linda. He wondered if she was still in the old place. It was dangerous, thinking like this. She had been so important in his life that seeing her or the old place might flood his precariously balanced mind with overwhelming memories. He probed his own thoughts delicately. The blessed sense of the present was still with him. He shrugged, and decided to check if she was still around.

      The old place, the place he and Linda had shared for so many years, was in a once-fashionable area. Even this district suffered from the decay infecting the rest of the city.

      Several blocks from the old place, he saw a husky man standing in the street. The man looked down one street, then slowly turned to look in the opposite direction, his expression that of a child. Corman knew he was lost, in both time and place, and walked over. Hello, he said.

      The man peered back at Corman, looking puzzled. Where am I?

      South side of the city, by the causeway. Do you know where you live?

      The man thought a moment. His hands, thick and strong-looking, fluttered aimlessly. The movement looked out of place on him. He seemed about to cry. I... I don’t know. He jammed his hands into his pockets, seeming to be ashamed at forgetting.

      It’s okay, said Corman softly. The only way I remember is with my Card. Corman pulled the metal rectangle from his own pocket and held it up for the man to see. You don’t happen to have yours on you, do you?

      The man frowned at the piece of metal in Corman’s hand. He searched his pockets, scowling.  His face lit up as he brought forth the shiny Card and proffered it to Corman. Corman took the Card and read it.

      George Martin, he announced. Hi George. My name’s Corman. He stuck out his hand.

      How ya doin’? George pumped Corman’s hand and grinned, eager and friendly, like a big dog.

      Good, George, good. Your Card says you live not too far from here. I happen to be going that way. The lie came easily. Why don’t I walk with you?

      That’d be great. The big man looked vastly relieved. He took his Card back and followed Corman, chatting happily. He spoke of owning a car, back before they were banned. He made it sound like a very short time ago, but Corman hadn’t seen a car in over seventy years. He couldn’t recall the last time he had been in one. He didn’t try too hard, for fear of slipping back. He was glad the man still had his Card on him; a stroke of luck these days, really. The Cards had been issued when Premature Senility, or PreSen, was finally acknowledged as a legitimate illness.

      Corman remembered getting his Card, which emitted a beep if he got more than two meters away from it. In spite of this, some people still lost theirs. At first, the Caretakers would patiently find the person and return the Card, but eventually they lost control of their own memories, and drifted away like the rest. Even the Card could not remind people strongly enough about the present.

      George talked about his family, who lived with him in the suburbs. He told how they had to take care of his mother, apparently an early victim of PreSen. A cloud passed over the man’s features as the mention of PreSen shuffled his memory.

      That was a long time ago, he said apologetically. Sorry, I forget sometimes.

      We all do now, George, Corman said.

      George turned quiet. Corman knew he was trying to get back into the present, treading carefully, like Theseus through a maze.

      They rounded a corner onto a broad boulevard, passing empty skeletons of skyscrapers. With everything so quiet, the sky could have been a comforting blanket, but Corman saw it as a shroud. Depressed, he looked out over the collapsed causeway, and saw several birds flying over the water. The sight gladdened him.

      They turned twice more. Corman checked the numbers to find the correct one on an old brownstone. He stopped. George stumbled, looking up at the broken windows and the crumbling steps. He turned and peered at Corman suspiciously.

      Who are you? he asked.

      Just someone passing by, Corman replied sadly. You live here, don’t you?

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