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“Father’s Day” Short Story by B. Craig Grafton

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"Father's Day" Fiction by B. Craig Grafton

Not a call. Not from either of them. Too busy to call their father this Father’s Day. Well, that’s the way kids were today. Actually, they weren’t really kids anymore. They were both grown with families of their own and way too busy with themselves and their kids to have time for anyone else. But still maybe they would call. After all, there was a two-hour time zone difference.

Ward R. McGuinty, sixty-eight, looked out the window of his inherited hundred plus year old farmhouse, the house he grew up in, raised his family in, and stared into the cloudless heavens  waiting for a call and trying to remember if he called his father on Father’s Day each year. But he couldn’t remember. His mind was as blank as the sky, and this frightened him.

But he did remember certain things about his father though, dumb things, funny things, meaningful things, happy things, good times things. Things that no one else in the whole world would ever know but him and he thought that maybe he should tell his kids about them now before his mind goes or he dies, and they are lost forever.

His father had been a farmer, a second-generation farmer. Ward was the third generation on this farm. His grandparents settled and died here and were buried in the cemetery down the road. Their gravestones proudly proclaimed their heritage.  “Born in County Down Ireland. Died in Western Illinois.” His parents were buried there too but with just their names and dates, no mention of their place of birth or death. Ward knew that his time too soon would be coming and that he too would be buried there, the last McGuinty to be buried there. No telling where his children would be buried. They hadn’t lived here for years. The farm wasn’t their home anymore. They had no ties to the land.

So realizing his days were numbered, Ward tried to recall all he could about his father to tell to his kids when they called. If they called. He first remembered back to when he was just a little boy and had called his father Daddy, then Dad when he was a teenager, but now as an adult he simply thought of his father by his name, Bob, and it was Bob now that jogged his memory.

Bob was loquacious. Loved to talk. Chatty was the word for him. His mother called their  barnyard Grand Central Station as all the local farmers would gather there to talk to Bob. Leaning against their pickup trucks, they would talk for the longest time about things like the price of beans and corn, what hogs and cattle were going for, politics, and the weather of course. Farmers always talked about the weather. Back then the weather was just that, weather. It wasn’t climate change or global warming yet. It wasn’t political. Thank God for that thought Ward since ‘political correctness’ would surely have driven Bob up the wall. Actually, anything political got him worked up.

Ward remembered Bill Bowen, one of their old neighbors, who liked to get Bob going on politics. The two of them had this little routine that they would always go through whenever discussing the same. Bill would always start it with, “Well you know. That’s what they say,” and then wait for Bob to bite. Which he always did of course.

 “No Bill I don’t know what ‘they’ say. What do ‘they’ say?”

“Well, you know. They say,” answered Bill shrugging his shoulders.

 “No, I don’t know Bill. Who are these ‘they’ that you’re talking about? ‘They’ got any names. ‘They’ got any phone numbers that I can call and find out what ‘they’ say?”

BIll would just chuckle in response, shrug his shoulders a second time and run his fingers through his mop of long black thick hair. That was the signal that the Bill and Bob comedy routine was over for now, but it would be repeated the next time these two talked politics.

Funny how one thinks about nonsensical things like this about one’s father on Father’s Day when one should be thinking of the good times with him instead, reflected Ward. So, he shifted his mind to the good times, the county fair times.

Months before the fair each year his father would buy him a 4-H club calf to raise and show. He would feed and take care of it and his father would help him train it to be led around the show ring come fair time. He never won anything, none of his calves were ever in contention, his father stunk at buying winning show calves. But nevertheless, the fair times were happy times for the both of them, preparing the animal,  getting their hopes up and the excitement of the fair each year. But it was his father more than him that enjoyed it all. His father would spend the whole day, every day, at the fair during fair week, and did so for a number of years even after Ward had  outgrown 4-H.

This was because his father had the contract to dispose of all the cattle, hog, sheep and other farm animal manure at the fair each year. The exhibitors would clean their stalls and pile it up outside each building and his father would scoop it up on the end loader, load it into the manure spreader, then drive it down the road and spread it over a field of some farmer who wanted free fertilizer. Every morning he would leave for the fair in the dark and come home in the dark each night. But it wasn’t an all-day job. He could have gotten it done in either the morning or afternoon if he had wanted to. Rather it was an excuse for him to spend all week at the fair talking to everybody and their brother, about any and everything, having a high old time.

Just then Ward thought he heard the phone ring. It didn’t. It was only his imagination, wishful thinking. But the phone prompted Ward to think of something else about his father. How much he loved to talk on the phone. How he would make or take all his calls at mealtimes. Cell phones didn’t exist back then. Sitting there eating his father would yammer away, business calls at noon, personal calls at supper time.

One time at supper when his father answered the phone it was a wrong number. Rather than tell the guy and politely hang up, his father pleaded with the caller to stay on the line and talk to him. His father even told him his name hoping to start a conversation. Yet no matter how hard he tried to coax the caller to reveal his name and talk, the caller refused to do so. “You got a name, don’t you? Well, what is it? I told you mine,” his father pleaded to no avail. Finally the caller got tired of all that nonsense and hung up on him. His father was offended.

Another stupid story thought Ward that he should tell his kids about. Oh well, he knew that it was silly and that his father hadn’t  accomplished anything great in his life to brag about, but so what. Silly things still counted for something too and his kids never really knew their grandfather as they were quite young when he died.

So right then and there, Ward resolved to write down everything that he could think of about his father to pass on to his children. Like the time his father tipped over the combine on a hillside, rode it down, and jumped off at the last moment unhurt. Like the time his father gave away some of his mother’s chickens to a neighbor without her permission. He caught hell and she made him go get them and bring them back. Like the goldfish he kept in the cattle watering tank. Like the way he always said ‘ponsetty’ for poinsettia at Christmas time each year. Things like these.

Just then his thoughts were interrupted. The phone rang and this time he heard it for sure. His wife came in and handed it to him. “It’s our daughter,” she mouthed. Father and daughter talked for over half an hour. The daughter hogged the conversation the whole time talking about how wonderful they all were doing now that they had relocated to California. Occasionally Ward would get in an “Oh I see,” or “Oh that’s nice” or “Uh-huh,” but hardly ever more than a sentence or two. Finally, she announced that she had to run and ended with “Happy Father’s Day. Love Ya Dad.”  To which he replied, “Love you too Sweetie.”

 “Well, what’s the news?” asked his wife, desperate to know what they talked about for over half an hour.

“Oh nothing,” he replied.

She gave him a dirty look but thankfully before she could verbalize her discontent, the phone rang a second time. This time it was their son. And again, Ward sat there and mostly listened. Listened to everything about his son’s family, the boys and all their ball games, and school and church, and their neighbors, as if he cared about people he didn’t even know, and etc. etc. etc. Much the same palavering as his daughter’s call had been and again, he never contributed a full paragraph to the conversation.

“Just called to wish you a happy Father’s Day Dad,” said his son. “Love ya man.”

 “Love you too Son,” he said as he hung up.

Ward chuckled to himself realizing that the loquacious gene had skipped a generation. He didn’t have it but his kids sure did. That’s for sure.

“Well, what’s the news from our son?” his wife asked impatiently.

 “Oh nothing,” came back the same answer again.

His wife shook her head in disgust and growled at him.

He paid her no attention as he sat there wondering what his kids would remember about him when they were old, and he was gone. What stupid or clever or loving things that he had done would they recall. Probably dumb things like he had done just now. He closed his eyes to hide the tears forming therein. Then he shook his head side to side as if to shake away his thoughts. His whole body shuddered and trembled all over.

 “What’s that all about?” asked his wife observing this strange behavior.

“Oh, nothing dear. Nothing at all.”

Retired attorney. His books have been published by Two Guns Publishing.

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“The Shore” Short Story by Kevin DG Johnson

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"The Shore" Fiction by Kevin DG Johnson

When they reopened the island, most people didn’t come back. Hard to blame them. Everything along the shore was gone, the mansions, the high-rise condos, the retirement homes. The storefronts weren’t spared either, and it’s not like we were getting tourists back anytime soon. Enough time had passed that most people, the ones that got out, had settled elsewhere. But me? I was on the first boat back.

We took a boat because the causeway wasn’t rebuilt yet. By “we,” I mean the true locals, the ones born on the island, the ones who can recite the history of the Beacon Pointe Light like we’re reading it off the goddamn plaque. 

It was built in 1891, by the way, made out of iron with a winding, hundred-foot staircase in the middle. When the sun sets, its light can be seen across the island, turning like clockwork, the soft whoosh lulling everyone to sleep. That was before the storm. Now, it’s caked with sticky mud and algae, a sea-born scarecrow, warding off visitors.

I remember stepping off the boat, the straps of my backpack digging into my shoulders. The dock was brand new, higher than the one before, spared from the elements. Not so much for the mainland.

The smell hit us first, a rotten haze between stacks of twisted metal and crooked palms. The sky was gray, humid, sucking up the heat and wringing it over us like a wet towel. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen the sun since I’ve been back, like it got swept away with everything else.

I decided to walk, stretch my legs, free up a seat on the bus for one of the older folks. It was dark by the time I made it home, dodging puddles and branches along the way. My place was in decent shape, still had some roof left. The inside was a graveyard of debris, with traces of water up to the ceiling. Not too bad, all things considered.

Later that night, I saw my first ghost.

I was on the recliner, still damp in spots, sipping a flat beer, staring at the blown-out TV, imagining a baseball game. It was the top of the ninth, no, the bottom of the ninth. Two outs, two runners on, home team down by three. Up comes the cleanup hitter, the big guy, ready to send the game to extras. Free baseball. Doesn’t get any better than that.

Something caught my ear. The sound of footsteps, wet and slow, trudging through the backyard. I downed my beer, tossed the can into one of the junk piles, and made my way towards the kitchen.

The lights flickered, got dimmer, getting used to electricity again. On the patio door, a black shape emerged. A shadow, rocking back and forth with the wind.

“Hello?” I broached a timid step towards the door. “Who’s out there?”

No answer.

“I can see you,” I said, like it mattered. “Mardi, is that you?” I hadn’t seen Mardi on the boat, or anyone else from my block, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Still no answer. I swallowed a lump in my throat and cracked the door.

An old lady stood on trembling knees, hands locked on her elbows, her head down.

“Ma’am?” I opened it the rest of the way. “Is everything alright?”

Water was everywhere, pooling at her feet, dripping from her forehead, her shoulders, her wrists, draining the color from her hair and skin. She looked up, jaw clenched, eyes shut. Her nostrils flared in and out, in and out, every breath a struggle.

“Hang tight,” I said. “Let me get you something.” I tore through every room, a stranger in my own house, until I found a stack of towels.

When I got back to the door, the old lady was gone. I searched the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom, but I couldn’t find her. I circled the house again, stumbling over debris, crushing beer cans under my boots, banging into sharp corners. No sign of her anywhere.

“Ma’am?” I retraced my steps. “Where’d you go?”

Footsteps again, in the backyard. I went outside, the towel slung around my neck. No moon, no stars, no light. I stuck my arms out, let my eyes adjust, crept forward.

I found her by the fence, standing on the fallen pickets, her back to me.

“Here you are.” I draped the towel across her shoulders. It fell to the ground.

The old lady turned. She opened her eyes, opened her mouth, everything glowing white. I shielded my face. A scream rang out, echoed across the yard. Then another. And another.

She wasn’t alone. There were more shadows, more people, drenched from head to toe, a maze of blinding white faces. I stumbled around them, through them, bracing myself for impact but feeling nothing.

I managed to get back inside, tried to lock the door behind me, but the bolt wouldn’t stick. Rusted over. I crawled to the corner, wound up in the fetal position. I might’ve cried, who’s to say.

Next thing I knew, I woke up on the kitchen floor. Daybreak spilled through the windows. The screams were gone. When I built up the courage to check the backyard, the people were gone, too. That’s what I called them at first. People. It made me feel better. But deep down, I knew what they were. And it wouldn’t be long before I saw them again.

Not the same ones. Well, sometimes the same ones. I’ve seen that old lady a few times. Never in my backyard again, but once across the street, staring at a fallen power line, and another time at Deb’s hardware store, wandering through the aisles.

There must be hundreds of them, the ghosts of the island. Some of them I recognize, like Chipper, who used to build benches on his front lawn and yell at people who didn’t stop at the intersection. He still stands in front of his house every morning, what’s left of it anyway, but there aren’t any benches and he doesn’t yell. He just points, opens his mouth, stretching the limits of his face, glowing white.

The worst sighting I had was by the shore, sitting on one of the benches near the dock, waiting for the next boat to come in. I’d just gotten a coffee from the diner, the morning it opened back up.

I wasn’t through my first sip when a little girl ran by, dragging a kite across the fractured concrete. I got up to help, I used to love flying kites, until I saw the trail of water behind her.

She followed me home that day. I wouldn’t turn around, I didn’t want to see her face, pale and innocent, with those horrible glowing eyes. I didn’t go outside for a while after that.

We can all see them, the people who came back. Some of the locals wear silver now, necklaces, rings, belt buckles, whatever they can find. Crazy Larry spread a rumor that silver keeps the ghosts away, but I don’t mind them. They’re not doing anyone any harm. They’re lost, confused, scared, not much different from the rest of us.

Every sunset, the ghosts gather along the shore. At first it was just a few of them, wandering into the gulf until their knees touched the water, shivering, always shivering. Now, it’s all of them, their own little ritual. They wade into the water until the sun goes down, then they disappear into the night. Half the island still doesn’t have electricity, so who knows where they go. 

But me? I go back to my house, crack open a beer, and settle in for another baseball game. My team is undefeated this season. I’m feeling really good about the playoffs.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’m a ghost, too. I see the same people, do the same things, day in and day out. No one else has come back. No one comes to visit. The charities are gone, the food banks are gone, the government tents are gone. The relief checks will stop soon. We’re on our own now. It’s kind of like that old saying about a tree falling in the forest. If you rebuild a town, but nobody’s there to see it, did it really happen?

I think about these things as I sit on my recliner, waiting for another ghost to pay me a visit. Sometimes, I end up at my bedroom window, staring out at the Beacon Pointe Light, its shadow lingering under a dim night sky.

I wait for the light to turn on, for the whoosh to come back, for the heart of the island to beat again. It hasn’t happened yet. It may never happen. We’ll be here if it does.

Kevin DG Johnson is a product manager by day and writer of creepy tales by night. His previous work has appeared in several online publications, most recently The Chamber and Elegant Literature. He can be found on Twitter @KevinDGJohnson.

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“Geraniums” Short Story by Alan Caldwell

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My sister thinks mama tried to leave us once. I don’t think she was serious. I mean, we knew she was tired and that her joints ached and expanded with the changing atmospheric pressures.  Anyway, I don’t know how many NSAID capsules it takes to kill yourself, but evidently it’s more than eleven. Mama wouldn’t talk about it, and we eventually wrote off the overdose as a simple reaction to pain, not a true suicide attempt. Nevertheless, she swole up like a waterbed for a few days, her eyes almost disappearing in folds of expanded flesh. But on the third day, we found her puttering around the garden deadheading her geraniums, still swollen, but very much alive and mobile.

For the next two months, she seemed to have re-set. She was back to her old self, and by old self, I mean she was back to being a relentless bitch like she has been since the Bush Administration. Sometimes they say that being a bitch is all a woman has left. Since daddy died, she has had only geraniums and bitchiness, not necessarily in that order. Despite her attitude, she has had a pretty good summer. She has attended church every Sunday and Wednesday night, often publicly disparaging and dismantling the preacher’s sermons in the parking lot as soon as  the service ended. She even made her legendary mustard-and-pickle-rich potato salad for our Independence day dinner. But, as expected, she complained that it had too many pickles and not enough mustard. All the grandkids loved it anyway.

The last week in August we always have a family gathering to celebrate the inordinate gaggle of birthdays that happen to fall during that month. I once subtracted nine months, and realized that,  evidently, our family prefers to screw immediately after the Thanksgiving meal. Mama contributed not only her aforementioned tater-salad but also an exemplary macaroni and cheese casserole. She seemed happy, well, happy by her standards. In fact, I don’t recall her complaining about a single thing. She even kicked a wayward soccer ball back into play. She is normally the first to depart from any gathering.  I suppose her geraniums do get lonely. This time she stayed till the last rug-rat-filled SUV left the pavilion parking lot. She even helped me clean the tables and empty the trash before she proffered an unsolicited hug, climbed into her ancient Electra 225, and headed home to her beloved botanical family.

Yesterday, I decided to drop by, unannounced of course, since mama will often leave if she knows you’re coming.  Her Buick wasn’t in the yard or in the garage, so I assumed she had headed to the Food Depot. She hates the big box stores and believes Publix and Kroger charge too much. She says she likes shopping with the Mexicans because they are more polite. I told her that sounded kinda racist but I wasn’t sure why.  I needed to pick up a few things, and the Food Depot does have better meats, and the folk there are truly very polite.  I thought I might run into her there.

I always take the back way to town, that way I can cross the Tallapoosa river we often visited when we were kids. I learned to swim there and to fish there. Daddy even even joked that he and mama had created us down in the opening near the big bend. We didn’t know what he meant at the time. By the time I understood what he meant, I didn’t want to think about it.

As I approached the bridge, I could see Mama’s Buick parked on the overlook. I pulled next to it and saw that Mama was sitting inside. The motor was off, and the sound of Country Gold 93.7 wafted from the open windows. She seemed transfixed. I called to her and she turned to see that it was me. She seemed at first distant, and then embarrassed. She told me she was headed to the Food Depot and stopped to listen to the radio for a minute. I nodded and decided to move on and continue to patronize Publix since I inferred that she wouldn’t want me tagging along.

This morning I decided to drop by again. I waited till after eleven, since Mama is sometimes annoyed by early visitors. The garage was closed, so I assumed she was inside the house. I walked around back to the screened porch where one could usually find her on late summer mornings.  The door was latched, so I knocked, and then called out, and then went to the front door, and knocked, and yelled, and rang the doorbell. I finally decided that maybe she and one of the church ladies had embarked on a thrift store adventure. I walked around the Garden for a while. Mama’s geraniums had never looked better, not one darkened petal remained and each head was perfectly round and crimson.

I walked among them for ten or fifteen minutes before deciding to leave. As I passed the garage door, I could hear the Buick idling inside and I knew that Mama was gone. 

Alan Caldwell is a veteran teacher and a new author. He has recently been published in Southern Gothic Creations, Deepsouth Magazine, The Backwoodsman Magazine, and oc87 Recovery Diaries.

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“Peanut Butter on a Day of Summer” Microfiction by Conrad Gardner

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"Peanut Butter on a Day of Summer" Microfiction by Conrad Gardner

I had a rough conversation with my boy today, about him and his girl. It put me in mind about the time I found my ma sitting alone in the kitchen on a hot summer day after she had a doctor’s appointment, looking out the window and across the empty, overgrown fields. She’d tried calling my dad at work about something, she said, but he wasn’t there. I asked was Dad gonna be home late and she said no. She told me to sit down; I did. Most boys have their rebel phase around fifteen, but I’ve been a mama’s boy all my life.

I sat opposite her at the kitchen table, not knowing what to do or say. She reached out and grabbed my hand. Didn’t say anything, but kept a hold on my hand. Tight. She had that look, when you want to say something but can’t, you know what I mean? Then she got up and went to the cupboard, took out a two-thirds full loaf of white bread and jar of peanut butter. Setting it on the table with a couple of knives, she said, ‘I’m going to eat all of this, d’you want to help?’ I said sure, not like I had anything better to do, and we set to it.

Now, the peanut butter was smooth and I’m a crunchy guy, but it didn’t matter, not with the white bread, and I could still lick out the bits that stuck to my teeth. That was always my favourite part with peanut butter. It tasted sweet somehow. Time we finished, my ma had flakes of PB smeared around her lips.

She held my hand again and looked at me for what felt a lot longer than the few seconds it had been, then turned and looked out the kitchen window. The sun had started to set and hovered above the fields. ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’ she said, before coughing. I agreed with her.

Things were good back then, I thought.

Conrad Gardner’s writing has previously been published by AutoFocus, Superlative, and AEL Press. He is based in Herefordshire, England. 

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“Money Games” Short Story by Robert Pettus

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"Money Games" Fiction by Robert Pettus

Jim Nash sat in the backroom at the Keno machine looking on as the wrong numbers lit up, confirming his continued failure. He grabbed the bottle of Budweiser sitting next to the machine, its beading moisture dampening his hand, and took a heavy swig, swilling it around in his mouth, savoring the carbonated bubbles as they popped on his tongue. He put the bottle down and grabbed a half-smoked cigarette from the adjacent ashtray, inhaling and exhaling like a monk meditatively calming his ever-accumulating nerves. Jim was as bald as a monk, that was for sure—all his hair was on his face.

Jim wasn’t from White River—he was an out-of-towner. No one in town really knew him, and that was the way he liked it. That was why he moved out here to bumfuck South Dakota in the first place, out near the reservation, where the population was sparse. He loved it.

Grabbing another beer from the cooler and making a gesture to the cashier as if to signal his intention to pay for it later, Jim walked back into the gaming room and slid another five-spot into the hungry mouth of the Keno machine, which subsisted on a healthy diet exclusively of leafy greens. Jim didn’t give a shit whether he won, he just enjoyed sitting there, drinking beer and smoking cigs as the numbers lit up. He scratched at his long, scraggly, salt-and-pepper beard, rubbing away the collected alcoholic moisture collected on his moustache.

Jim lost again. He didn’t have much luck when it came to Keno, or gambling in general for that matter. He patronized all the numerous local gambling establishments, even the Rosebud Casino, but he couldn’t win the big bucks anywhere. He would win the big bucks someday, though—he felt that in his ageing bones. He could wait until then; it was no problem for him. What he would do with the big bucks, he had no idea. Maybe move to Colorado, build a house on top of a lonesome mountain.

Jim lifted himself from the barstool next to the Keno station—an indent of his ass remnant on the cushion—and paid for his beers. He walked out the door—out onto the gravel road. White River, being as small of a town as it was, had narrow gravel roads everywhere other than Main Street. Jim twisted the key in the ignition of his green, 1993 Ford F150, pulling out of the parking lot onto the road. He drove from the side street out onto Main in the direction of Mission, the adjacent, small Lakota-Sioux reservation town. From there, he would drive to the other side of the reservation, to Rosebud Casino. It was Friday evening—that’s what Jim did on Friday evenings. He lit a cigarette and continued down the road.

Turning up the AM radio, Jim caught the staticky action of the Todd County Falcons, who were playing the neighboring—though out of state—rival Badgers from Valentine, Nebraska. Jim liked football; his eyes widened hearing the excited voice of the commentator.

Jim stared out the opened window as he sped down the road, cool wind from the outside autumn air brushing against his face. He smiled. Jim had no real human relationships—he connected with nature: with the wind, the rain, and the trees. That’s what he told himself, at least. It didn’t matter, anyway—he didn’t need any friends. That’s why he had moved out to bumfuck South Dakota in the first place—to escape people; especially people who were ‘invested in his life’. He hated that. He wanted to be left alone.

It was halftime. Jim, annoyed with the lengthy commercial for the local Buche Foods grocery store, switched from AM to FM, to the indie rock station, and turned up the volume. It was Svefn-g-englar, bySigur Ros. Jim leaned back, enjoying the ambience. It was such an amazing song—it fit in so well with the naturally bleak, endless dry plains of South Dakota.

The streets of Mission were empty. They were always empty—the only places anyone went downtown were a small coffee shop and an amazingly shitty pizza place. Jim wasn’t sure how anyone could truly fuck up pizza to the point that it was nearly inedible, but this place managed it. It tasted like soggy dough topped with semi-solidified, overly sweet ketchup. The streets were even more empty than usual, though, because everyone was up at the high school watching the football game. Jim put the pedal to the metal and exited the small town, onto highway 83—that straight road through the beautifully barren South Dakota steppe; its tall, golden grass waving in seemingly endless unison, like an Elysian hay-sea.

The radio continued, now playing Your Hand in Mine, by Explosions in the Sky. Jim liked emotional, ambient music. He wanted the music itself to make him feel something, not the words. Sometimes, when he got good and drunk, music could be powerful enough to make him cry. He would sob like a bearded baby. Not even for any real reason, either—just the beauty of the organized chords.

Jim stared out the opened window, letting the cool breeze invigorate him. It was sad. There should be bison grazing in these fields. Jim knew there were still bison in other nearby places, but there should be more. Colonizers had destroyed the life and land of the bison, just as they had the indigenous peoples. Tatonka meant bison in Lakota Sioux, Jim had spoken to enough people around the reservation to at least learn that.

About halfway to the casino, Jim pulled off the road into a drive-in fast-food restaurant called Moonlight Diner, his favorite place. Looking at the menu, his truck idling in its parking spot, Jim considered his options. He still hadn’t tried the Rocky Mountain oysters—he wasn’t sure that he would ever be able to bring himself to do that. Jim wasn’t at all a picky eater, but eating testicles was too much. He settled on fry-bread taco, a bag of flaming-hot Cheetos, and a banana milkshake. That would be plenty to fill up his stomach—soak up the previously consumed booze so he could level-headedly consume further.

The rest of the way from Moonlight Diner to the Rosebud Casino was a breezy drive. Looking up, Jim saw the Sicangu Village water tower, which stated that Water is Life. Jim always used the water tower as a signpost, alerting him that he had made it to the casino, otherwise—considering how much he enjoyed staring out into the fields—he might miss it.

“Water is life, and casinos are money,” Jim said to no one as he stepped out of the truck onto the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. “Supply casinos with water, and you’ve got both life and money.” Jim chuckled at himself, walking inside.

After grabbing a couple Budweiser’s and an ashtray, Jim went straight to his favorite slot machine, called Sky Rider. It featured artwork of several women who rode dragons. Dragons were good at collecting gold, Jim knew that from reading The Hobbit so many years ago. He trusted them to handle his money.

Jim never played poker, craps, or blackjack—he lost all his money too quickly doing that shit. Plus, he had to talk to people to play those games. Jim just wanted to sit back, relax, drink a few beers, and smoke several cigs—just like he did at the gas station Keno machine, though in a different location.  

Jim slid a ten-spot into the greedy, squealing machine, subsequently mashing the BET ONE button again and again to no financial avail. Eventually, he leaned back in his black, fake-leather chair, taking a momentary break. He would lose all his money too quickly at this rate—he needed to pace himself if he was going to spend the whole evening in the casino. His meager pension only went so far; if he spent much more, he wouldn’t be able to afford Buche’s overpriced ham, eggs, vegetables, and cheese the following week. Jim was never happy when he didn’t have the necessary supplies to make his morning Denver omelets; it was one of the most important parts of his day. He had been using the same frying-pan for years—a chipped nonstick pan that was light as a feather. Jim loved it—he could cook anything with that pan, especially omelets. Fluffy omelets, too—American style—not that rolled, gooey French mess.

Jim blinked. He had been zoning out. Sometimes thinking about food caused him to do that.  He downed the last of his bottle of beer and lifted himself from the seat, walking toward the bar to get another round. The victory bells were dinging, the lights were flashing, it was Friday night at the casino. The sights and sounds always made Jim so happy. It didn’t matter to him that he never won—he didn’t give a shit about that—he just wanted to witness the atmosphere, to silently participate, in however small of a way, in the local culture.

“One bottle of Bud, please,” said Jim sliding a five-spot across the counter. The bartender took it, shoved it in her drawer—which dinged excitedly, just like the slot machines—and handed Jim his one-dollar change, which Jim subsequently dumped into the tip jar.

“Thanks, honey,” said the bartender. Jim hated it when people he didn’t know called him shit like ‘honey’, but he was in a good mood, so he let it slide. Normally, he would’ve been prone to do some serious bitching and grumbling.

He turned away from the bar right into the short barrel of a Glock G45.

Jim blinked. The needles of sudden onset terror and anxiety pricked his face and the back of his neck. He blinked again, now registering what was in front of his face. He felt so weak. His vision blurred. He moved to get the fuck out of the way, but he was too late.

The gunman lifted the pistol and whipped the hell out of Jim’s wrinkly forehead, bruising it black instantly. Jim fell hard to the red-patterned, dirty carpet. He was out cold.

*  *  *

Jim blinked. Everything was dark and foggy. He felt tired. Lifting his head, he again almost passed out, though forcing away the drowsiness and planting his elbow into the carpet, he lifted his body forcibly. Jim couldn’t tell if he was truly tired or not. The blow of the gun had fucked him up bad; that could be causing his drowsiness. Jim also more simply felt tired in stressful situations, and he was at the current moment stressed the hell out.

He got up and looked around the casino. No one was seated at any of the machines. It at first looked like the place was empty, but upon further examination Jim noticed that it wasn’t. There was a collection of people kneeling on the ground on the opposite side of the room, near the free soda and coffee station. Their eyes were sad and uncertain—they looked afraid. Another group of people were squatting near the glass of the front door, looking out into the parking lot. Jim limped over to where they were.

“What the hell’s going on?” he said, rubbing at his throbbing head.

“Fuck, dude!” said a younger man, who introduced himself as Curtis Kills-in-Water, “We didn’t think you were going to wake up anytime soon! We noticed you were breathing—we were checking on you! But no cops or EMT’s have been able to get in here yet.”

“Why not?” said Jim, removing a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it.

“Damn, bro!” said Curtis, “Look the hell outside!”

Jim peeked through the glass, seeing outside a black-masked figure encircled by several cop-cars; their lights flashing more brightly than even those inside the casino; their sirens wailing like they’d just won a million fucking bucks.

“Coppers got him, huh?” said Jim, chuckling under his breath while massaging his wound.

“Looks to be the case, my man,” said Curtis. He began laughing as well, but before he could get very far into it—before his sides could really begin aching with the cramp of true elation—a bullet pierced the glass. It then pierced Curtis’s skull, squirting blood and bone all over the screen of a flashing nearby slot machine.

Jim, screaming involuntarily like a rabbit cornered by a coyote, and fell back to the ground, though this time on his ass. He looked back outside. Pops from guns rang out in the parking lot, mixing horrifically with the blaring sirens and the music playing inside the casino, which no one had yet turned off. Come and Get Your Love, by Redbone played loudly throughout the gaming room as if it were oblivious to what was going on. The slot machines, also unaware of the severity of the situation, continued ringing, dinging, and singing—even the one covered in blood—advertising their games.

Jim clutched at his chest, which was quickly tensing up. He again felt weak—his arm had gone numb. He started blacking out, though through the shifting fog of his deteriorating vision he saw the gunman sprinting back into the casino.

A hail of bullets trailed the gunman, but none hit him. Turning behind his back, he fired a shot, striking and killing a police officer instantly. The bullet pushed into the cop’s sweaty brow, through his brain, and then outward, flying into the air and taking his policeman’s cap with it, which spun through the air like one from a Mario video game Jim had seen local kids playing.

Blood and brains painted the parking lot.

Jim fell onto his back, struggling to maintain consciousness. He wasn’t successful.

*  *  *

“We have to help him!” shrieked the voice of a middle-aged woman. She was pointing to the floor at Jim. She was wearing a casino employee’s uniform, but Joe-Ben didn’t give a shit about that. Joe-Ben was frantic; he had fucked up his plan. He had merely wanted to rob the casino; he thought he was doing something good by doing that, anyway. Casino owners were thieves themselves when you really got down to it.

Joe-Ben wasn’t from the reservation; he lived in nearby Valentine, Nebraska. He had played linebacker for the Badgers, playing every year against the Todd County Falcons of the reservation. Joe-Ben liked the reservation—he thought Mission was a nice enough little town—he just hated the Rosebud Casino. His father had spent the majority of Joe-Ben’s childhood at the casino, blowing his money and ruining his liver. He never came to any of Joe-Ben’s football games, and now he was dead, buried back in his hometown—back in Omaha—miles and miles from his wife and kid. It was a fitting resting place. Joe-Ben, feeling robbed by the casino, wanted to rob them back. Plus, he was broke as a fucking joke—he needed the cash.

It was the casino’s fault; that’s why he had never had a relationship with his father. That’s what Joe-Ben thought, at least.

Joe-Ben blinked.

“We have to help him!” again yelled the lady. Joe-Ben looked at her. She was wearing a manager’s nametag which read Sarah Afraid-of-Horses. Joe-Ben then looked to the ground, where Jim lay writhing, detached from reality though still in pain.

“I don’t know what the fuck to do for him, lady,” said Joe-Ben.

“You have to let the EMTs in here so they can get him to a hospital.”

“No can do,” said Joe-Ben.

Sarah turned away.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Joe-Ben, pointing the pistol at her, but Sarah didn’t listen. She returned a moment later with a glass of water, which she tried to give to Jim. Jim sloshed the water around in his mouth, only capable of swallowing a little from within whatever subconscious realm he at that moment inhabited. He smacked his lips, sticking his tongue in and out like a rude child. Then he again passed out.

Sarah Afraid-of-Horses knelt by Jim, doing what she could to keep him alive. Joe-Ben stood stone frozen, unsure of what he should do.

“Fuck!” he eventually yelled. “I can’t go out there, lady! I just killed a fucking cop!”

“That’s on you,” said Sarah, “You need to face the consequences of your actions. You can at least still do something good by allowing this old man to continue living. If you don’t leave soon, he’s going to die.”

“Aw, fuck that old man!” said Joe-Ben aggressively, though his cracked tone of voice communicated doubt and intense guilt. Without another word, Joe-Ben dropped the gun and exited the casino, his hands above his head. The police, which had now converged in force in the parking lot, quickly tackled and cuffed Joe-Ben, grabbing him by the back of the head and shoving him into a nearby cop car.

EMTs rushed into the casino, lifting Jim onto a stretcher, and wheeling him to an ambulance.

Sarah Afraid-of-Horses looked on as the ambulance pulled away. She wondered where they would take the old man. He probably wouldn’t last all the way to Rapid City, but that was probably where he needed to go. Sarah then saw a cop walking toward the casino entrance. Sarah hated cops, but she knew she would have to talk to this one. She wondered whether he had seen his friend get blasted; she didn’t want to have to explain all of that to him.

She looked across the gaming room. Casino patrons were still mostly cowering in the corner, though they had begun to emerge back out into the open. Sarah noticed the blood sprayed all over the nearby slot machine. It was one of the most popular games at the casino—Sky Rider. They would have to get that cleaned up ASAP, she knew; it was a real money-pit, that one. She breathed heavily; it was going to be a long night.

*  *  *

Jim Nash awoke only briefly on the way from the Rosebud Casino to the hospital. His chest still hurt; his breathing was heavy. He was confused.

“Wha… where the hell am I?” he said to no one.

“Stay with us, sir,” said an EMT, “We’re going to get you to a hospital.”

“A hospital?” said Jim, “Why?” Jim couldn’t remember a thing; his memory had been wiped clean—a tabula rasa. That was okay with him, though. He didn’t like knowing things; he didn’t like being acquainted with people. He was only comfortable in quiet, foreign places where people left him alone. He didn’t even dwell on why he was in the ambulance—it would sort itself out, soon enough. He was sure of that.

Jim Nash wondered if he had a family. He then closed his eyes, this time never to open them again. The stretcher was quite comfortable, really.  

Robert Pettus is an English as a Second Language teacher at the University of Cincinnati. Previously, he taught for four years in a combination of rural Thailand and Moscow, Russia. He was most recently accepted for publication at Allegory Magazine, The Horror Tree, JAKE magazine, The Night Shift podcast, Libretto publications, White Cat Publications, Culture Cult, Savage Planet, Short-Story.me, White-Enso, Tall Tale TV, The Corner Bar, A Thin Line of Anxiety, Schlock!, Black Petals, Inscape Literary Journal of Morehead State University, Yellow Mama, Apocalypse-Confidential, Mystery Tribune, Blood Moon Rising, and The Green Shoes Sanctuary. Money Games is one of the stories he recently wrote. He lives in Kentucky with his wife, Mary, and his pet rabbit, Achilles.