The Vagary Tales Read online

The Vagary Tales

  Eight Short Stories

  Robert Michael

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical, real people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 Robert Michael

  All rights reserved.

  FOREWORD

  For as long as I can remember, I have revered literature. I love stories. Some of my favorite stories are short ones. Short stories are how I first explored the world of writing. I loved telling tales and since my first stories were mostly oral in nature, they were inherently brief.

  These stories contained here come from varied places in my life. Some, I have published elsewhere briefly. Some are entirely new. I have a trove of unfinished manuscripts—starts and stops—that I have developed into stand-alone narratives. Others began as writing prompt exercises and developed muscle enough to be called a story.

  At least one of these stories I hope to expand into a larger work—Jake Monday. I plan on writing a series of three novels, entitled Manic Monday, A Month of Mondays, and Thank God It's Monday. If you enjoy the story, be sure to watch for the series, set to be published in 2013.

  I hope you enjoy each one. Maybe one will become your favorite.

  What is Right

  The couch smelled like marijuana. Christian lifted his head with an effort. He felt a cold wetness on his face near his mouth. The ringing in his ears was only a background noise to the rumble of the train. The apartment seemed to vibrate and spin at the same time.

  Time. It has to be morning. Train runs in the morning. How did I know that?

  Christian rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. It smelled of smoke and blood. He glanced at it as he sat up and put his feet on the floor. He noticed two things at once. He was naked; and blood caked his hand, his forearm and his chest. It wasn't his, he was relieved to note. No cuts, no bruises. Just blood, some dried and caked to a hard reddish-brown, and some a brick red and sticky-wet.

  He glanced around the apartment. It wasn't familiar. Trash littered the glass table at his knees. Chinese take-out. Two weeks of newspapers, discarded mail with the envelopes ripped carelessly, and a bong with its water the color of sour milk and its smell just as rancid. The odor coming from the bong competed valiantly with the take-out leftovers.

  As Christian began to orient himself to the unfamiliar room, he heard movement from what he guessed was the kitchen. Panicked, he began to run for the only door he could see.

  "I wouldn't go anywhere right now if I were you." He sat down heavily.

  A young woman entered, wiping her hands with a towel. She wore several tank tops and tight faded jeans. Her hair was black, short, and spiked. The gauges in her ears made the lobes look extended, the rings in her nose like she had a cold.

  Christian froze. He didn't know this girl. She seemed to know him. He was at odds; and more than a little scared.

  "Where am I?"

  She stared at him, a grin creeping across her face. She put down the towel and crossed the room.

  "You wake up from all that, naked, with blood all over you, and you want to know where you are? That's your burning question?"

  He shrugged. "It was the first thing to come to mind, yeah. I have some follow up questions, but I thought I would start slow before I got to 'why?'"

  "Steve always said you were a pain," she said with a smirk. She put her hands on the back of the couch. Her nails were painted black and he noticed her eyeliner was heavy.

  The rumble from the train subsided. Christian looked for something to cover himself. He wasn't modest. But, he felt vulnerable.

  "Your clothes are gone. They burned. I don't have anything that fits you. Besides, despite what I said earlier, being naked should be your last concern." She was still looking down at him like he was her lesser. Maybe he was.

  "Who are you?"

  She raised her eyebrows and tipped her head. She was pretty, despite being rough. She was compact, her face almond-shaped, her eyes large and expressive. Under all the tattoos, piercings, makeup, and tight-fitting clothes was someone's little girl all grown up.

  "Now, there's a question I wasn't expecting. Don't you remember me?"

  He was already shaking his head. Somehow, he knew it was the wrong answer. Some niggling alarm was telling him that he shouldn't admit that he was clueless.

  She came around the couch and sat on a tattered ottoman, her legs spread wide. She leaned forward and stared hard into his eyes.

  "Did you get a concussion, too? I never considered that. This could change things, Christian."

  He was really panicked now. When he awoke, he had been disoriented. As the fog began to lift, he had been worried about assimilating to his environment. He hadn't considered solving the mystery by recalling how he could have gotten here.

  The last thing he remembered was the waiter at the sandwich shop on 9th Street. He had been alone. He had dropped his cell phone in the bathroom and the waiter had returned it to him.

  "What happened?" His voice was low, almost a whisper. He realized for the first time he was hoarse.

  Her face lost the playfulness from earlier. He believed he could see how she would look in ten years, her face pinching, her eyes drooping, her brow furrowed, her eyes guarded. Jaded. Defensive. Experience and failure weighing down her features.

  He barely noticed the movement at first. It was hard, though, to hide the pearl handle of the pistol as she leaned back and put her hands across her lap.

  "I don't think you want to know, Christian. But, I will tell you anyway. When I am done, we will have to talk about why I should let you live."

  His first instinct was to panic. In moments like this, most people's minds would flash to memories of their life. He got nothing. He swallowed, his mouth dry.

  "Why would you want me dead?" Christian tried to keep a note of cleverness in his question. He was betrayed by the high pitched skip in his voice.

  He wasn't sure what made him more uncomfortable: her tight-lipped smile or the gun she held confidently in one hand across her thigh.

  "Well, for starters, I would say the million dollars you embezzled that we can't locate. If you don't remember this little detail, or if you can't come up with the location of where you have hidden it, then…." She shook her head in mock sadness.

  "You won't need me alive anymore. Is that it?"

  She nodded, a look of chagrin upon her pierced and heavily made up face.

  "Pretty astute of you, Christian. Look, I would love for you to recall where that million dollars is located. Maybe we can get it from you another way. I think we will eventually find it without you. You aren't the most complicated person."

  He looked down, trying to think clearly. He understood his situation wasn't that simple. Was he really that easy to predict? He could only recall vague details about his life. He kept going back to the waiter. The tip. The cell phone. He could see the guy's face, honest and concerned, with a touch of pride in doing the right thing.

  Christian wondered if he had ever experienced that feeling. Something told him, no. Somehow he could tell that he had lived his life with very little regret, very little concern for his fellow man. Even now, all he could think of was himself.

  "You will kill me anyway. Even if I can remember where this money is, what will keep you from putting a bullet in my brain?"

  "Tsk. Not the brain, Christian. Too messy. We would never get the mess cleaned up. It will be easier if we just stick a knife under your armpit and pierce your heart. Plug up the hole in your side and let you bleed out inte
rnally. Easy, breezy, lemon squeezy. But you do make a good point."

  He let that statement go. No need to push her if he was dead either way. Could he stall? What good would that do? Somehow, he couldn't muster a defeatist attitude. Was there something he wanted to live for? Maybe a million dollars. That would be significant.

  "Give me a minute to get my bearings. It's difficult to think in a situation like this. Is there a place I could shower and get some pants on? It truly believe I think better fully clothed."

  She smirked.

  "You really don't remember me, do you?"

  He looked in her eyes then, trying to see something familiar. No lights came on, no recognition at all. The only thing he perceived was that in her eyes he could see that she was capable of killing him without regrets.

  "Did I do something to you personally?"

  "You could say that, yeah." She stood up then and grabbed a towel from a pile. She threw it at him, hitting him in the face.

  "The shower is in that room there down the hall. I don't think I used up all the hot water."

  He stood slowly, covering himself with the towel. It was ridiculous, he knew. But he immediately felt better. He had a momentary feeling, something he could only identify as hope.

  "Thank you."

  "Prove me wrong, Christian. Show me that you have some guts. And don't thank me. If you don't cough up that million dollars before midnight, we all die."

  "Now you are really confusing me."

  "Yeah. No pressure. Besides, why do you care? Either