Bob's Short Shorts

By Robert H Cherny

This collection of short stories is presented in alphabetical order for no reason at all. Some of the stories are suitable for dramatic readings, and I hope that they will be used as such.
All of the stories are fictional except for those noted otherwise.
The intent is to present a range of ideas, some of which will make you angry. Some will make you think. I hope some make you say, “AWWW, isn’t that cute?” The collection is something of a rollercoaster ride that needs to be read with an open mind and time to reflect on what you read. CRT TRIGGER WARNING

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert H Cherny
• Release date: Mar 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005111106

Robert H Cherny

Writing has always gotten me in trouble. Still does.I have been a fan of science and speculative fiction since I found it in the young people's section of the library. In grade school, I devoured works by Heinlein, Norton, Asimov, and Huxley among others. By the time I had finished high school, I had read every science fiction book in the town's library.When I was in high school I wrote short stories instead of paying attention in math class. This did not help my math grade and would have serious consequences a few years later.In college, I could be counted on for the divergent opinion. This was after my failed math forced a complete redirection of my life plan. A disastrous Freshman year at Brandeis University, forced a reevaluation of reading materials. Switching majors to theater brought exposure to Shaw, Strindberg, Ibsen, Stoppard, Pinter, Shakespeare, and a host of young would-be playwrights. As a technical theater major, I found that the quantity of material to which I was exposed often surpassed the quality. Too busy to do any writing of his own, I devoted his time to supporting the efforts of others.The Vietnam War brought a tour of duty in South Carolina and the opportunity to begin graduate work at the University of South Carolina. While in the Air Force, my anti-war sentiments did not become an issue, because I kept them secret. I did no writing except for my graduate school classes which I took while still in service. Even here, I was ever the contrarian, unwilling or unable to go where the others went. Fortunately, as a design major, my writing was of less concern than my draftsmanship. The war ended and with less than a month to go on my MA, and no job opportunities in sight, I left school lacking only my thesis and took a paying job at Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus World in Haines City Florida Master's degrees in the theater were not worth much in the aftermath of the Vietnam War.Fortunately, through a series of unlikely coincidences, I landed a job as technical director of the then brand new Tupperware Convention Center. At the time, it was the only full-time convention center in Central Florida. I would stay there for twenty years earning an MBA along the way although my work schedule left little time for either reading or writing except for articles in technical journals.My sudden departure from Tupperware provided the time to return to reading and writing. "Stagehands Walk" started in this period with the gracious help from the writers in the CompuServe Writers Forum. The email tag and the website name "Stagewalker" derive from this book. I returned to devouring speculative fiction reading authors like David Weber, John Ringo, Anne McCaffrey, CJ Cherryh, Kim Harrison, Tom Clancy, and Clive Cussler.A short stint at Disney Event Productions introduced me to the power of "Pixie Dust" although it would be six more years before I would figure out how to turn it into a novel, the "Fairies" series.I left Disney for Paradise Show and Design which later became "The Launch Group" where I returned to my roots in live event technical support. I took a short detour to open the Silver Spurs Arena in Kissimmee, Florida before returning to Paradise from where I have since retired."Don't give up your day job."

Book preview

Chapter 1: Bad Day - First Written 2019

You know it’s going to be a bad day when you wake up naked face down in the gutter, and you feel like the morning after the night before, and you haven’t been anywhere, and you look around to put on the clothes you wore home last night, and there aren’t any, and as you turn over you make three painful discoveries at the same time, first, that you have been lying bottom-up so long in the summer sun that your normally pasty white backside is painfully bright red and, second, your masculinity is pointing straight for the sky in its full morning tumescence for all the world to see, and third, lastly, thank goodness, the sun, bright in your eyes turns the flesh-colored object next to you into a form you can’t quite recognize. As the fog lifts from your eyes and your head clears, you realize that the naked woman looking down on you from the lounge chair is your son’s wife, and she is laughing so hard that tears are running down her face. As you look around, you see your entire family, including your children, their spouses, and your wife, scattered around the pool as they laugh so hard that they can barely see straight. Then and only then do you realize that you are the latest victim in the family’s annual most egregious practical joke contest. You have no one to blame but yourself as you started this mayhem many years ago.

Chapter 2: Belinda and Tracker - First Written 2020

Belinda dragged her kitbag across the floor of the hangar deck. Her Pirate Interdiction warship sat alone on the vast deck. The remainder of the smaller warships of the fleet had already left to engage the enemy in battle. PI ships tended to not be assigned with the regular fleet because their pilots tended to be less predictable than line officers trained at the Space Force Academy. The Federation had a special place for PI pilots. They had taken a bunch of people with known psychological problems and given them a license to kill and the warship with which to do it. Belinda nodded to the flight engineers who had finished preparing her ship. They nodded but would not talk to her. They did not trust her, but then the feeling was mutual. She did not trust them. Her little ship that she flew solo had as much firepower as a pocket destroyer with five crew. She carried her AI-enhanced flight helmet and her mission documents under her arm. A spare flight suit and a pile of data modules were all she needed. She inspected the food stores and closed the hatch. She did a walk-around and checked all the seals. She climbed into the ship and closed the hatch.

Once she was sure that she was secure, she said to the ship’s AI. Hey, Tracker, did you miss me.

I did. I was bored. Are we ready to kick some butt?

Call control. Tell them to clear the flight deck, open the door, and we are not going where anyone thinks we are going.

Where are we going?

Home.

Aye, Captain, Third star to the left and on to morning.

Indeed, Captain Hook awaits.

This is a spinoff from my Solomon Family Warriors series.

Chapter 3: Britannia - First Written 2012

Britannia sat in the booth overlooking the audience. She would have preferred the eighth row where her season tickets were, but there had been a scramble at the box office, and she had been honored with a seat in the box.

The lights dimmed, and the conductor began the overture as if he had been waiting for her. The opera was one of her favorites, and she closed her eyes. As she listened, her mind drifted to the mysterious box on the opposite side of the theater. Would the ghost appear? Would it grace this show?

As the curtain rose, Britannia felt someone sit beside her. She turned to see her grandfather in the costume he had been wearing when he died while performing on this stage.

My dear Britannia, he said, gently placing his hand on hers. I have missed you. I have watched you among the groundlings hoping that this day would not be far away.

He kissed her hand. Your grandmother awaits. She misses you, and she does not have patience where her favorite granddaughter is concerned. She wants you to sing Aida as you did in college. Take my hand, and we will go to her.

Britannia took her grandfather’s hand and steadied herself by holding the lighting pipe. She stood on the balcony rail, and together they stepped off, flew through the proscenium, over the stage, and out the roof to a command performance of Aida awaiting its lead singer.

Chapter 4: Brush Fire - First Written 2020

I woke up in the burn unit. The last thing I remembered was cooking dinner on my barbecue next to my camper trailer. I hurt. God. I hurt. Every part of my body hurt. I had bandages over my eyes. My eyes hurt. I couldn’t scream because my vocal cords hurt even to breathe, and there was a tube in my throat. I knew I was in the burn unit because I heard the nurse answer the phone that way. I couldn’t see anything. I could only hear. There was a lot of noise. The noise hurt. Every part of my body screamed in pain, but I could not scream. I could not move my hands. There was some kind of tube down my throat forcing me to breathe. I didn’t need it. I could breathe. It hurt, but I could breathe.

I heard the nurse say, This one’s awake. He’s fighting the respirator.

Another nurse joined her, and they pulled the tube from my throat. God, that hurt. I know they were trying to be gentle, but it hurt. I gasped. I couldn’t scream, but I wanted to.

He’s breathing on his own. At least we have one survivor. Let’s find out if he can see.

They removed the bandages from my eyes. I could see. I could see the television on the wall. It showed a picture of my trailer burnt to the ground. The announcer said that this was the center of the fire. Ten people had now died. How do you tell the world that you are responsible for a fire that took out a dozen people?

Chapter 5: Camera Obscura - First Written 2020

Shifting shadows. Images on the wall of objects passing on the sidewalk and the street outside scared the first observers with their animation. A tiny hole in the exterior wall brought the outside in. Objects, people, horses, carriages passed by, changing their size as they approached or retreated from the wall. The primitive camera obscura’s misunderstood physics was viewed as an instrument of the Devil and was condemned by the church. It is hard to think today that a tiny hole in the wall could cause such furor, but science and the church have never been friends.

Chapter 6: Cargo Pilot - First Written 2019

Burnt out interstellar cargo ship pilot approaching retirement seeks like-minded female for travel action and adventure contact Galaxy Cargo

Yo! Dude! You are seriously in need of female companionship.

As my ship’s computer, you are specifically prohibited by Federation regulations from making comments like that.

Nonsense. Dude, we’ve been bouncing all over the inhabited galaxy for forty years, and you still can’t get a date.

It’s not like I hang around places where one would expect to find available women running around loose.

True that. I took matters into my own hands.

You don’t have hands.

Metaphorically speaking.

What did you do?

I submitted a personal ad in the Space Cargo Shipping News.

Can you retract it?

Nope. We’re almost to the dock, and I know you have at least one response.

You overpriced hunk of molten silica. I will figure out how to get you back.

I am quaking in my boots.

You don’t have boots.

Neither to you.

Docking went smoothly, and the tunnel to the space station was unobstructed. The blonde behind the customs inbound freight desk looked up. She smiled and held out her hand for the required documentation. Once she was satisfied that everything was in order, she signaled to the stevedore boss that the unloading could begin.

Then she tilted her head toward a woman quietly sitting on a bench to one side of the large customs office. Dude, she’s been waiting for you. Docs are in order for her to depart with you.

Who is she?

Don’t ask me. You’re the one who placed the personal, and she’s the only one who showed up.

The woman, who had been paying rapt attention, stood up. Did you place a personal ad?

I did, or rather, my ship did.

The blonde woman behind the desk broke into hysterics. Dude? Your ship placed the ad? She held her hand in front of her forehead in the shape of an L as tears of laughter poured down her face.

I’m Winnie. What’s your name?

Dude.

Dude? Really? ‘Dude’ is your name.

I was named after a Beatles song, but my mother couldn’t spell. You know ‘Hey, Dude…’

Winnie stifled a laugh. How long before I can board your ship?

Don’t you want to go for a drink or something first? Shouldn’t we get to know each other? I mean, if we’re going to be together a long time, we should at least talk before we leave.

Oh, we’ve been chatting. She pointed to the customs agent. You sound like a nice gentleman. We’ll be fine. She grabbed her suitcases, and an old-fashioned steamer trunk tied together with brightly colored cargo straps and pushed them toward the passenger ramp. In weightlessness, they were much easier to move than they would have been on Earth. Still, mass and inertia are the same in space as they are on the ground without much friction. The collection hit the walls several times before finally coming to rest in what would be her cabin.

These old cargo ships proved space for six passengers. The freight companies that bought them when they were new routinely transported staff from station to station on their own vessels. Dude occupied the captain’s quarters, and Winnie took the room furthest from his.

Loading and departure went smoothly. The ship was headed to Deimos and then on to Calisto before heading out of the solar system to carry supplies to the deep space outpost where the next generation of big interstellar cargo ships was assembled.

They had been traveling about a day, Earth time, when the warning sounded.

We have incoming, the computer intoned.

Friend or foe?

Donny Jay. For a computer, its voice was remarkably expressive in its disgust.

Dude shook his head. What a fool.

Shall we engage?

Deploy external laser pods. Open missile doors. Can we outrun him?

Certainly, but that could be harmful to some of the livestock we’re carrying.

Let’s just look as ferocious as we can and see if he backs off.

Winnie peered at the display. Who is that?

Donny Jay is just a third-rate pirate with a big ego. His stupidity gets people around him killed. We really don’t want to have anything to do with him. Increase forward speed in increments of one percent per minute for the next ten minutes.

Roger that.

Ten minutes passed in tense silence. The distance between the ships gradually increased until the bigger, much more heavily armed than a cargo ship had a right to be, ship passed out of range of the smaller pirate. Having said that, the bigger ship’s missiles could easily have destroyed the littler ship even at that range.

Dude, he’s not turning to follow.

Must be in his cabin having executive time with his head in his hand watching Fake News.

Winnie watched the pirate ship recede in the display. That was uneventful.

The laser pods retracted, and the missile doors closed.

Yeah, better that way.

Have you ever had to fight pirates?

Yes, but mostly, if you can, you run.

Have you defeated pirates?

Yes.

Have you ever lost?

With pirates, you only lose once. You don’t get a second chance.

Oh, I take it that means that they don’t get a second chance either.

Exactly.

The rest of the trip to Deimos passed without incident. On a ship where there is no night and no day, sleep schedules get shifted. As it turned out, generally, Winnie and Dude often found themselves with one sleeping while the other was awake. Ships like this are highly automated. Human pilots only traveled with them due to Pilot’s Union rules. So, when both were awake, there was little to do on the voyage except watch old movies and play video games. Their interactions were spirited and playful, often punctuated by raucous laughter.

The ship docked at the cargo station orbiting Deimos and attached the passenger tube. No sooner had the airlock door opened than a four-foot-tall blond missile wearing pigtails and a white flight suit thoroughly accustomed to maneuvering in weightlessness catapulted through the door. GRANDMA!

Hi, baby doll. I told you I was coming.

Daddy didn’t believe it.

Well, for that, he gets to deal with the luggage. Shall we get some ice cream?

YESS!!

Winnie picked the giggling girl up and tucked her under her arm like a football. Before they flew down the passenger tunnel together, Winnie turned back. Hey, Dude. Thanks for the ride. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Chapter 7: Child Dancer - First Written 2000

This is a true story. One of the hazards of working in the entertainment industry is that we work lots of weekends. In fact, we work almost every weekend if we’re lucky and business is good. This particular Saturday, I worked at the theater and brought my then six-year-old daughter with me to spend the day. In the large exhibit hall next to the theater, we were hosting a public travel trade show. In the theater, every hour we showed a travel film about some exotic destination.

Laura had been taking dance lessons for two years and loved to dance. She danced in the kitchen and in the supermarket aisles. She also loved the sound of the theater’s extensive sound system. We had both watched a travel film, and while I was preparing the next movie, I put a tape on the sound system that had a solid danceable beat.

Laura knew her way around the theater, and so when I finished threading the film, not seeing her beside me in the booth did not alarm me. I knew she would likely be downstairs talking to one of the ushers or one of the other staff, all of whom knew who she was.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move on the stage. She had walked down through the empty theater and up the stairs to the stage and was blissfully dancing to the music.

We had almost twenty minutes before the next show and not a lot to do, so I wandered down to the lobby. One of the ushers and I stood at the back of the theater and watched her dance. As the time approached for the next showing, people started to file into the audience.

When the song playing ended, Laura stopped to catch her breath, and the dozen or so people who had seated themselves in the cavernous theater applauded.

Laura looked out at the faces she could barely see in the darkness. Her head turned slowly from side to side as she realized that people were watching her in what she thought was an empty theater. Her eyes got large, her mouth dropped open, and she started to cry. The people in the audience, primarily seniors, applauded more, and she cried more.

I walked down the center aisle, up the stairs, and picked her up.

They like your dancing, I said.

She cried some more.

I want to go home, she said.

Not until Mommy comes and gets you. You can stay with me upstairs in the booth if you like.

She hid in the booth with her eyes barely peeking over the window sill for the rest of the afternoon until my wife came and got her.

Chapter 8: Christmas Angel - First Written 2008

I have always hated Christmas. It was a gigantic party to which I was not invited. It seemed more about money than about religion. Even that religion was more about power than about improving people’s lives. I have lived in Florida most of my adult life, and somehow a Christmas on the beach lacked the ambiance of a winter wonderland. This Christmas, however, I would at least have the appropriate weather. What was left of my family was still up north, and I was going to the place that had once been home.

Most of the people I cared about had died, leaving only one uncle, and he was very ill. This would be the last time I would see him. I had spent the day alone with him in the house where my cousins had grown up, where we had played, where we had run up and down the stairs, where we had fought, where we had become who we are.

Once my brother arrived, I could not stay. We had stopped talking years ago. We no longer had anything to say to each other and had given up even trying to bridge the gap. So, when he arrived with his sons, I excused myself and went for a walk, a longer walk than I had planned, as it turned out.

When I had lived there, the street beyond my uncle’s house had been all woods and meadows. A golf course had been hidden behind the trees across the little stream that paralleled the road. Actually, as my father had been fond of pointing out, the stream did not parallel the street. The road paralleled the stream.

Much of the stream had been confined to drainage pipes that ran under the parking lots for the vacant strip mall. The strip mall was closed. The windows that were not boarded up were broken. Fires had been set in some of the storefronts. At the base of what had once been our sledding trail, carved into the side of the hill, sat a closed auto dealership. A few parking lot lights still attempted to soften the darkness, but many had been shot out by kids with BB guns.

Silent snow drifted around me as I walked, obscuring my tracks. Even if I had dropped bread crumbs or pebbles to find my way back, the snow would quickly cover them, and no one would know I had passed this way.

The sprawl gave way to a regrown forest. A hundred years ago, standing on the same rise, I would have seen clear to Boston ten miles away. If I had been there in the daylight today, all I would have seen was deep woods of secondary growth with thick underbrush left untended by well-intentioned eco-minded people oblivious to the danger of forest fires like the lightning-induced ones see every spring. As it was, the ever so sought after green stood dark and silent in the night, catching the snow as it drifted earthward, preventing the snow from reaching its destination as it dusted the ghostlike branches.

Still, I walked past where Jimmy and I fought one summer afternoon because I was tired of him picking on me and decided I could stop his bullying once and for all. I did. I broke his nose.

I walked on past the place where my brother had wrecked his bike riding on a slick patch of ice hidden by a thin layer of snow. We had packed his scratched and bloody face in the snow, and I rode him home on my bike so he could go to the doctor.

Out of the darkness, I saw a shadow move. I thought I heard a whimper, but it could have been the wind. At a time that seemed forever ago, I had a cat who had disappeared one night much like this. He was solid black and resembled the shadow I saw before me. I heard the whimper again. It was a dog’s whimper.

I picked up my pace as I approached the sound. It was a small, furry black dog. It left a trail of blood where it had forced its way through the snow, which was deep enough that the dog’s belly dragged across the surface, leaving a line of pink in the direction from which it had come. It looked up at me and barked once, too tired to do more. Its tail wagged slowly as it breathed heavy gasps of exhaustion. I picked up the little dog,