Unusual Events: A Short Story Collection

by Max Florschutz

  UNUSUAL EVENTS

  A “Short” Story Collection

  By Max Florschutz

  Text copyright © 2015 Max Florschutz

  All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.

  Ebook Cover Design by www.ebooklaunch.com

  Editing by the Alpha and Beta teams! Thanks guys!

  This one’s for a lot of people, in no specific order. First, for my fans who continue to enjoy my work, because without their support and enjoyment I wouldn’t have this awesome job. Second, for my Alpha and Beta readers who put so much work into reading my early versions of these stories and spending long hours giving me feedback and pointing out problems that needed to be fixed. And finally, for those from my hometown who wanted me to write some stories set in Alaska. With this collection, it finally happened. This is your ship coming in.

  Enjoy.

  Table of Contents

  A Brief Foreword

  The Unusual Universe

  Flash Point

  Monthly Retreat

  Kitchen Creature

  The Graveyard

  A Miner Haunting

  The World of Indrim

  Ripper

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  Stories in Alaska

  Vacation

  Workday

  Other Stories

  SUPER MODEL

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  For Glory

  Ending Notes

  A Brief Foreword

  Welcome to Unusual Events! If this isn’t your first foray into my writing, or you’re the kind of reader that likes to dive into something uninitiated, then you can handily skip over these opening words. If you’re at all curious at where Unusual Events came from or what you’re about to be in for (or you just like reading every single page), then read on.

  Unusual Events is a “short” story collection. I say short with quotes because in most cases, these stories hardly qualify as short save The Graveyard. To be perfectly frank, SUPER MODEL alone, the longest in this collection, is over a hundred pages—a novella length work longer than my first book.

  Fear not, reader. The rest of them are not nearly so long. But they’re long enough that calling Unusual Events a normal short story collection wouldn’t have done it justice.

  So what is it, then? Well, Unusual Events—like most stories—began with a single idea. In this case it was “I’m so tired of epics.”

  See, going into the summer of 2015, I was starting to feel the grind. I was fresh off of writing two absolutely massive works in a row—a 325,000 word Sci-Fi juggernaut called Colony (look for that one soon) and a 300,000 word Fantasy Epic called Beyond the Borderlands; the two of which together took nine months’ worth of work.

  In short, I was tired of writing massive, far reaching epics with hundreds of plot threads to juggle. I wanted to tackle something straightforward. Smaller in scope. Enough world-spanning adventures. I wanted to give my mind a break for a little bit.

  And, conveniently enough, I had a whole pile of little ideas that I’d collected over the past year, concepts and brainstorms that weren’t enough to make the crux of an entire, full-length novel but were perfect for something more bite-sized. Or ideas that I just hadn’t been able to fit into other stories that I’d held onto because I really wanted to use them.

  From those two things, my exhaustion and my idea pile, came the genesis of Unusual Events. Something simple and more straightforward. A chance to play with all the little ideas I’d had while working on all at once.

  A short story collection. Which became, once I put my fingers to my keyboard, the “short” story collection you hold now in your hands. Five stories set in the Unusuals universe, and a number of other tales I wanted to work on.

  So here you go. Unusual Events.

  Enjoy.

  The Unusual Universe

  Flash Point

  “What’s this?” I hear you asking. “Another foreword?” Well, yes, actually. But since you just got past that first, larger forward already, I’ll cut you a break and keep this one nice and short so that the story starts on the next page. First, though …

  Flash Point was interesting to write, mostly because like a lot of my other stories, the characters themselves started running away with it—in particular the main character, who took a number of directions I didn’t expect, and ended up experiencing a number of things I hadn’t at all anticipated.

  As it stands, and without spoiling anything, I think the direction it took was a good one. Sometimes it’s interesting to revisit an old concept made new, and at the same time remind ourselves that there is some truth to the saying that the more things change, the more things stay the same.

  “Heads up!”

  Mark felt the impact before the last part of the shout reached him. The dodgeball slammed into the side of his face, sending him stumbling back as the world before his eyes blurred.

  “Kransky, you’re out!” the coach shouted. “Get off of the court!”

  “Nice one, Crank-kee!” someone shouted as Mark picked himself up off of the gym floor. “You caught that ball perfectly! Right like you were supposed to!” Laughter rang through the gym as Mark shook his head, his eyes focusing on the distant benches where, at the moment, only two other students sat.

  Another ball hit him in the back. “Come on, Crank-kee!” someone else shouted. “Get off the court! You heard the coach!” He began to jog across the gymnasium, wincing as another dodgeball bounced off his butt. Seconds from the bleachers, a final, parting shot hit him in the legs, and he stumbled. Laughter rolled across the court.

  “Great form there, Kransky,” the coach yelled as Mark dropped down onto one of the bleachers. “You’re really showing a commitment to your principles.”

  “Yeah!” one of the other students shouted. He recognized the voice. Hayden Owens. “The principle of suck!” Another round of chuckles rolled through the gym, mixed with the coach’s own.

  Mark just stared down at the bench. I hate this place.

  * * *

  “Out of my way, shithead.” An elbow caught him in the back, slamming him up against his locker. Mark let out a sigh as he pushed himself back. Don’t respond, don’t respond, don’t respond—

  “Watch it, loser.” Someone else shoved past him, almost making him drop his bag.

  Amazing, he thought, his inner voice dripping sarcasm. A whole hall in a school of maybe two-hundred students, and somehow they all still end up bumping into me.

  He shoved his locker shut with a loud bang, shouldering his bag and turning to move along the outskirts of the crowd. As always, there was a teacher at one end of the hall, but he’d long since learned that none of the teachers save maybe Ms. Reinworth were on his side. And in Reinworth’s case it was mostly just because she believed in keeping the rules. It definitely wasn’t out of any sort of fondness for him.

  Just stick to the edge of the crowd. That was how to survive a school day without any real incidents. Shoving, pushing, names … those were all pretty standard. As long as he kept his head down, that would be the worst of it. Most of the time. Every so often someone would get a little antsy and push things a little, rough him up. The result there was always the same. They would get a stern warning.

  He would get detention.

  His parents had already been in twice to discuss things with an unsympathetic p
rincipal, but nothing had ever changed. Mark was the new kid at the school. Mark was the outsider. Mark wanted to read history books and do chemistry labs. Mark didn’t want to drink.

  Mark was the target.

  Just stick to the edges, he thought again, threading his way towards his next class. History. Hard to get into trouble in history.

  Someone bumped him again, unintentionally this time, and he grimaced as his insides twisted. There it is again, he thought as he reached the door to the classroom, almost stumbling against the doorway as his guts seemed to give a little jerk. Someone behind him laughed, but he ignored it as the rolling sensation in his stomach seemed to push. For a moment it felt like he was going to throw up, like something inside of him was going to push up and out, and he shut his eyes as he dropped into his customary seat in the back of the class, willing whatever it was to fade.

  It was hot … almost angry. He could feel himself starting to sweat, his body burning with a sudden flash of heat, and then—

  It was gone. So quickly it was as if it hadn’t been there in the first place, save that it had left him with trembling hands and a sheen of sweat across his forehead.

  “Nice look,” someone said as they walked past. “Wear yourself out taking balls to the face?”

  He ignored them. The words didn’t matter. Especially after another … whatever that had been. They were coming almost every day now. In the beginning, they’d been simple enough: A roiling in his stomach, almost like the flu but vanishing as quickly as it had come. His parents had let him stay home for a day, but after that they’d sent him back to school, declaring him fit.

  When it had happened a week later, even for only a minute, they’d just shrugged and suggested he’d eaten something odd.

  But that couldn’t be it. The feeling had been coming back. And he’d had food poisoning before. That was a different feeling. This was something new.

  Part of him wanted to say it was a tumor, or an appendix problem. But neither of those fit. He’d done a little research. Unless it was a brain tumor …

  Right, he thought. That’d go over great with Mom and Dad. No, a brain tumor was out of the question. Besides, he was fairly certain the symptoms didn’t match up there, either.

  Both the feeling and the shaking in his hands were gone by the time the teacher arrived and started the lesson. The lights went down, a projector started up, and Mark took out his notebook, taking notes as the teacher began lecturing the class about their current topic—Post-World War II America. It was an interesting topic, not because the teacher made it interesting, but because it just was. Especially as that had been around the time that the public eye had finally started to shift in the direction of Unusuals. And they were always fascinating. People who could use magic—some unknown form of energy few could control—or crazier still, people who weren’t … well, “people” seemed like the wrong word … but not quite human. Or people who weren’t human at all, but sentient beings long thought to be legend.

  I wonder if Mrs. Jones will bring up the way the history books changed? he thought as he continued to take notes. Hopefully she did. The way that history had opened up, entire stories changing and coming under new scrutiny as the world slowly realized that magic—whatever it was—was a real thing with real consequences. The way it was still opening up. Ancient legends were being rediscussed, restudied, and revisited. New eyes were looking at ancient myth, probing to find if perhaps there was more truth to the once-outlandish stories than anyone had thought.

  He moved his hand to flip his notebook to the next page, but paused as his fingertips scraped the edge of the sheet. The paper felt dry and rough beneath his fingers, and he moved his hand up and down the side of the notebook in confusion.

  The rest of the paper felt smooth and cool. Did I get this thing wet? He squinted, bending down closer to the edge of the notebook and checking the page under the dim light, his eyes searching for any discrepancy in the paper.

  Huh. There was one, though why, he couldn’t tell. A small segment of the page was slightly discolored, though the difference was barely visible in the low light.

  I must have gotten it wet, he thought as he flipped the page. Nice job, knucklehead. The next page in the notebook bore a similar mark, as well as the next. Each time he turned the page, the rough patch grew, growing wider and wider as he turned towards the back.

  Great, he thought as he looked back up at the projector once more. I hope I didn’t get any of my books wet when I did that.

  Putting pencil to paper, he resumed taking notes.

  * * *

  It was back again. Mark grimaced as his insides twisted, rolling around one another as if they were tumbling inside a dryer. He knew they weren’t—he’d already clutched his hand to his stomach, and while it felt hot and tight, it definitely wasn’t moving. But it felt like it was.

  There was a new feeling with the roiling, too. An oily one. Not slimy … just oily, in a way he couldn’t describe. Like gas waiting for a match.

  He shifted in his seat as the feeling intensified. What is wrong with me? The feeling in his stomach pushed out, and he could feel his hands trembling once more. A glance at the mirror on the wall of his bedroom showed everything exactly as it had always been: Short, spiky hair. Bland, brown eyes. A slightly chubby face with a little bit of acne and a healthy, permanent tan.

  And sweat on his forehead. Sweat that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong.

  “Mom?” he called, pushing himself away from his desk with one hand. There was a final push, an almost electric tingle and—

  Nothing. The feeling was gone. His hands were still shaky, and his face was sweaty, but the strange disturbance in his insides had vanished.

  “What, Mark?” his mother asked, her voice ringing down the hall. “Do you need something?”

  “I …” he shook his head. “It happened again.”

  “It did?” There was a pause, and then the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. “The nausea? Can I come in? Did you throw up?”

  “Yeah,” he said, nodding. Then he shook his head. “I mean no, I didn’t throw up; yes, you can come in.”

  His mom stepped into the room, a basket of half-full laundry tucked under one arm. “Good,” she said as she reached up to put a hand on his forehead. “You had me worried for a moment there.” Her expression twisted, her brow wrinkling in concern. “Ugh … You’re all sweaty too.”

  “It happened at school this afternoon, too,” he said. His mother’s frown deepened.

  “And what does it feel like?” she asked, flipping her hand around and pressing the backside against his forehead. “Funny … your forehead doesn’t feel like you have a fever.”

  “It’s like …” He paused for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts into words. “It’s like a flu,” he said. “Almost. Like my insides are all … trying to push something out.”

  “Like you’re going to throw up?” she asked, wiping her hand on her pant leg.

  “Sort of?” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know how to describe it.”

  “Do you get dizzy?”

  “No,” he said. “I just feel almost like I want to throw up. Like I ate something bad, but it’s not in my stomach. I don’t know where it is. Then I get shaky and sweaty, and after a little bit it goes away.”

  “Hmmm.” His mother stepped up close, her blue eyes narrowing as they looked down at him. “How often is it happening?” she asked, using her thumb to pull the lower corner of his eyelid down. “I mean, I know it was that one time you stayed home, but has it been worse?”

  He nodded as she let go of his eyelid. “It was just once a week, then every few days. This is the first time it’s happened more than once a day.” He swallowed. A far different feeling was moving into the space where his insides were. Or, more accurately, replacing them. With a nervous void that he wanted to swallow—or that wanted to swallow him; he wasn’t sure which. “Am I … sick?
”

  “Well …” his mother said as she motioned for him to open his mouth and tilt his head back. “It doesn’t look like you’re sick,” she said, peering at his throat. Her hand waved again, and he straightened. “I guess it’s possible you could be developing a food allergy to something. Lactose intolerance maybe? It doesn’t sound like that, but it could be something similar. I don’t know. If you’d like, we could talk to Doctor Diallo at church on Sunday and see if it sounds like anything he knows about.”

  The nervous feeling faded somewhat. “All right,” he said with a nod. “Maybe that’s a good idea.”

  “It sounds like an allergy,” his mother said as she moved over to his desk, pausing to grab a pair of socks from the foot of his bed along the way. “Worst comes to worst, you can’t eat something that often anymore. Maybe it’ll be onions.”

  “I’m not eating onions now,” he said. She shrugged.

  “Well, you never know,” she said, smiling. “Whatever it is, we’ll make the best of—Oh now, what’s this?” Her face fell as she looked down at his desk. “What happened here?”

  “What?” he asked, taking a step forward.

  “This,” she said, pointing down the surface of the desk. There was a small, black, burn mark on the edge of the wood, marring the finish. “When did this happen? More importantly, how did it happen? This desk is brand new.”

  “I …?” He shook his head, running over the last few days in his mind. “I don’t know. I don’t remember it being there?” He gave his mother a quick shrug, spreading his hands. “I really don’t, Mom. I swear.”

  “Huh,” his mother said, bending down and wiping at the mark with her elbow. “Nope, that’s not coming out. You sure?”

  “I promise,” he said, holding one hand up. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Huh.” She gave the mark another glare. “That’s definitely a burn. You weren’t doing any chemistry in here, were you? Or cooking something?”