Hey, I’ve
written a short story called Microbes. I want to send it to you. To read it, you need only sign up for my mailing list. (I promise to e-mail you no more than once every two or three months.) You can do so
by going to my website (www.zacharybartels.com) or by clicking here.
Here are the first few paragraphs of the story, to hopefully whet your appetite:
Here are the first few paragraphs of the story, to hopefully whet your appetite:
October 13, 1988
Doctor Pendleton
pounded on the side door of the small ranch house, rattling the flimsy aluminum
and Plexiglas. BAM BAM BAM. He
wiped the fog from his glasses. It was drizzling out and he was freezing
and he wanted to be anywhere but here. BAM BAM.
“I know you’re in
there, Eddie!” he called. “You need to come with me. Okay? You should be in a
hospital!” He took a step back and tried to peer through the sheer curtains
obscuring his view.
He felt a gust of
warm air as the door flew open and he was suddenly face-to-face with a stocky
redhead in his mid-thirties. The man was covered with a patina of sweat and
dressed in a dirty flannel shirt and ripped jeans.
“Oh,” Pendleton
said, and took another step back. “It’s you.”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
The redheaded man glared at the doctor. “Come in if you want. Eddie’s upstairs
if you have something to tell him”
The doctor felt
his feet pointing involuntarily back toward his car, but overrode the instinct
and forced three timid steps into the stale entryway. It was all cigarette
smoke and fake wood paneling, a potent reminder of why he did not make house
calls. He immediately regretted entering and turned back toward the door just
in time to see it slammed shut. He opened his mouth to protest, but found
himself slammed against the wall of the small stairway leading up to the
kitchen.
The stocky man
growled, “What do you think you’re doing coming here? Huh?”
The doctor couldn’t
find his voice to respond.
“Maybe I won’t
let you leave. Maybe I’ll keep you here against your will. For weeks.”
He drew his bushy red eyebrows halfway up his forehead. “Sound familiar?”
“I’m just worried
about Eddie. That’s all.”
“Bull. I think
you’re worried about you. And we know a little more than you think we
know, so you should be worried. Got us a P.I.”
“No, no.” Dr.
Pendleton squirmed. “I’m not—” A little voice in his head kept telling him to
deck the big flushed face before him, but a more reasonable voice assured him
it wouldn’t even faze the bear of a man.
“I’m telling you,”
he continued, “Eddie’s sick.”
“You’re sick.”
“He’s in need of
medical attention.”
Suddenly calm and
articulate, Eddie released the doctor. “Listen
to me, Doc, and understand what I’m telling you: if you ever come near
this house or Eddie again, you’re going to need medical attention.”
Just then, Eddie
came shuffling up to the top of the stairs in a bathrobe and slippers, a 12
gauge shotgun under his arm. He narrowed his eyes at the sight of the
doctor. “You shouldn’t be here,” he
said, his voice weak and raspy. “You’re in the muck now.” Cough. “Patrick’s going to teach you a lesson,
aren’t you boy?”
Patrick ran five
fingers through his mop of red hair. “I think the doctor grasps the material
already. But a little assurance can’t hurt.” He reached his chopping block hand
up toward Eddie. “Give us the 12-gauge.” He gave Dr. Pendleton a shove and
pushed the barrel of the gun up to his chin.
“And you—give me
your wallet,” he ordered. The doctor hesitated. “Now!” Patrick racked
the pump. With his left hand, he accepted and examined the wallet.
Eddie was leaning
on the railing, breathing with some difficulty.
“Uncle Eddie, go
lay down,” Patrick ordered.
When he’d
shuffled away, the doctor said, “He needs help. He’s going to die, you know.”
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I read the entire story and really liked it, especially the last few paragraphs. The ending was not what I expected it to be and that's really what I like in a story.
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