Shane Kroetsch

Dark and Introspective Fiction

Shane

Into the Storm (Excerpt)

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“What was that?”

Everett turned in his chair. “It’s starting again. Put the candles out.”

Lori licked her fingers and pinched the wicks of the candles on the coffee table. She sat back on the couch and pulled her legs up beside her. “What do we do?”

Everett rubbed at his forehead. His voice was quiet. “I don’t know.”

They sat without speaking, listening to the wind blow, and the snow click against the windows.

Della ran into the living room and jumped up on the couch beside Lori. She wrapped her arms around her mother and buried her face in her neck.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“Someone’s in the backyard.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I heard something. I think it was the back gate.”

Everett pursed his lips, and his face lost what little colour it had. He rose to his feet and walked to the window. With one hand cupped against the glass, he stared out into the darkness. Everett turned and zipped up his jacket, then walked through the kitchen and out the back door. Lori looked to Della, pushed herself up off the couch, and followed after Everett.

Lori stepped onto the back porch. Della followed close behind, wrapping her arms around Lori’s waist. Lori set a hand on Della’s shoulder, but kept her eyes focused on Everett.

Everett stopped at the depression in the middle of the yard. He turned all ways, scanning for signs of movement. The back gate had been forced open. One of the boards, broken clean off, was sticking out of the snow nearby. Trails in the snow led around to the corner of the yard.

Everett called out. “Where you at, you piece of shit. You want trouble, you’re in the right place.” Everett lifted the hem of his jacket and took a folded knife from the sheath on his belt. He flipped the blade open and held it out. “Come on and get it.”

For a moment, the falling snow was the only thing that changed. Della raised her head and pointed into the shadows. “Mom, look.”

The blanket on the fort pulled to one side, and a figure emerged. They stood to face Everett. The stream of heat from their breath wafted up and drifted away.

Lori increased her grip on Della’s shoulder and held the other hand loose over her mouth. “Oh my God. Jason?”

Everett looked back at Lori, then to the shadow standing across the yard. “You little son of a bitch.” He adjusted the grip on his knife. “Get your ass over here.”

Lori pushed away and started down the front steps. Della reached out and grabbed at the sleeve of her coat. “No. Wait.”

Jason was still at first. He turned his head to look behind him. When he faced forward again, he walked out of the shadows. Only a t-shirt and jeans protected him from the cold and snow. A dark stain ran down from his mouth to his shirt and over his narrow chest. Blood left tracks from the corner of his eyes. Faint haze drifted from his exposed skin. Jason stopped shy of Everett by three or four paces. His arms were limp at his sides, his head lowered and cocked.

“I knew you’d be back.” Everett turned his head to spit but kept his eyes locked on the boy. “Think you’re a big man settin’ out on your own? Guess we all know exactly what you are now, don’t we?”

Jason raised his head and focused his bloodshot eyes on Everett. Everett swallowed as he took a half step back. Jason bared his teeth, and a fine mist of blood sprayed as he screamed out.

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Into the Storm, available now on Kindle and Kobo

Surviving the Storm, available September 21, 2020

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Danger

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Danger. That’s what the sign says. Door must not be opened except at stations. It’s like seeing, Caution: Contents Hot, on a coffee cup. If you don’t know, you deserve what you get. If you do, maybe it’s a way of getting what you deserve.

The train car is half empty. Between travel restrictions and mandatory shifts below surface, Sunday mornings are slow. Fewer passengers. Less security. I stand and hold the metal bar on the back wall as the tracks begin to rise.  The creak of the near two-hundred-year-old wood floor is insignificant to the groans of the car as it strains around a bend.

The need for transportation saved these relics from being recycled. One of the many instances of our new reality after the solar storms. Steam returned to favour when our ability to harness electricity in a reliable fashion failed. Demolition is no longer a brute endeavour. Because trees no longer grow, the integrity of every precious reclaimed piece has to be maintained.

Two cars up, the siren sounds. Then the car ahead. The person closest in our car stands, and illuminated by the dim oil lamps, turns the crank. The wail continues on down the line. I shield my eyes, and we blast through to the surface. Even through the treated glass, the sunlight carries power. I feel it through the toes of my shoes.

I look along the rows of seats. Some of the other passengers have donned their goggles. All face away. Alone, but together. I prefer the former, especially now. The train lumbers on. I don’t have much time, so I step toward the door. Nobody turns to watch. I take another, grip the silver knob, then slowly unlatch the draw bolt.

The door snaps open and my skin is on fire. If not in a literal sense, then close enough to. I stare into the light until my vision is taken. My lungs fill with scalding air as I step through the door. My feet leave the wood floor and I am delivered to my fate.

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Photo by britt gaiser on Unsplash

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Lost and Found

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“Excuse me…”

I lowered and folded my newspaper onto my lap. I wasn’t looking to be interrupted, and I’m sure it showed, right up until I looked into those eyes.

I don’t read a lot of books, but it felt like I had been dropped smack dab in the middle of a dime store paperback. The sky was bluer than I remembered it being before, the birds sang beautiful melodies, and all that. When I say she could have been a model, it’s the truest words to ever leave my mouth. The only reason I could think of to look away would be to figure out where the photographer was hiding.

“Would you happen to know when the next train is due to arrive?”

It took a moment to shift my brain into gear. I stole a glance at my watch and stuttered before I was able to work my lips enough to speak the Queen’s English. “About half-past. I mean, ‘bout five or so minutes from now.”

She smiled and I knew I could die a happy man. “Thank you, that’s perfect.” She motioned a gloved hand to the empty seat beside me. “May I?”

I almost told her I’d give her my last twenty bucks if she would but smartened up at the last second. “Of course.”

I tucked the paper between my leg and the arm of the bench. She sat with her back straight and her purse on her lap. After looking both ways along the tracks, she looked at me from the corner of her eye. “Nice watch, by the way.”

“Oh, thanks.” I shook it on my wrist. “A friend gave it to me.”

“Must be some friend.”

I shrugged. “It was a unique situation.”

“Forgive me, I should have introduced myself.” She held out a hand, like a lady used to. “Rochelle.”

I was as awkward as ever, grabbed the tips of her fingers and bobbed them once or twice. I don’t know about her, but I did my best to pretend it never happened. “Gerald.”

Gerald? Jesus H Christ. Not sure why I slipped up and used my real name. Besides, nobody called me that but my mother.

“Where are you off to today, Gerald?”

“Oh, you know, the city.”

She leaned forward on one knee, raised an eyebrow and gave a mischievous smile. “Business, or pleasure?”

“Business.”

“And what is it you do? For business.”

I had to give my collar a tug so as to breathe right. “A little of this, a little of that. I find things, mostly.”

She rested her chin on her closed fist and bit at her bottom lip. “Intriguing.”

The sensation started in my feet and travelled up to my chest. At first, I thought it might be a heart attack. Turns out it was the south-bound train.

I turned to solid marble when she leaned in and put a hand on my knee. “I do wish we had more time to chat. Perhaps fortune will smile upon us and we will meet again one day.

I nodded but couldn’t manage much else. Lucky I didn’t drool, I guess. She stood and glided along the platform, disappeared around the ticket booth. The train ground to a halt in front of me. The smoke and racket hardly registered. I let out a breath and picked up the paper. When I lifted my wrist to check my watch, it wasn’t there. Pressure rose up in my temples, like a volcano about to blow. I set a hand on the pocket where I kept my wallet. It was flat. I had to shake my head. Taken by a pretty face. Again.

I reached inside my jacket. The ticket was still there, at least. It meant I could get to the job and get paid. After that I’d be in a good spot to take a few days off and go find Rochelle, if that was even her name, and see about getting my watch back.

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Photo by Anna Auza on Unsplash

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Take Care

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I sit in the creaking nylon-web lawn chair and wrap both hands around my coffee mug. Arlo comes up beside and lays down on his blanket. I watch the ripples on the water flicker with the light of the rising sun. and the reflection of an eagle circling overhead, waiting for expanding rings on the surface.

I’m content. A feeling which has eluded me for too long. After months of Rayna telling me to take better care of myself, the proverbial straw broke like the earth splitting in two. That’s when everything changed.

It started at work. I got back from lunch a few minutes late. My boss pointed one of his passive-aggressive comments in my direction. I threw my notebook at him, then my chair. On my escorted walk to the front door, I blew a little kiss to the receptionist. Colour drained from her face. She knew that I knew, and now I didn’t have any reason to hide it.

With each step toward my car, I became lighter. The warmth from the sun soaked into my skin. I smiled for no reason. I exited the parking lot with the windows down and the stereo cranked. The immediate instinct was to turn right at the lights, like I had every weekday for the last seven years. Instead, I pushed down on the turn signal lever, and with the green, went in the opposite direction.

I drove backroads for hours, taking corners too fast for fun, not because I had somewhere to be. I’d wave to horses and moo at cows as I passed. At a three-way stop, I let the car idle and stared at the tinge of warm colour along the flat horizon. My phone buzzed in the cup holder.

The boys are getting together for a pint, you in?

I stared at the screen like the words were foreign. I swiped to open the messenger app.

I am.

Gravel spit and the back end kicked out as I turned in the intersection and pointed toward the city.

A spot opened in front of the pub as I drove up. My dust covered car stood out in the sea of shiny paint. Not that I cared. Inside, I headed to the back corner and the usual table. Raff raised his glass to me. Carter nodded. Jonathon didn’t notice me. He was telling a story about last night’s conquest.

At the end of the table, I took the glass out of Raff’s hand and poured the amber liquid over his head. As Jonathan’s story trailed off and his eyes went wide, I cracked his jaw. I shook my hand out and patted Carter on the back. “Find better friends.” The reactions of the people around me failed to register as I walked out the door.

By the time I pulled up at home, the sun was minutes away from setting. Rayna sat on the front steps with her arms crossed, and her lips pinched tight enough they disappeared.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Out with the guys.”

“Anything you want to tell me?”

I shrugged. “By the sounds of it, you already know.”

“How could you get fired? And why did you punch Jon?”

“Well, technically I quit. And Jonathon is a dick, I should have done it years ago.” I walked past her into the house. Arlo met me in the porch, doing his little dance and wagging his tail. Rayna followed along, nattering at me. Talked the whole way through me packing my bag and replacing my dress clothes with jeans and a t-shirt. On my way to the garage, I dropped my key fob and cell phone on the kitchen table. I pressed the button to open the big door and walked down to the cool concrete.

Rayna stood in the doorway. Arlo sat beside her with his ears perked. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

I pulled the cover off dad’s old truck. I focused on how the dim light played off of the chrome and followed the swaying body lines. “I’m taking care of myself.”

“You’re ruining your life is what you’re doing.”

“Doesn’t feel that way to me.” I opened the passenger side of the truck, tossed my bag on the footwell, and patted my thigh. “Come on, Arlo.”

Arlo cocked his head, then bounded down the steps and up into the truck. Behind the wheel I flipped down the visor and a set of keys fell into my hand. I spread the ring out. One key for the ignition, one for the gas cap, and one for the cabin up north.

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Photo by Haeden Kolb on Unsplash

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Things You Do When You Can’t Leave the House, and Why Beta Readers Are So Important.

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Where did the last two months go?

I suppose for many it was spent being anxious and confused. Figuring out how to fill your day when you can’t leave the house. Deciding what is acceptable and what isn’t when you do. Wondering how we maintain connections when it’s not okay to hug someone you love. Trying to maintain some semblance of mental health in a world that is full of things to be afraid of.

Because I’m lucky enough to still have a job, I’ve spent a lot of my time working. In between, making sure the kids are keeping up with their online schooling and aren’t going crazy because they haven’t seen their friends in person since March. I’ve also spent a lot of time trying to look through the haze of an uncertain future to figure out what the new normal will look like. How much PPE will I have to wrap myself in to go to a concert? Will going out to my favourite restaurant still be a relaxing and enjoyable experience? How do I sell books about a pandemic, when we’re all living in one?

That time spent looking forward hasn’t been productive. I wrapped myself up in the what-ifs, the fear, and the business of writing was set aside.

Setting aside the things that feed your soul is never a good thing. It leaves pace for unhealthy distraction. At least it does for me.

Things started in a positive enough direction. I organized my office, built a new storage unit that I’m excited about, and I put together a shelf for all things spoopy.

Then bikes happened. I helped a friend find a new bike because they wanted to get back into riding. I finished up a 3-speed conversion on my wife’s bike too.

Next I started planning improvements to my 1942 CCM Rambler, and my Raleigh DL-1.

Then I found a beach cruiser frame for cheap on one of the three buy & sell groups I check every fifteen minutes or so. I justified the purchase by planning to build it up using the pile of parts in the shed. That day I came home with the frame, but also a parts bike to help complete it, and another bike meant to be a parts bike for the Rambler.

Because there isn’t much I won’t do for my people, I started finding and fixing bikes for other friends. I’m sure you can see where this is going. There is nothing but bikes. I currently have eleven of them in the garage.

The amount of time I was allocating to planning the builds alone was excessive. I overwhelmed myself in an overwhelming time. So, last week I smartened up and made the decision to set them all aside. Not forever, but for now. My goal is to finish up the three friend projects this weekend and get rid of two or three others as-is. Then, all going well, I can get back to the business of writing.

Trust me, I’ve got a lot of writing to do. I had big plans to publish three books this year. Even outside of a pandemic, the enormity of this has recently sunk in. It’s not just the amount of work, it’s that I want to put out the best work I can for where I’m at in my writing journey. This is where my gratitude for, and honest belief in beta readers comes from.

In case you’re not familiar with the term, a beta reader is someone who reads your finished manuscript for feedback. In April, I sent out Surviving for that purpose. Much of what I got back was very positive. A few very important issues were raised though. Once said out loud, the concerns that have been in the back of my mind for months and years were now made clear. I saw the holes. I saw where it was lacking. And so, for the second time in about a year, I’m blowing it up. Two key characters are changing. I’ve found ways to speed up the action, to introduce new conflict, and bring some interesting things forward to the third installment, Chasing the Storm.

I have a lot of work to do, and at least in the beginning, I was excited about it. The problem is, regardless of chosen distractions, life will always put obstacles in our path. Pandemics, jobs, and family obligations. All I can do is set my intention, narrow my focus, and get to it.

Water

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I hold an arm up against the chain-link barrier and rest my forehead on my arm. Past the bridge railing, I watch the murky water flow. It seems gentle, but memories of thrashing against a similar current hold fast in my mind. I pick up a stick from beside my feet and poke it through. It spins and lands on the water with barely a ripple. I watch downstream until it disappears.

A scream brings me back. A mallard waddles along the rocky shore, followed by a child, no more than three years old. A man is pushing through a break in the fence that separates the walking path from the river. He shouts for the child to stop. The young one is not distracted by the pleading of its father, nor by the wail of sirens or the pulsating flash of red lights. It stumbles forward in miniature sandals and co-ordinated shorts and t-shirt with a wide smile and outstretched arms.

The duck hits the surface of the river and glides away. The child slows as it wades into the water, stops when the bottoms of its shorts get wet. It calls out, dejected. The father is kneeling at the fence, held at his shoulders by two strangers.

The water along the shore rises. It boils and surges, taller than the child, and envelops it. The swell hits the shore and breaks. As it recedes, the now shiny pebbles and stones are stained red. The surface stills, and the child is gone. A dark shadow slithers away under the bridge, back to the deep.

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Photo by David Grandmougin on Unsplash

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