Shane Kroetsch

Author of dark and introspective fiction

Short Fiction

Shit Tickets

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Daniel traversed a narrow path between clumps of dead, wild grass that led him around the back of the crooked farmhouse and out toward the tractor shed. The ancient poplar tree that grew on the border between the yard and the south pasture creaked in the breeze. One of the lower branches, crusted with old snow and snapped at the joint, hung down to the ground.

         What he saw after he rounded the shed stopped him in his tracks. He lifted up on the bent and grease-stained bill of his cap with a sour look on his face. “Melvin, what the hell’re you doin’?”

         Just out of reach of the tangle of branches, fallen walls, and crumpled roof with chipped and curled shingles, a man sat on an exposed outhouse toilet, hunched forward with a cup of coffee in his hand and baggy pants pooled around his untied boots. Melvin turned his eyes, almost clouded over by his scratched-up eyeglass lenses, and wild, bushy eyebrows as white as the chinook arch clouds above. “Takin’ a shit. What the hell are you doin’?”

         Daniel had no response. He only waved his hand in the shape of where the outhouse walls should have been.

         Melvin blew at the steam drifting over the mug, then took a sip. He made a satisfied noise then set it back on his knee. “Got a little windy last night, if you ain’t noticed. This was a little more important’n me bein’ shy.”

         “Why ain’t you doin’ than inside?”

         “Cracked a pipe with the temperature swing. Gonna have to do it the old-fashioned way for a bit.”

         Daniel stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. He sighed as he looked over his shoulder. “I’ll see you in the house, then.”

         “Coffee’s on. Help yourself.”

         Daniel nodded and turned back the way he’d come.

         Melvin sipped from his mug again, then searched around his throne for something that wasn’t there. He craned his neck toward Daniel as soon as the realisation was made. “Hey. Wait up.”

         Daniel stopped. He turned the upper part of his body back to Melvin.

         “Damn storm blew the shit tickets away. Be a friend and grab me a roll.”

         Daniel grimaced but raised a hand in acknowledgement before he continued on to the house.

***

Photo by Sandra Grünewald on Unsplash

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Rotten

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Checker sat behind the wheel of the Caprice, his gloved hands wrapped around the take-away coffee cup perched on his lap. His chin tucked into the zipped collar of his jacket. He kept his focus out the windshield, fogging around the edges, the aging V8 and its clogged heater core unable to keep up with the blowing snow outside. As people traversed back and forth along the sidewalk beside the car, he catalogued each one.

In the passenger seat, Kean gnawed on a foot-long convenience store pepperoni stick, chewing without enough lip contact for Checker’s liking. After Kean swallowed, he held the pepperoni out to consider it. “Do you think you could make pepperoni pancakes?”

“What?”

“Pepperoni pancakes. That could be a thing, right?”

“Anything can be a thing. Why the hell would you want to make pepperoni pancakes?”

“I don’t know.” Kean took another bite. “This is technically breakfast, right? So why not make it actual breakfast?”

Checker shook his head but didn’t otherwise respond.

Kean turned the stick in his hand. “Maybe make a smoothie.”

Checker made a slow-motion pan to his partner.

“Or a milkshake. Peanut butter and pepperoni. With pickles. Maybe cottage cheese so it’s healthy.”

“There is something rotten inside of you, my friend.”

Kean tilted his body to release a one cheek squeak. “Yeah, it’s my ass.”

“Jesus H. You sick son of a bitch.”

Kean smiled and took another bite from his pepperoni stick.
Checker cranked the window down enough to allow some fresh air but not flood the inside of the car with snow. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m a normal functioning human being.”

“I hate you.”

“You say that a lot, but I don’t think it’s true. Otherwise, you wouldn’t still be here.”

Checker pointed his face toward the open driver’s side window and breathed through his mouth.

Kean stopped mid-chew and focused out the clear patch on the windshield.

Three car lengths down the sidewalk, a big black sedan pulled to the curb. The driver jumped out to open the rear passenger door. A man stepped out first. Black trench coat. Black gloves. He set a black porkpie hat over his voluminous silver hair. A woman stepped out next, a light, ankle length jacket being her only protection from the weather. Smooth wrap-around sunglasses obscured her eyes. Her long red hair, nearly the same colour as the jagged scar across her jaw, had been pulled into a tight ponytail.

Kean raised his finger. “Is that…”

Checker sighed. “Yeah. ‘Fraid it is.”

“Shit.”

“You can say that again.”

The pair sat in silence as the Caprice idled.

Kean pushed the last of the pepperoni stick into his mouth, then searched inside his jacket to unbutton his holster. “We going to do this or what?”

Checker turned the key in the ignition to kill the engine. “Guess we don’t have much of a choice.”

***

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

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Rory and the Demon

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Friends and family gathered to honour long held traditions, some dressed in their Sunday best, some in acrylic sweaters with built in flashing lights. A song played in the background, one that brought images of fluffy white snow and presents under an elaborately decorated tree. Most in the room did not pay attention. They spoke loudly over each other, drank, and at least pretended to be merry.

Young Rory stood apart from it all, with his eyes wide and focus above the fireplace mantle, but with his body pointed away, one foot up on his toes, ready to move. He didn’t notice the heavy frame of the painting hanging there, or the words scratched into it. What held a firm grip on his attention were tall, crooked horns, narrow, dark eyes, and a wide mouth full of jagged teeth. As he stared, his hands twisted into each other. “Scary.”

“It’s just a picture, my love.” Rory’s mother patted his head, then drained her half-empty wineglass as she turned to set off and find more. “No need to be scared.”

         Rory tried for a brief glance as his mother disappeared into the crowd, but the painting demanded his attention. His foot twitched, and he took one step back. “Scary,” he said again, then darted to find his mother among the forest of legs surrounding him.

         In the background, the festive song ended, and another began. A familiar song, but in a minor key. The crowd did not appear to notice, which also meant that they didn’t notice the painting above the mantle, and how the demon’s eyes grew narrower still, and his smile so much wider.

***

Merry Christmas, everyone.

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Witch

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The young girl knocked on the door of the old house on the corner, then stood back and adjusted her pointy black hat. It took a moment for the solid slab of wood to creak back on its hinges.

A woman, tall and thin, with long black hair, and a long black dress, peered down with a raised eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to say trick or treat?”

         The girl held out a plastic bucket with the sliver of a moon painted on one side. “I’m just here for the treat, please.”

         The woman smiled from one side of her mouth, reached over to a bowl heaped with miniature chocolate bars, then dropped a handful of them in the girl’s bucket. “There you go, then.”

         “Thank you.” The girl did not turn to go, she stayed in place and stared.

         The woman rested her hand on the door frame and stared back. “Is there something else I can help you with, young one?”

         The girl tilted her head. “I like your costume.”

         “Oh.” The woman smoothed one hand down ornate lace. “Thank you. I like yours too.”

The girl smiled, held her bucket in front of her with both hands, and twisted gently back and forth. “Thank you.” She looked the woman up and down. “Are you a witch too?”

         The woman’s smile matched the girl’s. “Could be.”

         “Where’s your hat?”

         The woman glanced over her shoulder. “Hanging up. It’s bad luck to wear your hat inside the house.”

         The girl nodded. “I’ll remember that.”

Commotion along the street drew her attention. Groups of ghouls and ghosts passed by the scary old house on the corner as if it wasn’t there.

         “Well, I should probably keep going.”

         “Probably.” The woman stepped aside to close the door but paused. “Before you go, I should tell you,” she watched the girl carefully, “this isn’t a costume.”

The girl smiled again. “Neither is mine.”

“Happy Halloween, young one.”

         “Happy Halloween.”

The door creaked closed.

The girl skipped down the walk and continued to the next house, her bucket swinging by her side.

***

Photo by Kayla Maurais on Unsplash

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Penny District Manufacturing Company

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After the doorbell chimed, Rod snatched a dish towel from the counter and craned to see the clock on the stove as he passed. He wasn’t expecting company, and what a stranger would be looking for at that time of night he had no idea. Standing at the door with mostly dry hands he leaned in for a better look at the live image from the doorbell camera. Despite flickering lines over the distorted figure standing at the edge of the porch stairs, he keyed in the alarm code, slid back both deadbolts, then cracked the door open.

A man in a brown suit, about two sizes too big, stood hunched forward with a sweat stained fedora rolled in his hands. His lips twisted into something resembling a smile. His eyes bulged with a unique mixture of pleading and panic.
Rod planted his foot and opened the door a few more inches, resting it against his raised toes. “Can I help you?”

The man nodded. “Good evening, sir. How are you this…evening?”

Rod flipped the dish towel over his shoulder. “Okay, I suppose.”

“Excellent, sir, excellent.” The man reached into his open suit jacket with one trembling hand. “My name, sir, is J.R. Turner and I am here this evening representing the Penny District Manufacturing Corporation,” the man pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper and held it to Rod, “the number one manufacturer of cyborg implants in the world.”

Rod tucked his chin and stared at the crude images. As he fought to find words, he glanced across dot matrix interpretations of night vision eyeballs and hydraulic prosthetics. “A little early for Halloween, isn’t it?”

The man’s broken smile faltered further, as if he didn’t understand what a pending children’s holiday had to do with anything. Instead of acknowledging Rod’s comment, he continued with his sales pitch. “I’ve been authorized, for today only mind you, to offer up to 50% off of our already low, low prices, sir. As always, factory approved installation and 2-year parts and labour warranty are included.”

Rod reached out for the doorknob. “I appreciate it, but I’ll have to pass.”

The men held the paper closer. “I assure you, you won’t see an offer like this again, sir. Please look closer, I’m sure you’ll find something that you can’t live without.”

Rod began pushing the door closed.

“Sir, please.” The man’s right eye drooped, a streak of thick, oily discharge seeped from the corner. “I just need one sale, sir, just one.”

“I’m really sorry. Have a good night.” Rod latched the door. He leaned his back against it, reached out to arm the security system, then waited.

Through the solid door he heard mumbled muttering, then heavy footsteps down the treads of the porch. Soon after came a flash, a hollow thunk, like someone punching an unbreakable pane of glass, and then the silence of the night returned.

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Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash

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