Tag Archives: Aaron Steinmetz

Member Monday: Father the Controller by Aaron Steinmetz

Welcome back to Member Monday.  We’re kicking off June and our month of submissions around the theme “fathers” with a piece from Writers Forum member Aaron Steinmetz.  Join Aaron for a book reading and signing Saturday, June 15th from 11:00 am to 12:30 pm at Lisa’s Book Nook located at 4030 Railroad Avenue.  

Father the Controller

by Aaron Steinmetz

That inexplicable video game controller, the one with symbols that seemed to be lifted from Egyptian hieroglyphics, it taunted him.  Teased him.  Sure, his son with his mere eight years on this planet had mastered the damnable thing, but he was light-years behind the boy.

He had physical strength on the kid, that was for sure; he challenged his son to arm wrestle with him all the time, ably beating him within seconds knowing full well the boy would beat him someday, but he wouldn’t let the boy win.  No, the boy had to earn it.  And the controller the boy held as he played those enigmatic games?  The father would earn that too.

In the dark of the night, the television muted to save his pride, the father had turned on the gaming console and attempted to guide the…thing into the other thing, the mysterious goal that only seemed possible if you kept your eyes glued to the screen, a feat he’d seen the boy perform a hundred times over without looking at the controller once.

The father couldn’t take his eyes off the controller, and as such, the thing didn’t go into the other thing, but instead struck the ground with enough force to make it explode in a geyser of blood.  Far more blood than any “thing” should be able to carry.  He flung the controller at the wall with a curse.

And when the boy awoke and found the gaming console locked in the closet until the boy was old enough to look at the gruesome video game with an adult’s emotional distance, the boy was so upset he challenged his father to an arm wrestling match.

The father merely smiled and sighed.

aaron-steinmetz1Author’s Note: Aaron Steinmetz is the ‘word-renowned’ author of Sleepy P.I. and Highland High, two quirky comedies about a private investigator who doesn’t sleep until he closes his case. He also has a book of short stories out called Anomalous Confessions which, despite the pretentious title, is actually quite wacky. He is currently working on a third book in the Sandy Mantle Series, and a little something about a cat.

A Note from the Webmaster: If you’re a Writers Forum member in good standing and would like to be featured on Member Monday, please send your submission to writersforumwebmaster@gmail.com. Submissions should be 75-750 words, appropriate for all ages and error free. Please include a short bio, a headshot and any related links. The author retains all rights and gives permission to Writers Forum to publish their submission on the website and/or in the newsletter. Thank you!

Member Monday: A Cat Named Cocoa by Aaron Steinmetz

Welcome back to Member Monday.  Today Aaron Steinmetz returns with a piece from his collection of short stories, Anomalous Confessions.

A Cat Named Cocoa

by Aaron Steinmetz

Cocoa hopped on his bed and quietly stepped around his sleeping form with cat-like agility, something that came very naturally to her.  She stepped her paws on portions of the mattress she knew wouldn’t stir or rustle him to consciousness and slowly, patiently worked her way to his face.  After carefully setting her rump down on the bed next to him, she slowly pulled from his nightstand the small black bottle, the one with the skull and cross-bones on the side.

“What are you doing?”

Cocoa dropped the bottle which clanged on the floor, and began purring loud.

“No, no, none of that,” he said.  “What were you doing in my night stand?”

Scratching her chin with her extended claw, Cocoa looked all around the room before finally saying, “I, uh, thought I smelled some catnip in there.”

“Catnip?”

He wasn’t buying it.  “Yeah, you know I go nuts when I smell that.”  Cocoa needed to find a new tactic.  “It was the coyotes, they were chasing me again so I needed to get something to drink.”  She smiled nervously.  “You know, regain my strength.”

“That’s a bottle of poison, Cocoa.  If you drink it you’ll die.”

“Really?!  Boy, then it’s a darn good thing you woke up, ‘ey buddy?  Woo-ee.”

“You were trying to poison me again.”

“No, no, nothing like that.  I was just worried you might accidentally grab the bottle thinking it was a bottle of water and–”

“Cocoa?”

“Yes?”

He leaned on one elbow and said, “I’m tired of you trying to poison me in my sleep.  Don’t you have something better to do than try to kill your master?”

“Oh I’m not trying to kill you…”

“The guy who took you home…”

“…you know, just give you massive stomach cramps and diarrhea.”

“…who nursed you with a bottle when you were too young and sick to drink on your own.”

“…and, well, death, it would be nice, but it’s not a requirement.”

“Cocoa.”  He picked her slender, furry form up as he climbed out of bed and carried her down the hall to her kitty-house.  “I’m going back to sleep now.  I suggest you do the same.  Stay in your little claw-house, get some sleep and your murderous impulses should be gone by breakfast.”

“All right, all right,” Cocoa replied as he set her down on the house.  She slipped into the hole in the top and her voice projected from the inside: “What is for breakfast anyway?”

“Tuna.”

“Excellent.”

He disappeared into his room, shut the door and locked it.  Inside the kitty-house, though, within the darkness through the main entryway two cat eyes popped open and one eyebrow rose.  Cocoa silently exited the kitty-house and began working her way toward the knife collection, grinning from ear to ear.  She hopped up on the counter and pulled the longest knife from the wood-block, which triggered the net which snatched her from the counter and forced her to drop the knife as it quickly shot her four feet above the counter.  She dangled in the net, trapped, and growled in frustration.

“Good night, Cocoa,” he called from his room.

“Good night.”  She sighed and maneuvered herself into a comfortable position within the net.

aaron-steinmetz1Aaron Steinmetz is the ‘word-renowned’ author of Sleepy P.I. and Highland High, two quirky comedies about a private investigator who doesn’t sleep until he closes his case. He also has a book of short stories out called Anomalous Confessions which, despite the pretentious title, is actually quite wacky. He is currently working on a third book in the Sandy Mantle Series, and a little something about a cat.

Member Monday: Midnight at the Sit ‘n Eat by Aaron Steinmetz

Welcome back to Member Monday. Aaron Steinmetz will be providing today’s entertainment. An article about Aaron was recently published in The Record Searchlight. Aaron will be signing copies of both of his books at Lisa’s Book Nook on January 26th from 11:30am-1:00pm.

Midnight at the Sit ‘n Eat

by Aaron Steinmetz

She walked by me as I sat nursing my cup of coffee alone at my table at the Sit ‘n Eat. Her black hair was swaying down her back, her glorious eyes large and enticing, her smile wide as she spoke delicately, “Could I borrow this chair?” And I guess I said yes because she thanked me and slid the chair over to her table where another man was seated.

That other man must be her brother. He must be consoling her over a messy break-up. That’s why this beautiful woman is here. She’s surely single, and interested in a mildly over-weight man sitting alone in a restaurant in the middle of the night on his 30th birthday. That has to be why she asked me for my chair. She is probably telling her brother that a cute guy sits behind her, how hopeful she is that he might be single too, and interested in her, this lonely, beautiful woman that radiates such loveliness in my world.

I’ll walk up to her and introduce myself, and she’ll tell me her name is, oh, Marian, and she’ll ask me to sit down, and then laugh embarrassed because there are no other chairs in the restaurant, and then I’ll laugh and say it’s all right, that standing in her presence is better than sitting alone. She’ll smile, her eyes moist, and her brother, sensing the connection, would stand, offer me his chair and welcome me in. He’ll leave smiling, knowing his sister is in good hands. Marian and I will then share a wonderful evening talking, talking, really communicating on a deeper level, I getting to know her, she me, and the two of us will leave the restaurant arm in arm gazing into each other’s eyes. She’ll step into my Pinto and I’ll drive her to her place, and she’ll invite me in using the old “Care for a nightcap?” line, and I’ll take her hand, and I’ll follow her in. She’ll pour the wine, I’ll take a sip, we’ll share a kiss.

And then we would hear the bedroom window smash, and we’d recoil in alarm, and, ducking behind the counter, I would hold her back with my arm saying, “Stay back, Marian! I’ll handle this!” And deftly crawling across the floor on my knees and elbows, I would peek through the bedroom door to see the two masked criminals with guns ransacking her room. I would rise up, find a baseball bat and, kicking the door open, I would rush the first criminal. With a death-thud, the first would be on the floor. The second, seeing his partner on the ground would feel the mortal danger. He would see the vengeance in my blood-thirsty eyes, so he would fire off a round at me as I’d slowly, menacingly approach. There would be no stopping me, despite the bullet in my shoulder, so his desperation would reach its peak and he’d back into a corner. I’d reach down to grasp the first criminal’s revolver and then I’d check it and curse finding the gun not loaded. Glancing back at the criminal, I would half-smile and reach into the gaping wound of my left shoulder and painlessly pull the bullet from the wound. I would insert the bloody bullet into the gun, cock it, and point it directly at the criminal’s face. In a menacing growl I’d say, “Drop your gun.” The criminal would faint before my feet.

And as I stumble back into the living room, I’ll hear the sound of sirens in the distance before collapsing at Marian’s feet. She’ll appear above me, tears streaming down her face as she sees my end is so near, and I place one hand on her cheek. And as I slip from this world she’ll know, she will truly know that I loved her, and there will be someone on this planet who’s life has been changed because of me, because I was there, because my presence on this planet has been taking up space for thirty years, and she’ll never be the same from then on out. She’ll carry my memory in her bosom and tell my story to her children and their children, and they’ll ask about me for years to come. I’ll live on in their memories, and she’ll thank her lucky stars she had the fortune of meeting me.

Whoever she is.

aaron-steinmetz1Aaron Steinmetz is the ‘word-renowned’ author of Sleepy P.I. and Highland High, two quirky comedies about a private investigator who doesn’t sleep until he closes his case.

He is currently working on a third book in the Sleepy P.I. series and putting the finishing touches on a collection of short stories called Anomalous Confessions, due out in February.

A Note from the Webmaster: If you’re a Writers Forum member in good standing and would like to be featured on Member Monday, please send your submission to writersforumwebmaster@gmail.com. Submissions should be 75-750 words, appropriate for all ages and error free. Please include a short bio, a headshot and any related links. The author retains all rights and gives permission to Writers Forum to publish their submission on the website and/or in the newsletter. Thank you!

Member Monday: An Excerpt of Highland High by Aaron Steinmetz

Welcome back to Member Monday.  This month we’re highlighting Writers Forum member authors who will be featured at the upcoming Authors Fair on November 10th at the Mt. Shasta Mall.  It’s a pleasure to welcome back my friend, the always entertaining Aaron Steinmetz.

I was back in the diner, a cup of coffee in front of me, a hamburger the size of his head trying to fit into Creak’s mouth. I glanced up at the clock over the counter: three in the morning.

“What if you just dropped the case?” Creak asked through half a mouth of hamburger. “Think you’d sleep then?”

“Dunno.” I sipped from my mediocre coffee. Mediocre coffee for a mediocre private eye.

“It’s up to you,” Creak said. “This insomnia of yours, it’s in your head.”

“See, I thought that too. Then I met him.”

“Who?”

I paused, then said, “Remember the Manchester job?”

“Yeah. No one got paid for that one.”

“The kid who got killed, what was his name?”

“Don’t remember. Why? Still blaming yourself for that?”

I didn’t say anything, glanced around the diner, then turned back to Creak. “I saw him. The kid. He appeared to me.”

“When?”

“The day after you left.”

“You were awake for over a week. You were hallucinating.”

“He spoke to me,” I continued. “Called himself Treasure, said my penance had begun. I know how this sounds. I’m starting to think there’s more out there. Ghosts and–”

“Did he say anything else?” Creak asked quickly.

“Yeah. Said I have to find Amaranthine. Whatever that is.”

Creak stared at me, his mouth open.

“What? You know what Amaranthine is?”

Dropping his half-finished hamburger, Creak slid out of the booth. “We need to go now.”

The little bastard was serious. He never leaves a good burger.

* * *

Outside, Creak was walking as fast as his little legs could move. I hustled, hollering, “Creak, my truck is–”

“It’s down the street, Sandy, hurry up!”

Didn’t know what he was talking about. The only thing left in Highland was a dumb little mystic shop.

“Look,” Creak said, “there are things about me you don’t know.”

“Does it have to do with Amaranthine?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what Amaranthine is?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have it?”

“Amaranthine isn’t something you can have, it’s a place. And don’t ask, I can’t take you there.”

“Why not?”

We reached the front door to the mystic shop, combination house and shop. Creak pounded on the door. “Because they kicked me out.”

The lady of the house, an unkempt woman in her late fifties named Belle, was reluctant to let us inside until Creak won her favor with an unusual show of affection: one thousand dollars cash. “Quickly,” she said. “Even psychics need their sleep.”

I was surrounded by garish fabric draping, crystal balls, crystal skulls, crystal crystals and candles, candles, candles. None of them were lit. A bitterly realistic florescent light I guessed she didn’t normally turn on during business hours lit the room. Didn’t seem to matter to Creak. He found the woman’s stack of tarot cards on a small table. Creak said, “Sit.” I obeyed.

“You’re not shuffling the cards right,” Belle said.

Creak ignored her, thumbing through the deck, not seated at the table but still standing eye-to-eye. He flipped the first card. The justice card. It was a king seated on a thrown with scales in his left hand, a sword in his right.

Creak cursed, pounding the table.

“You’re not doing it right,” Belle said.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Creak looked at me, shook his head and flipped over the next card. Another justice card. “That.” He flipped over a third card. Another justice card.

Got Belle’s attention. “How did you do that? There’s only one justice in the deck.”

Creak’s scowl turned fowler with each card he turned: seven justice cards, all in a row. With the last, he flipped the table sending tarot cards flying, flittering down like snowflakes. He stormed outside, tarot cards lying on the floor, all showing the same king, the same scales, the same sword.

“You snuck in here,” Belle said, pointing at me. “You changed the deck!”

“Sorry…to bother you,” I said, turning to the door.

“He switched decks,” Belle muttered, slowly backing away from the room. “He had to have.”

* * *

I shut the door behind me. Creak was standing in the lawn mostly shrouded in darkness, his back to me. “I don’t know why Treasure appeared to you, but I do know one thing: if you go to Amaranthine, they will kill you.”

“How do you know?”

“They don’t take well to our kind.”

“What are we?”

Creak turned to look up at me. “Killers.” He turned away from me, started walking back to my truck.

***

Aaron Steinmetz is the ‘word-renowned’ author of Sleepy P.I. and Highland High, two quirky comedies about a private investigator who doesn’t sleep until he closes his case. He is currently working on a third book in the Sleepy P.I. series for National Novel Writing Month, so that’s why he’ll look stressed out at the Authors Fair.

Be sure to stop by Aaron’s table at the Author’s Fair on November 10th and pick up a copy of Highland High to find out what happens next.

A Note from the Webmaster: If you’re a Writers Forum member in good standing and would like to be featured on Member Monday, please send your submission to writersforumwebmaster@gmail.com.  Submissions should be 75-750 words, appropriate for all ages and error free.  Please include a short bio, a headshot and any related links.  The author retains all rights and gives permission to Writers Forum to publish their submission on the website and/or in the newsletter.  Thank you!
 

Member Monday: The Accidental Vigil by Aaron Steinmetz

Welcome back to Member Monday.  It’s a pleasure to welcome my friend and new Writers Forum member, Aaron Steinmetz.

Aaron Steinmetz

Author’s Note: Aaron Steinmetz is the ‘word-renowned’ author of Sleepy P.I., a quirky comedy about a private investigator who doesn’t sleep until he closes his case. He is currently working on several more books, including a follow-up to Sleepy P.I. due out in November, and a comedy about a cat with homicidal tendencies. With any luck, his cat will let him live long enough to see these things through.

The Accidental Vigil
Short Fiction by Aaron Steinmetz

I tried to pick the lock with a credit card but it didn’t work. At least not like it works in the movies. Figure the movies are bogus or the door-making industry figured out a way around that old trick. Either way, I won’t be using that credit card again.

So I was stuck. I’d done it again, locked myself out of my apartment. And this time Karen wasn’t around to bail me out. What’s a grown man to do when he has no one to call? He can only sit on the front step and watch the birds eat leftovers from some discarded fast food bag, or the sun as it disappears behind the tree-covered mountains for an early sunset, or the homeless guy who mutters obscenities in his sleep.

There’s always so much to watch, so much to see going on at any moment of the day, and it was so engrossing. You know, I almost didn’t mind sitting there leaning my back against the front door of my apartment.

Mine is a simple complex: the parking lot for it is square, and the light blue buildings surrounding it rise only two stories. There’s covered parking spots for the tenants and a few more uncovered spots thrown in for good measure. There are trees all around the complex, sometimes green, sometimes brown, sometimes naked in the cold mountain winters. It’s a quiet complex, and I was fortunate to lock myself out in August when it’s warm by night and scorching by day. And the sun had set. So I dozed off.

When I woke up, I was still leaning against the front door, and what little activity I’d observed the previous day was gone. It was replaced by a neighbor boy practicing his juggling and his kid sister watching him learn. He was so engrossing I didn’t even mind my numb bottom.

After he and his sister went back inside there came a bevy of birds, probably migratory, arriving late or leaving early. They landed in the giant oak tree near the entrance to the apartment complex. Each one seemed to have its own idea about where to perch and each one had no problem voicing its opinion. I laughed out loud at their screeching noises.

Before I knew it, it was evening again. And the stars were out in amazing splendor. And I think I saw a shooting star though it may have just been a dream. Don’t really remember because I woke up the next morning a bit sore. That’s when Catherine found me. She’s an older lady who lives in section ‘A’ across the parking lot. She said she’d seen me sitting here quite a bit and wondered if everything was okay. I told her everything was grand. I’d completely forgotten about the locked door.

She still seemed worried, so she asked me if I’d had any food or water recently. To be honest I hadn’t even thought about it. She brought me some leftovers and a few bottles of water. They lasted me through sunset, that glorious evening show and the follow-up sunrise the next morning. It was pure bliss. I had even forgotten about Karen.

I’ve lost track of how many days went by. Sorry. Never was good at counting. That was Karen’s thing; I was just the janitor. And I forgot about my job too. Didn’t know I lost it ‘til Jimbo came by to check on me, see what was wrong and all. I didn’t mind all that much losing my job because the juggler was back out and he was getting better. He even had the two-in-one-hand thing going. Jimbo wanted to know how I was taking Karen leaving me. I told him the juggler was getting better.

Jimbo must have thought so too because he showed up a little later with some food and joined me for that night’s sunset. We chatted a bit but he wasn’t the least bit interested in the splendor around us. He kept wanting to talk about Karen and how I was doing, completely irrelevant stuff about feelings and reactions and moving on. I don’t remember everything. The stars were back and they were fantastic!

Karen showed up mid-morning the next day and told me what I was doing was childish and stupid, that no dumb vigil would bring her back. I couldn’t figure out what she was talking about. I didn’t really care, though. A vulture was circling around overhead and I was trying to figure out what it was watching. I think it was a squirrel, because he seemed to be over the park where a lot of people feed the squirrels so their population has increased to record numbers, though I’m not too sure about that. He could have been examining road kill or rodents or anything really.

Karen said a very bad word and left.

Catherine kept me fed and watered. I don’t understand why she was so worried. I was enjoying the outdoors so much. I’d never been happier. Between the birds in the air and the people in the complex and the stars at night and the sounds and smells and warm atmosphere of the outdoor complex I really wondered why I even had an apartment.

Some more time went by. Don’t know how, but a news crew found out that I was sitting there. Jennifer Waters herself interviewed me! She called it some kind of human relations story thing. Don’t know what she meant by that. Catherine said they ran the story that night on the news, and apparently a lot of people found out how great nature is at my complex because a whole bunch came out to hang out with me. Some of them held signs that read, “Come back, Karen” for some reason. Guess they were friends of hers who wanted her to enjoy the scenery. Doesn’t really matter. The juggler was teaching his sister the two-hand thing.

More people showed up to watch the world around us and they started inviting other friends. One guy held a sign that read, “Take me Back, Becky” and another held one that read “I’ll Stand with the Parking Lot Patron.” Don’t know who the Parking Lot Patron was. Probably the juggler. Some folks brought a barbecue and we all ate well. They even brought me my food so I wouldn’t have to get up. Good thing, too, because I’d lost all feeling in my legs.

Someone must have called her because Karen showed up again and she had this worried look. I wanted to get up and greet her, tell her about the cloud that looked like a giant abalone and the worms that crossed the sidewalk that got cooked in the sun and the ants that came to clean them up. I wanted to show her the bee that had pollinated the flowers next to me but my legs wouldn’t work. She helped me, though. Karen was always good at helping me out. She had a key to my apartment. Karen helped me inside, told me she wouldn’t leave me again.

And for some reason, everyone outside cheered.

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