About the Legend of Sparrow

Dell Sweet: About the Legend of Sparrow

I began the Legend of Sparrow in a creative writing class several years ago. There were a dozen of us in the class, but only a small core of five who actually took the class to learn. The others were there to be entertained, get credits.
The first day of class the ones who were there to pass the time began to act up and a few of us shut it down by offering to read what we were writing. That set the tone for the entire semester and they were good and well behaved after that.
What I decided to share in that brief instance of bravery was a short-short story about a man having these odd dreams. He would wake up and find himself in a familiar place, yet no matter how hard he tried to find his way to home from there, although it should have been easy he could not.
That short story came from dreams I had had for years. I would find myself in a factory or train station, bus station, park: The place didn’t matter so much except it was always known to me. I knew that home and safety were a short way away. I could almost see it from where I stood, I could see the path worked out in my head. All I had to do was move my feet in the right direction and I would be set upon the right course. I could never do that though. For some reason I would turn the other way or someone would interrupt me and by the time I turned back everything had changed and I was lost.
I had written the short-short story based on that. Since we had both volunteered we were on the chopping block. Every day after that we would be reading updates to the stories we were writing. The other guy was writing a crime story; very complicated, people double crossed over and over again. One of those stories where you had to ask for clarity. And of course that was his offering while mine was this weird dream book where everything happens out of sequence and nothing made sense at first. Even so the class listened and eventually got into both stories and it seemed like the semester burned up it moved so fast.
About ten years back I found those stories and made them into a novel. I sat down one day with the stories, about 6000 words and a week later I was edging out a 100 k novel. I finished it at 125 thousand words and jumped into a sequel immediately. That sequel is still sitting in a composition notebook, two actually and I hope some day to write it into the word processor.
That is how I wrote back then. I wrote in composition notebooks. Even now I have composition notebooks and some days it is all I can do to stop myself from jumping into a story line and writing it out in one. That is because I wrote something like 30 novels that way.
I guess my point is you take them as they come. I started this novel as a Little dream sequence of my own and it became a book that is centered in the dream worlds of two Native American people…

The Legend of Sparrow: Laura must travel the trail of death to reach the city of the dead and free Sparrow Spirit…

THE LEGEND OF SPARROW
I had come back to spend time with Laura. I could not tell her my real reasons. That I was afraid of leading the Dream Killer to her. Or I was not sure even whether I was coming back in the end, so I had wanted to see her one more time. She asked me…


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Mister Bob. A short story collection from Dell Sweet

Mister Bob. A short story collection from Dell Sweet


MISTER BOB

Collected Short Stories

Published with Amazon

Mister Bob: Collected Short Stories is Copyright © 2015 Dell Sweet

Copyright © 2015 by Dell Sweet All rights reserved

Cover Art © Copyright 2015 Wendell Sweet

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your bookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

LEGAL

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual living persons places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

This novel is Copyright © 2015 Wendell Sweet and his assignees. The Name Dell Sweet is a publishing construct used by Wendell Sweet. Portions of this text are copyright 2010, and 2011, all rights reserved by Wendell Sweet and his assignees. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the author’s or assignees permission.

Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print.


THE BORDERLINE

Sunday night.

I buried the Mexican just after sundown. I can’t say much about the sort of man he was in life, but I can say he was a strong man in death.

The Moon has led my way and I’m on my way across the desert into Mexico of all places.  What did they say, hide in plain sight?  There I’m going to be.  Probably already passed the border, and once I’m across the border I’ll find a small town to buy gasoline enough so I can reach South America.

I’ve played the events of yesterday over and over in my head as I’ve driven. It still makes no sense to me at all.  They say shit happens, we’ll sometimes it does, and I tell myself that’s exactly what happened here.  Some shit decided to happen and I just happened to be there.

Saturday evening.

It was early. I had nothing better to do so I took a walk downtown just to take a look at the buildings. Thinking, as I walked, how just a few short years ago I had spent almost all of my time down there. Chasing a high. Drunk or both. And sometimes a third thing: Taking a little comfort with the ladies. It all came back to me as I walked the streets.

About three years of my life had been spent like that. From the day Lilly told me goodbye, until the day I woke up in the alley that runs down the back of West Broad, behind the Chinese restaurant. The back of my head had been lumped up with something or by someone.

Some one, I decided as I had begun to blink the cobwebs away and feel carefully with my fingers. A lump only, no blood. Probably a closed fist…

Two feet away from me was a dead rat. A big dead rat, and a few even larger rats were breakfasting on him. And, suddenly, just like that, I was done. That gave me a clear message about the world. And I heard it.

Of course that didn’t mean I got off Scot free. There were many little things I’d done during my long, long slide. And it took time to fix those things. Rehab, jail for some bad checks I couldn’t remember. Bad teeth, health, ideas, depression, suicide, and finally a night where I felt strong enough to take a walk through the worst of my nightmares and see if I was truly over the drugs, the life, the weaknesses that had led me there in the first place.

So that’s how I came to be there yesterday evening: Getting my feet wet. Seeing how strong I was… Or wasn’t. And it turns out I was strong enough for the temptation of the streets, but not over the bad habits I had picked up there. And that’s what got me… I cannot believe it was only yesterday when all this started.

I walked by the mouth of the alley twice. Both times I saw the old Ford sitting there in the deep shadows. Heard the soft murmur of its engine running. Some guy and some girl, I thought, or some guy with some guy, or boy who knows what. It was downtown. Shit like that happened all the time. But, I thought after the second time, this guy must be trying to set a record. He’d been there for 15 minutes by my watch, not that it was my business. All the same, fifteen minutes is a long time for a trick. Or to shoot up. Fifteen minutes could bring a cop. In the street world it was just too long for almost anything. In fifteen minutes you could get your thing on, your drug of choice, and be a half mile away and have forgotten all about that last little space of time. So why was this guy still there?

And that was the street part of me that was not gone. The street part of me that was still looking for trouble. And I found it.

The third time by, which was just a few minutes later, I was too curious. My evening had bought me some excitement. The drugs, I could see the flow all over the avenue. Easy to see if you knew what to look for. The ladies were calling too. I knew what that was about. I didn’t look at them like they were whores, or something less than human. It was a line I couldn’t draw, had confused many times, so I came back fast to see what this was. That Ford was calling.

I had stopped at the mouth of the alley. Same Ford. An old one. Like a classic. Nice shape too. Maybe somewhere in the sixties, but I wasn’t good with cars like that. I only knew old, classic, nice looking.

Nobody around.  Of course that didn’t mean there was no one in the car. I hesitated for only a second, and then walked quietly down the alley, staying in the shadows as I went.

~

I found the Mexican slumped over behind the wheel. Blood dripping down the side of his head. A gun on the seat beside him.  Another guy was slumped over into the floorboards on the passenger side. That one was dead for sure. A large, bloodless hole on one side of his chest.  A larger hole behind that shoulder I saw when I reached over to move him.

And why are you still here? A little voice in my head whispered. Why are you touching him? What are you doing? But I pushed those warning voices away and continued to look.

There was blood and gore all over the seat on that side. The coppery stench of blood was thick and nauseating. Something else mixed in with it, tugging at my brain. Blood and…  Fear? Something. That was when the Mexican spoke in all that silence and nearly made me jump out of my skin.

“Don’t call the cops!” and… “No Policia.” His head came away from wheel. He shook it and drops of blood went flying. I felt it hit my face, but I was still too stunned to move.

“Hey! … You hear me, Blanquito? Habla English? … No Policia?” He muttered under his breath “Dios Christos,” he focused his eyes on me once more. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I thought you were dead,” I managed.  I should’ve run. I chose to talk.

“Yeah… I get that a lot. But I ain’t dead.” He picked up the gun from the seat and before I knew it was in my face. “Come around the side, Blanquito. Get Lopez out of the car.” He waved the pistol and I moved.

Lopez pretty much helped himself out of the car. When I opened the door he spilled out into the alley, leaving the mess on the seat and a large smear of blood on the seat back and the door panel as he went.

“Good… Good,” the Mexican said. “Now get in the fuckin’ car… No… No… This side. Come back around to this side. I can’t drive no car, Blanquito… Dios!” He waved the gun once more and I moved. Racing around the hood of the car to the door.

The Mexican did a fair job of getting himself over into the passenger seat. I was glad it was him sitting in Lopez’s blood and not me, although I had been about to sit in it.

I slid into the driver’s seat.

“You got some kind of car… Truck… Something like that?” The Mexican asked.

I didn’t have a vehicle, but my grandfather had, had a truck. It was sitting in the garage in back of my house. That house had also been my grandfather’s. They were the only two things, the house and the truck, that had survived those three years on the streets.

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?” He looked around “Get this car moving. That’s the first thing… You got a place?… Close by? How does anybody sort of own a fuckin’ car anyway?”

“Yeah, I got a place” I said.  I was afraid to answer, but more afraid of not answering fast enough.

“Let’s get there, Amigo.” He slumped back against the seat. I shifted into drive, worried I might drive over Lopez as I went, and drove us out of the alley.

~

The house was dark. I had thought to leave a light on, but I had forgotten. I drove the Ford right into the garage, pulled the garage door back down, and helped the Mexican out. He looked over at my grandfather’s truck.

“That your sort of truck? Looks fine to me, man. Doesn’t it run?”

The thing is it did run. I had been  working on it here and there. I like to tinker with things. And I had a lot of spare time to fill when I quit drugging so I had turned it to the truck.

It was an old truck. But I had in the back of my mind to fix it up and drive it. So I had started with an oil change, then installed a new headlight on the driver’s side, that sort of stuff, when I had time.

I nodded. “No plates though.”

The Mexican nodded. “Don’t worry about that… Got gas in it?”

“Some…  Enough to get you away.”

“Ha, Amigo.” He laughed and then clutched the side of his head where the blood still drizzled and spilled down the side of his face, spat some blood from his mouth, and looked back at me. “Us,” he said. “Us.”

I saw an amazing thing as he spoke. The Mexican had a small blue hole just above the stream of blood. A hole from a bullet.  In his head. The blood just pulsed out of it as I watched. I wondered how he could even be alive.

I switched the plates to the truck and left the Ford sitting in the garage. I unloaded four big suitcases from the trunk of the Ford into the bed of the pickup truck. The Mexican had me stretch a tarp over the bed of the pickup and tie it off, and we were on the road. Heading for the Mexican border…



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Mister Bob is a collection of short stories from Author Dell Sweet.


FIREFIGHT: Private Johnson finds himself in the middle of a firefight in the jungles of Vietnam. He has no idea how he got there, why he is there, or why the men with him seem to know more about his circumstances than he does.


RAPID CITY: When the apocalypse of the dead befell the world, men and women rose to the challenge. The great gunfighters of the zombie plague years rose and dealt with the dead with ruthless precision, but their time is fading.


PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS: Hired to do a simple job, the case that was not supposed to be a big deal turns into one. A man, a woman, and the lies that bind them together.


THE BORDERLINE: Billy had only intended to take a short walk downtown. See the girls, the sites, feel the night air on his face. Twenty-four hours later as he was digging a grave in the desert hard-pan, he found himself wondering what had gone wrong.


A DRESS FOR JANEY: A dirt poor farmer rides out after the thief that stole his horse. He leaves behind his wife to run the farm while he is gone, hoping he can catch the thief and return before too long. Morning turns into night as he rides alone.


MISTER BOB: A little girl awakens screaming in the night, convinced that someone she calls Mister Bob has come to her window in the middle of the night to plead for his life, hoping she will intervene for him.


Seventeen stories from Dell Sweet, from True stories to horror and even humor.


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An interesting week and a look at Dreamers from Geo Dell and Dell Sweet

An interesting week and a look at Dreamers from Geo Dell and Dell Sweet

It’s been an interesting week. We have run the gamut of weather here, rain, heat, now snow. I think winter has arrived and settled in.

I spent today painting, I will spend tomorrow doing the same. Interior painting, it all has to get done eventually. When I used to think about being a full time writer I used to think I would actually be working at writing full time. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Sorry, but the truth is far from there. It seems, if I allow it, that there is tons of other stuff that creeps in.

Monday: I worked on repairing a leaky fitting on my hot water heater over the weekend. I finally repaired the leak only to find that the tank itself was leaking. So I shut it down and Monday I went to Lowe’s and bought a new tank. I spent Monday installing the tank. This was actually comical.

My truck is off the road, shouldn’t be, but it is, so that left the car to get the tank with. I guaranteed myself that the tank would fit in the car (A Chevy Cavalier). I wheeled the tank out to the car and it was obvious that I was wrong. But with the help of a passerby, we stripped the box off and I got the tank into the back seat. No lie, Whirlpool Short Tank, tilted it up and slid it in. The passerby offered to take the cart back in so I thanked him and headed home. That only left two dozen things to do.

I wrestled the old tank out, but only after I cut and moved all of the heat ducts that passed right in front of the old tank, put them back together, and drained most of the old tank. I used to work as a property maintenance worker. I did at least two water heater tanks a week, alone, and that meant getting the new tank into the basement, getting the old tank out, new copper pipe connections and firing the tank up at the end. But that was several years ago. I started this project and my body said… “Are you kidding me?”

That was Monday. By the end of the day the tank was in, all the heat ducting replaced and re-routed, and I wasn’t dead.

Tuesday: Yes, there was a Tuesday in my week. Tuesday I did drywall work, and then worked on an Earth’s Survivors future edition. There was a meeting of minds about Earth’s Survivors and it’s further existence, more on that later. I worked up a schedule of what I would like to be working on.

Wednesday: Mud work on the drywall and a meeting about the Rebecca Monet books. Does talking about writing get the writing done? Sadly, no it does not.

Thursday and Friday: I worked on two custom guitar builds, a Gibson and a Fender, both acoustics, and finished them. I thought about writing. Wished I had not taken on the two custom guitar builds, but I had promised them months ago when it looked like the house and my workshop would have to be done by now and I would have so much free time that a couple of guitar builds would be nothing at all. Sigh…

Today: Painting the drywall work I did earlier in the week and then mudded. Site updates, a final discussion about the Earth’s Survivors series, and a short meet and greet of the new cat to replace my old cat. The new cat is a little pissed to be moved from it’s old home to this home. This cat is the brother of the cat I had. A nice cat, for a used replacement cat. Hopefully we will hit it off.

That brings me to now. It is a blizzard outside, has been, off and on, all day long.

Series: Earth’s Survivors Main Series – Dreamer’s Worlds – Geo Dell

The used replacement cat and the one remaining cat are sniffing each other and growling and generally attempting to out-cat each other. I had so much fun building the last two guitars that I am thinking about finally building another for myself, an 8 string acoustic, but I am torn, I started building a video game several months back and I want to get back to that too. And I have a new machine to finish it on I just have to put it together.

That is the week. Wish me luck with the cat situation and writing time. I’ll be back Wednesday.

I will leave you with an excerpt of Dreamers:


Dreamers

By Geo Dell

All Interior and Cover Art Copyright Wendell Sweet 2013

Dreamer’s Worlds

Copyright © 2013 by Geo Dell

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please direct them to this website. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

LEGAL

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual living persons places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

This novel is Copyright © 2010 – 2013 Geo Dell, all rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the authors permission.

Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print..


This material is copyright protected

This material is NOT edited for content


ONE

On the path:

Laura and Bear;

Morning came in all of its silver glory, and we began to walk once more. As the day before, the dead were pouring out of the woods as soon as the sun was firmly established in the new sky.

Bear and I stayed close together, tried to ignore what was going on around us, and managed a little better than we had the day before. The morning wore on, the second sun lifted above the horizon, the predators showed up, and the dead began to thin out quickly.

I paid attention to those that left. They stumbled along, no better, no worse than anyone else on the path.

They didn’t seem to have more of a purpose, they didn’t seem to have a better idea of where they were going, but they did seem, just before they veered off the path and found their exit, to be listening to other voices. It was in the way their heads were cocked to one side. The way their eyes seemed to be seeing something far away. And there was more. I couldn’t put my finger on. A lot of it was subjective, maybe I saw it, maybe I didn’t. But it seemed, strangely, that they heard or saw someone or something, just before they made a beeline for their exit.

Bear and I analyzed it separately, and ended up in agreement. He got so that we could both tell one that was in that mode, disconnected from this reality, about to cross over to what ever alternate reality existed for him or her. Another world. We watched for them. I don’t know why, but I had the idea that it could be helpful.

“There’s one,” Bear said matter-of-factly.

I followed his finger and watched a young woman staggering along to the left of the path.

At first I thought that whatever killed her didn’t seem to be obvious. It must have been something internal, I thought. Even in death she looked healthy, maybe too pale. But, then she turned toward me and I saw the neat blue hole by her temple. It sickened me. Reminded me of looking at my own body in the bathtub. The small blue hole in my forehead. Not enough power to come out of the back of my skull, just enough to get in and scramble my brains. Just enough to kill me. It must have been the same for the young woman, and I wondered if someone had done it to her, or she had done it two herself.

Her head was cocked again, almost seemed to look up into the small, silver sun. Her hands hung limply at her side. Her mouth hung slightly askew. Something moved in her hair. I didn’t want to think about what that might be. Her eyes were slightly bulged, more white than anything else. Sun faded? They looked that way. The way the sun could bleach something out. She stopped suddenly, seemed frenzied for a second.

“There she goes,” bear said.

She suddenly veered off into what seemed to be an empty field. I hurried after her.

“Where are you going,” bear asked? “Surely you’re not going to follow!”

I shook my head as I hurried after her. “I just want to see if I can see what happens.” As I spoke she winked out. There one second, gone the next. And I saw nothing at all. I walked the last twenty feet to where she had been. I walked past it. Nothing. Except… “Bear… Come here.” I waited until he got to me. “Doesn’t it seem warmer here,” I asked?

“Yes,” he agreed. “And it also smells like Ozone too.” He walked back and forth a few times. “But it’s fading fast. It’s almost back to normal.” And, it was. A few seconds later, I couldn’t be sure where it had been exactly. No temperature change. No odor.

“Mind your own business,” a voice said.

I jumped and turned to find one of the dead standing and staring at me with one eye. The other a pink spongy ruin that oozed part way out of the socket. “Mind your goddamn business,” he told me again.

“I am,” I said.

“Are you,” he asked?

I stood my ground and looked him over. Tall, ceremonial clothes that had probably been splendid at one time. Now they were grave moldy, stained, sagging, in tatters. Half the bead-work was missing. Bugs moved here and there. The odor of the grave clung to him. He fingered what looked to be a fresh scalp that hung at his waist.

” Are you,” I countered?

“Oh yes,” he said. “All of this is my business.” He lifted his arms and waved them around to encompass everything. He turned his dead eyes back to me. “Ask me,” he said.

“Ask you what,” I asked?

“Ask me how your boyfriend’s doing… Ask me who I am… Ask me anything at all… I’m like… Like a God… I can tell you anything you want to know.” He smiled, and new cracks appeared in his face. My heart staggered in my chest. This must be an Illusion, but it felt real enough.

“What do you mean ask you how Dell is… What do you mean by that?”

He giggled. “Right to the question… Write to it… Well, I mean ask me how he is. What he’s up to. How his day was. What shaking with him… Ask me… Ask me like that… Or… You do want to know, don’t you?… Maybe not? Do I see fear… Yes… I do… I do…”

“What’s wrong with him,” I asked? I seemed to have very little strength to push the words out.

“Oh!” He exclaimed. “Glad you asked,” he fingered the scalp hanging at his belt and panic leapt hard into my throat. Steely, metallic, electric, painful, from nothing to full throttle all at once.

“This,” he fingered the scalp, “used to be his… Dead… I see no need to sugarcoat it. Dead. I killed him… Let’s say that I collect souvenirs… Yes… Souvenirs.” He giggled again as he fingered the scalp.

My eyesight went fuzzy, my breathing whistling in my suddenly too tight throat.

He turned and pointed back down the trail. “Maybe a days travel back. He’s dead alright, but he’s not up walking. Just laying there… But… But he will be. Just a matter of time.” He giggled and then turned serious. “A did you a favor… You should thank me. Now you should go home or I’ll kill you too… I will give you some time to think it over.” He twisted his face, cocked his head, turning his dead eyes on me hard. “No way will I let you walk your three hands… No way… You decide, Laura, you decide.” He leaned closer. “I’m surprised you didn’t want to know who I am… Not the slightest bit curious… At all…? Well I’ll introduce myself anyway. I am the Dream Killer. Think about that. I have a great deal of experience doing just what I did to your boyfriend…”He looked from me to Bear, then turned and started to shuffle off. He turned about 30 feet away. “I won’t wait long… Just leave… It would be good for your health…”


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The Legend of Sparrow, Wendell G Sweet Geo Dell

The Legend of Sparrow

Wendell G Sweet Geo Dell


This is copyrighted material


“Benjamin told me the legends first…….”
“In the beginning the Creator made a way to the peoples that will always be open. First Woman, The Clan Totems, the Star People, were all able to communicate, and they are still able now, up to this day and beyond, until your days cease you will have a pathway to that knowledge. A way to reach all that is possible. You hold the keys to all that is within yourself. We all do…”
“This is how the Creator came to make that way open for us, Benjamin told me.”
Laura nodded, curled her feet under herself and settled in to listen.
“We were in a sweat lodge at the time. One Benjamin had built with the help of my Uncles and Cousins. So many used it though that we had to check first to see if it could be used.”
“The Owl Woman’s Society uses it,” he told me. “That meant nothing to me. At least nothing concrete. I had known my mother belonged to the Owl Woman’s Society. I didn’t know what they did: Where they met. What they decided. How important they were to each other, to us, to the well being of our people.”
“We settled into the sweat lodge and Benjamin began to tell me the legend of the Dreamer’s Way… What came to be known as the legend of the Sparrow…”


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An interesting week and a look at Dreamers from Geo Dell and Dell Sweet

An interesting week and a look at Dreamers from Geo Dell and Dell Sweet It’s been an interesting week. We have run the gamut of weather here, rain, heat, now snow. I think winter has arrived and settled in. I spent today painting, I will spend tomorrow doing the same. Interior painting, it all has […]

About the Legend of Sparrow

Dell Sweet: About the Legend of Sparrow

I began the Legend of Sparrow in a creative writing class several years ago. There were a dozen of us in the class, but only a small core of five who actually took the class to learn. The others were there to be entertained, get credits.
The first day of class the ones who were there to pass the time began to act up and a few of us shut it down by offering to read what we were writing. That set the tone for the entire semester and they were good and well behaved after that.
What I decided to share in that brief instance of bravery was a short-short story about a man having these odd dreams. He would wake up and find himself in a familiar place, yet no matter how hard he tried to find his way to home from there, although it should have been easy he could not.
That short story came from dreams I had had for years. I would find myself in a factory or train station, bus station, park: The place didn’t matter so much except it was always known to me. I knew that home and safety were a short way away. I could almost see it from where I stood, I could see the path worked out in my head. All I had to do was move my feet in the right direction and I would be set upon the right course. I could never do that though. For some reason I would turn the other way or someone would interrupt me and by the time I turned back everything had changed and I was lost.
I had written the short-short story based on that. Since we had both volunteered we were on the chopping block. Every day after that we would be reading updates to the stories we were writing. The other guy was writing a crime story; very complicated, people double crossed over and over again. One of those stories where you had to ask for clarity. And of course that was his offering while mine was this weird dream book where everything happens out of sequence and nothing made sense at first. Even so the class listened and eventually got into both stories and it seemed like the semester burned up it moved so fast.
About ten years back I found those stories and made them into a novel. I sat down one day with the stories, about 6000 words and a week later I was edging out a 100 k novel. I finished it at 125 thousand words and jumped into a sequel immediately. That sequel is still sitting in a composition notebook, two actually and I hope some day to write it into the word processor.
That is how I wrote back then. I wrote in composition notebooks. Even now I have composition notebooks and some days it is all I can do to stop myself from jumping into a story line and writing it out in one. That is because I wrote something like 30 novels that way.
I guess my point is you take them as they come. I started this novel as a Little dream sequence of my own and it became a book that is centered in the dream worlds of two Native American people…

The Legend of Sparrow: Laura must travel the trail of death to reach the city of the dead and free Sparrow Spirit…

THE LEGEND OF SPARROW
I had come back to spend time with Laura. I could not tell her my real reasons. That I was afraid of leading the Dream Killer to her. Or I was not sure even whether I was coming back in the end, so I had wanted to see her one more time. She asked me…


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Mister Bob. A short story collection from Dell Sweet

Mister Bob. A short story collection from Dell Sweet


MISTER BOB

Collected Short Stories

Published with Amazon

Mister Bob: Collected Short Stories is Copyright © 2015 Dell Sweet

Copyright © 2015 by Dell Sweet All rights reserved

Cover Art © Copyright 2015 Wendell Sweet

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This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual living persons places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

This novel is Copyright © 2015 Wendell Sweet and his assignees. The Name Dell Sweet is a publishing construct used by Wendell Sweet. Portions of this text are copyright 2010, and 2011, all rights reserved by Wendell Sweet and his assignees. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the author’s or assignees permission.

Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print.


THE BORDERLINE

Sunday night.

I buried the Mexican just after sundown. I can’t say much about the sort of man he was in life, but I can say he was a strong man in death.

The Moon has led my way and I’m on my way across the desert into Mexico of all places.  What did they say, hide in plain sight?  There I’m going to be.  Probably already passed the border, and once I’m across the border I’ll find a small town to buy gasoline enough so I can reach South America.

I’ve played the events of yesterday over and over in my head as I’ve driven. It still makes no sense to me at all.  They say shit happens, we’ll sometimes it does, and I tell myself that’s exactly what happened here.  Some shit decided to happen and I just happened to be there.

Saturday evening.

It was early. I had nothing better to do so I took a walk downtown just to take a look at the buildings. Thinking, as I walked, how just a few short years ago I had spent almost all of my time down there. Chasing a high. Drunk or both. And sometimes a third thing: Taking a little comfort with the ladies. It all came back to me as I walked the streets.

About three years of my life had been spent like that. From the day Lilly told me goodbye, until the day I woke up in the alley that runs down the back of West Broad, behind the Chinese restaurant. The back of my head had been lumped up with something or by someone.

Some one, I decided as I had begun to blink the cobwebs away and feel carefully with my fingers. A lump only, no blood. Probably a closed fist…

Two feet away from me was a dead rat. A big dead rat, and a few even larger rats were breakfasting on him. And, suddenly, just like that, I was done. That gave me a clear message about the world. And I heard it.

Of course that didn’t mean I got off Scot free. There were many little things I’d done during my long, long slide. And it took time to fix those things. Rehab, jail for some bad checks I couldn’t remember. Bad teeth, health, ideas, depression, suicide, and finally a night where I felt strong enough to take a walk through the worst of my nightmares and see if I was truly over the drugs, the life, the weaknesses that had led me there in the first place.

So that’s how I came to be there yesterday evening: Getting my feet wet. Seeing how strong I was… Or wasn’t. And it turns out I was strong enough for the temptation of the streets, but not over the bad habits I had picked up there. And that’s what got me… I cannot believe it was only yesterday when all this started.

I walked by the mouth of the alley twice. Both times I saw the old Ford sitting there in the deep shadows. Heard the soft murmur of its engine running. Some guy and some girl, I thought, or some guy with some guy, or boy who knows what. It was downtown. Shit like that happened all the time. But, I thought after the second time, this guy must be trying to set a record. He’d been there for 15 minutes by my watch, not that it was my business. All the same, fifteen minutes is a long time for a trick. Or to shoot up. Fifteen minutes could bring a cop. In the street world it was just too long for almost anything. In fifteen minutes you could get your thing on, your drug of choice, and be a half mile away and have forgotten all about that last little space of time. So why was this guy still there?

And that was the street part of me that was not gone. The street part of me that was still looking for trouble. And I found it.

The third time by, which was just a few minutes later, I was too curious. My evening had bought me some excitement. The drugs, I could see the flow all over the avenue. Easy to see if you knew what to look for. The ladies were calling too. I knew what that was about. I didn’t look at them like they were whores, or something less than human. It was a line I couldn’t draw, had confused many times, so I came back fast to see what this was. That Ford was calling.

I had stopped at the mouth of the alley. Same Ford. An old one. Like a classic. Nice shape too. Maybe somewhere in the sixties, but I wasn’t good with cars like that. I only knew old, classic, nice looking.

Nobody around.  Of course that didn’t mean there was no one in the car. I hesitated for only a second, and then walked quietly down the alley, staying in the shadows as I went.

~

I found the Mexican slumped over behind the wheel. Blood dripping down the side of his head. A gun on the seat beside him.  Another guy was slumped over into the floorboards on the passenger side. That one was dead for sure. A large, bloodless hole on one side of his chest.  A larger hole behind that shoulder I saw when I reached over to move him.

And why are you still here? A little voice in my head whispered. Why are you touching him? What are you doing? But I pushed those warning voices away and continued to look.

There was blood and gore all over the seat on that side. The coppery stench of blood was thick and nauseating. Something else mixed in with it, tugging at my brain. Blood and…  Fear? Something. That was when the Mexican spoke in all that silence and nearly made me jump out of my skin.

“Don’t call the cops!” and… “No Policia.” His head came away from wheel. He shook it and drops of blood went flying. I felt it hit my face, but I was still too stunned to move.

“Hey! … You hear me, Blanquito? Habla English? … No Policia?” He muttered under his breath “Dios Christos,” he focused his eyes on me once more. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I thought you were dead,” I managed.  I should’ve run. I chose to talk.

“Yeah… I get that a lot. But I ain’t dead.” He picked up the gun from the seat and before I knew it was in my face. “Come around the side, Blanquito. Get Lopez out of the car.” He waved the pistol and I moved.

Lopez pretty much helped himself out of the car. When I opened the door he spilled out into the alley, leaving the mess on the seat and a large smear of blood on the seat back and the door panel as he went.

“Good… Good,” the Mexican said. “Now get in the fuckin’ car… No… No… This side. Come back around to this side. I can’t drive no car, Blanquito… Dios!” He waved the gun once more and I moved. Racing around the hood of the car to the door.

The Mexican did a fair job of getting himself over into the passenger seat. I was glad it was him sitting in Lopez’s blood and not me, although I had been about to sit in it.

I slid into the driver’s seat.

“You got some kind of car… Truck… Something like that?” The Mexican asked.

I didn’t have a vehicle, but my grandfather had, had a truck. It was sitting in the garage in back of my house. That house had also been my grandfather’s. They were the only two things, the house and the truck, that had survived those three years on the streets.

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?” He looked around “Get this car moving. That’s the first thing… You got a place?… Close by? How does anybody sort of own a fuckin’ car anyway?”

“Yeah, I got a place” I said.  I was afraid to answer, but more afraid of not answering fast enough.

“Let’s get there, Amigo.” He slumped back against the seat. I shifted into drive, worried I might drive over Lopez as I went, and drove us out of the alley.

~

The house was dark. I had thought to leave a light on, but I had forgotten. I drove the Ford right into the garage, pulled the garage door back down, and helped the Mexican out. He looked over at my grandfather’s truck.

“That your sort of truck? Looks fine to me, man. Doesn’t it run?”

The thing is it did run. I had been  working on it here and there. I like to tinker with things. And I had a lot of spare time to fill when I quit drugging so I had turned it to the truck.

It was an old truck. But I had in the back of my mind to fix it up and drive it. So I had started with an oil change, then installed a new headlight on the driver’s side, that sort of stuff, when I had time.

I nodded. “No plates though.”

The Mexican nodded. “Don’t worry about that… Got gas in it?”

“Some…  Enough to get you away.”

“Ha, Amigo.” He laughed and then clutched the side of his head where the blood still drizzled and spilled down the side of his face, spat some blood from his mouth, and looked back at me. “Us,” he said. “Us.”

I saw an amazing thing as he spoke. The Mexican had a small blue hole just above the stream of blood. A hole from a bullet.  In his head. The blood just pulsed out of it as I watched. I wondered how he could even be alive.

I switched the plates to the truck and left the Ford sitting in the garage. I unloaded four big suitcases from the trunk of the Ford into the bed of the pickup truck. The Mexican had me stretch a tarp over the bed of the pickup and tie it off, and we were on the road. Heading for the Mexican border…



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Mister Bob is a collection of short stories from Author Dell Sweet.


FIREFIGHT: Private Johnson finds himself in the middle of a firefight in the jungles of Vietnam. He has no idea how he got there, why he is there, or why the men with him seem to know more about his circumstances than he does.


RAPID CITY: When the apocalypse of the dead befell the world, men and women rose to the challenge. The great gunfighters of the zombie plague years rose and dealt with the dead with ruthless precision, but their time is fading.


PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS: Hired to do a simple job, the case that was not supposed to be a big deal turns into one. A man, a woman, and the lies that bind them together.


THE BORDERLINE: Billy had only intended to take a short walk downtown. See the girls, the sites, feel the night air on his face. Twenty-four hours later as he was digging a grave in the desert hard-pan, he found himself wondering what had gone wrong.


A DRESS FOR JANEY: A dirt poor farmer rides out after the thief that stole his horse. He leaves behind his wife to run the farm while he is gone, hoping he can catch the thief and return before too long. Morning turns into night as he rides alone.


MISTER BOB: A little girl awakens screaming in the night, convinced that someone she calls Mister Bob has come to her window in the middle of the night to plead for his life, hoping she will intervene for him.


Seventeen stories from Dell Sweet, from True stories to horror and even humor.


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The Legend of Sparrow, Wendell G Sweet Geo Dell

The Legend of Sparrow

Wendell G Sweet Geo Dell


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“Benjamin told me the legends first…….”
“In the beginning the Creator made a way to the peoples that will always be open. First Woman, The Clan Totems, the Star People, were all able to communicate, and they are still able now, up to this day and beyond, until your days cease you will have a pathway to that knowledge. A way to reach all that is possible. You hold the keys to all that is within yourself. We all do…”
“This is how the Creator came to make that way open for us, Benjamin told me.”
Laura nodded, curled her feet under herself and settled in to listen.
“We were in a sweat lodge at the time. One Benjamin had built with the help of my Uncles and Cousins. So many used it though that we had to check first to see if it could be used.”
“The Owl Woman’s Society uses it,” he told me. “That meant nothing to me. At least nothing concrete. I had known my mother belonged to the Owl Woman’s Society. I didn’t know what they did: Where they met. What they decided. How important they were to each other, to us, to the well being of our people.”
“We settled into the sweat lodge and Benjamin began to tell me the legend of the Dreamer’s Way… What came to be known as the legend of the Sparrow…”


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