Red Rain: Over 40 Bestselling Stories

by J. R. Rain

  The pistol. So small, so deadly.

  Yes, it would be the source of his death.

  No, he thinks grimly, turning onto Main Street. You will be the source of your death.

  Only you.

  * * *

  I call it a prompting.

  It comes in the form of a strong feeling. A jolt really. Something that always seems to originate in my solar plexus and radiating out. The prompting is never a thought. Or a vision. Or even whisperings in my ear.

  No, never.

  It’s just a feeling, and nothing more.

  Where the prompting comes from, I don’t know. I’m not privy to this information. I’m not privy to much, actually. I simply exist. I wander. I reflect. I sit. But I never sleep.

  No, never sleep.

  The prompting came now.

  I was sitting at a Starbucks in Seal Beach. I don’t need to eat, but I do when I’m bored enough and when I want to be around other people. I don’t always want to be around other people, granted. Often you’ll see me alone in a park, sitting on a bench, watching the birds, the squirrels, wondering why I’m here and who I am, since I have no memory of my birth, or my parents, or where I might have come from.

  I was sitting in the Starbucks, watching the barista work rapidly behind the counter, making drinks and calling names and wondering what their families were like, what it was like to have a mom, a dad, siblings. I was sipping black coffee and seated near the front door, when I felt the stirring in my gut.

  That is, of course, if I even have guts.

  I set down my coffee, ever alert.

  I hadn’t had such a prompting in many weeks. I’d spent those weeks wandering the streets of L.A. I don’t need money, but I often have it. People give me money, especially those I help, although I never ask for it. The money serves little purpose, other than to buy me coffee and the occasional scrambled eggs. I like scrambled eggs. Go figure.

  I cock my head, tuning in to my body.

  The prompting comes again, stronger. Sometimes the promptings don’t lead to much. False promptings I call them. This one wasn’t false. I’m sure of it. More than anything, I am suddenly certain that there is someone nearby who is about to do something very, very stupid. Whatever it was, and whoever it was, I didn’t know.

  But I was about to find out.

  I threw out my coffee and left.

  * * *

  It is late evening when Ralph finally parks near the Seal Beach Pier, his favorite place on earth.

  Hey, he figures, if I’m gonna haunt somewhere, I might as well haunt the Seal Beach Pier.

  As he sits in his truck, Ralph idly wonders if there really are seals out there. Less idly, Ralph reaches for the paperbag sitting on the seat next to him. The too-heavy paperbag.

  Ralph unrolls the bag while a young man with a laptop bag strapped behind his back ambles past. Ralph thinks the young man looked like a writer, with his plaid duckbill cap, the kind of cap that makes the young man look like a paperboy from the 1920s.

  Ralph reaches into the bag, his fingers alighting on the cold steel, dancing carefully over the polished metal until he finds the smooth grip. His fingers naturally wrap around it. The grip feels perfect. Made for his hand.

  Sweet Jesus, I’m really doing this.

  Ralph didn’t want to do this. He never thought he would do this. He never thought he would kill himself. Hell, he’d never even entertained the idea.

  That is, until these past few months.

  When he got, as he refers to it, the news.

  * * *

  The feeling grows stronger in me.

  Now it’s a compulsion that drives me, propels me. I am like a dog on the hunt. As I continue down the quaint downtown street toward the pier, I am compelled to walk faster and faster.

  I pass college students drinking in the many bars. I pass a young man jogging beside a pretty blond on a bike. I look again and notice the jogging young man and the blond are holding hands.

  Sweet.

  I’ve never held a girl’s hand.

  Ever.

  I set my jaw and continue forward, swiftly overtaking the jogging young man and the girl on the bike.

  * * *

  The news had been devastating.

  Inoperable brain tumor. A big one, too. Buried deep in his occipital lobe and rapidly growing. Ralph had been having headaches for months. He thought it was stress. He thought it was his wife being difficult. He thought it was his boss being difficult. His kids being difficult. Hell, everything had been so difficult.

  Yes, he thought his headache was just stress.

  That is, until the seizures started. An MRI later and the diagnosis was made. A tumor—too big to remove. His only hope had been chemotherapy.

  Ralph wasn’t going to do chemotherapy. The doctor said it himself: the prognosis was poor.

  I’m going to die.

  Ralph didn’t make a lot of money and his insurance was crap. Already the hospital bills were draining his bank account. And the seizures were getting worse, too. He was beginning to lose his balance and his vision was now blurring. He was going to die slow and miserable...and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  That is, until he bought the gun.

  * * *

  I’m moving faster than what most humans can move. Most mortals. I veritably fly over the sidewalk, my feet barely touching the gum-covered cement. And seagull shit.

  Yeah, I say words like shit.

  Why not?

  I’m close now. I can feel it. My body is crackling with energy. I know this energy. Healing energy.

  On the street corner I pause near an ice cream shop. The ice cream smells perfect. Or perhaps it’s the freshly-made cones. But I’m not focused on the cones, not really. I’m feeling my way, searching from the scent, the trail, a dog on the hunt.

  I find it, and the compulsion continues.

  I cross the street.

  There, a truck sitting in the shadows. A lone figure behind the wheel.

  I quicken my pace.

  * * *

  Ralph doesn’t want to die.

  He never planned it this way. He always thought he would die naturally. Not by his own hand. Yes, he was going to miss his wife and kids. Mostly, his kids. His wife had been a pill these past few months and really wasn’t very supportive of him. Supportive, in essence, of his death. She’s made his hospital trips and therapy seem like a chore. To seem like a bother. Nice.

  “Bitch,” he says, and raises the pistol to his temple.

  * * *

  I’m flying now.

  I think. Running so fast, so swiftly that I’m certain my feet are no longer touching the ground. Hell, I’m a blur even to myself.

  And now I see my target. The reason for the compulsion. The reason for me being alive. At least at this moment.

  And now I’m really flying—diving through the air.

  * * *

  The gunshot blasts through the driver’s side window.

  With it comes a cloudburst of blood and brain matter, spraying over the sidewalk and over the tall man who is now lying on top of the terrified young lady.

  The young lady who, just moments earlier, had been walking past the driver’s side window.

  The tall man waits briefly, then stands. Glass tumbles from his shoulders. He looks solemnly at the dead man for a heartbeat or two, then down at the woman he’d just saved. Next, he holds out his hand. Awkwardly.

  The young woman, mouth wide in shock and horror, stares at the proferred hand, then at the blood and flesh that partially covers her—and screams.

  The man waits, still reaching, then shrugs. He brushes off his shoulders.

  And continues on.

  The End

  Return to the Table of Contents

  More Sugar

  Once upon a time, there was a baker who was highly revered and much sought after. His customers included kings and noblemen, warriors and wizards. Everyone, it seemed, always had time to stop
by his little shop and sample his delectable delights.

  His name was Benjamin, and he was a very old man who walked with a limp. Some people claimed that Benjamin was an angel. How else could one explain his heavenly creations? Other people claimed that Benjamin, or Ben, never slept, that one could find him there in the bakery from sunrise to sundown, always serving hungry mouths, his door always open. Still others claimed that Ben had lived for a very long time; that he was, in fact, a prophet.

  Either way, because of his great age, his perfect pastries, and his gentle wisdom, Ben was often asked for his advice on a great many things, from a great many people. Kings sought his counsel and so did lowly servants. All were treated equally, and all left with full bellies, whether they could afford the pies or not.

  One day while Ben was busy serving a troop of road-weary soldiers, a great general asked the humble baker the secret to his success.

  With a twinkle in his eye—there was always a twinkle in Benjamin’s eye—the baker looked up from his tray of delights and smiled. “The secret to my success can be summed up in two words.”

  The customer looked pleased; the other tired soldiers leaned forward to hear the two words.

  “Please, Benjamin,” said the great general, “won’t you tell us the two words?”

  Benjamin smiled kindly. “The secret to my success is summed up in two words: More sugar.”

  “More sugar?” said the general, disappointed.

  “Is that not what you wanted to hear?” asked Benjamin the Baker, curious.

  “It doesn’t exactly apply to my life now, does it?” said the warrior. “I’m a general. I conquer lands, armies, people. More sugar does little for me.”

  “Aye,” said one of his soldiers, a gruff man with a thick mustache. “What does more sugar do for us in the field of battle?”

  “Tell me,” said Ben, as he limped over to his old wood-fired oven to check the progress of some sweet breads, “What does more sugar do?”

  “It makes your desserts, well, tastier,” said the general.

  “Sweeter,” chimed in a young soldier.

  “And better,” said an old woman who had been listening to this conversation from the back of the bakery.

  Ben nodded, pleased. “You see, I add even more sugar than the other bakers in town.”

  “Ah,” said an older, battle-scarred fighter. “Is the lesson here, that you try harder?”

  Ben shook his head. “Sugar is expensive. Because of that, the others are fearful of using more of it.”

  “But you are not fearful,” said the young soldier.

  “So the secret of your success,” said the guard, “is that you live without fear.”

  “The secret to my success,” said Benjamin, “is that I add more sugar.”

  And he winked and smiled and helped the next customer, a young beggar boy...

  The End

  Return to the Table of Contents

  Mad Dog

  “Mad Dog! You’re late, we go on the air in five minutes.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Vince Purdy, your co-anchor. We’ve spoken a few times now over the phone.”

  “Are you a fan? You want my autograph? Because if you do it ain’t worth a damn anymore. I’m all washed up. I’m through.”

  “Well, Mad Dog, you’re not through just yet, because if you’ll recall I’m the one who convinced ESPN 5 to give you a job. And believe me, it wasn’t easy. Uh, you have no idea who I am do you?”

  “Not if my life depended on it. But I do recall I have a gig at this...ping pong tournament.”

  “Racquetball, Mad Dog. This is a racquetball tournament, and you and I are going to broadcast the championship game live on ESPN 5. I’m the play by play man, and you’re the color commentator.”

  “You know, Vanna....I used to be a football color man—”

  “Vince, the name’s Vince.”

  “Vince/Vanna who the hell cares. As I was saying, I used to be the best color man football had ever known or heard. I had my own All Mad Dog yearly awards, my own Sega video games, books, my own underwear and sock clothing line. I was world famous. I had it all. But then...then it was all taken away from me. Oh, God, my life is ruined!”

  “Uh, Mad Dog, have you been drinking a little of the bubbly?”

  “Bubbly? You call it bubbly? Ha! It’s liquor, my boy, and I’ve been drinking it straight from the bottle for the past two days. In fact, I got a little of it stashed away right here in my coat pocket. And you would too if suddenly all that you knew and loved was ripped away from you by those sons-of-bitches.”

  “Come on, Mad Dog, it was hardly ripped away from you. Those politically incorrect slurs you unleashed during the Super Bowl broadcast were heard world wide, by an estimated one billion viewers. Your bosses really had no choice but to let you go. However, their loss is our gain. I think you will make a fine racquetball commentator. And speaking of racquetball, we will be going on the air live in one minute, if you would please step this way, Mad Dog....”

  * * *

  “Hello, folks, this is Vince Purdy here, bringing to you exciting racquetball action. Tonight, Jake ‘The Rake’ Thompson will be battling Rich ‘The Fish’ Johnson in a championship game that will determine this year’s top ranked male racquetball athlete. As an added bonus we have none other than the one and only Mad Dog in the booth with us, here to add some color to the sport of racquetball. Mad Dog, are you as excited as I am to be broadcasting so important a racquetball match?”

  “I’m tingling, Vance. I feel goofy all over. How long do these things last anyway?”

  “Well, Mad Dog, these things usually last one hour. Now, Mad Dog, do you play any racquetball yourself?”

  “Are you kidding? I used to have a real life. I was buddies with the world’s greatest and richest pro athletes. Women threw themselves at me. Or at least one did...come to think of it, she might have tripped...but by golly she did land on top of me! In other words: no, I do not play racquetball, and up until one day ago I had never even heard of the damn sport, and what the hell kind of nickname is ‘The Rake’?”

  “Uh, he’s called that because he’s rather slim, and because, well, you know how when you rake up leaves....?”

  “Yeah....”

  “He sort of plays like that—he rakes up the ball!”

  “Dear God, help me. This isn’t happening. Please tell me I’m dreaming.”

  “Har har, Mad Dog. You have always been known to be such a kidder, and now I get to witness the classic humor first hand, I must be the luckiest broadcaster in the world.”

  “The Rake is no nickname. In fact it is a very stupid nickname. Now, The Snake is a very good nickname, ole Ken Stabler, the famous left handed quarterback out of Oakland used to throw that damn football so quick that his hand looked like a striking cobra. Now, Vern, that is a nickname. I won’t even ask what ‘The Fish’ means.”

  “I hear that when he sleeps at night his cheeks puff out like a blowfish.”

  “I didn’t need to know that, I mean I really didn’t need to know that. Where’s the cheerleaders? At least they’ll be something to look at during this nightmare hour.”

  “No cheerleaders, Mad Dog. Just us and the crowd.”

  “Then where’s the goofy mascots? At least I can have a good laugh and distract myself.”

  “Um, no mascots either—”

  “Good God. Where’s the vendor, then? I could use some popcorn, helps clear out my colon.”

  “There’s no vendor here, Mad Dog. Most of us can survive the hour without a strong need for peanuts or popcorn. Oh, good, here’s the players now. There’ll be a brief warm-up period and then this championship will be on its way. We’ll be right back folks after a word from our sponsors.”

  “You call those athletes...those aren’t athletes, why they’re a heartbeat away from an asparagus stalk....”

  * * *

  “Okay folks we’re back—”

  “Whoo
ppee.”

  “Always the joker, Mad Dog. Now, Jake has been the top ranked men’s pro player all year long, but Chris has recently won his share of tournaments, including the exciting finish at the Mrs. Field’s Cookie Bake Off And Racquetball Tournament two weeks ago, where he narrowly defeated Joe—”

  “The Hoe?”

  “No, Mad Dog, not The Hoe. Just Joe Wyzer.”

  “I just thought that maybe there was a gardening theme going on here in Pongball, or whatever the hell you call it. Is this thing ever going to start? And where’s the press box?”

  “It’s starting now, and there’s no press box in racquetball.”

  “You mean we’re going to be broadcasting right here, with the rest of the commoners?”

  “Commoners?”

  “You know, the regular folk who live their everyday lives in drudgery and despair.”

  “I imagine, Mad Dog, that comments like that are what got you fired from your gig on FOX.”

  “Must you keep reminding me of that! Don’t you think I’m miserable enough as it is, being forced to sit with you, broadcasting...tennis? Why didn’t you say we were broadcasting tennis? Now tennis is something I enjoy, especially watching those bosomy Spanish gals with their little white skirts—”

  “Mad Dog! Mad Dog! Listen! We are not broadcasting tennis. We are here to broadcast a professional racquetball match in which the outcome will determine this year’s top rated player.”

  “Bull-malardy! Look at those raquets! You mean to tell me those aren’t tennis raquets? You take me for a fool?”

  “Mad Dog, those are racquetball raquets. They look similar to tennis raquets but they are in fact racquetball raquets. And by the way, no one is forcing you to be here. We offered you a job, and from what I understand we are the only ones in town who have offered you a job, so please restrain yourself and enjoy the match! Now, they have just introduced both players and Jake has won first service.”