Commuter Short Stories

Arthur Phillip McMahan Ph.D.

Format ISBN Price   Paperback (5x8) 9781587213755 £ 9.25

A book of contemporary short stories about everyday people in everyday situations who are confronted with the decision to help others or to ignore calls for help. The stories are written in a familiar tone that is both humorous and thought provoking. Issues facing African-Americans are addressed in a careful but light manner so that readers can make their own value judgments. It's easy reading designed for commuters who want something short and interesting to read as they commute to and from work or just want to relax with a good short story.

About the Author

Dr. Arthur P. McMahan was born in Spartanburg, SC where he attended public school. He attended the University of South Carolina before beginning his distinguished career as a U.S. Army Officer. He received a Doctor of Philosophy degree from VA Commonwealth University in 1996. Dr. McMahan is currently working on his second book, which is scheduled to be completed in 2000.

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Mr. Thomas was obviously distressed that a pigeon could make fun of him. He sat still for a minute, angry with himself for getting angry with a pigeon. As the conversation resumed, a well dressed couple walked briskly past the man and the pigeon. The woman whispered to her companion, "honey, I swear that pigeon and that man were having a conversation!" The male responded, "oh sure, there are a lot of strange things going on in the city, but if that pigeon can talk, then I can fly." Peter the pigeon, winked at the woman as she turned her head for one last glance. They hurried past.

Peter laughed hysterically, between the curious pedestrians and this, this homeless human who thinks this park bench is his home, he thought he'd laugh himself to death.

Thomas Jones was forty-seven or forty-eight. He really didn't remember. He looked like a beaten and broken sixty-five year old. As he sat and listened to the pigeon ridiculing him, his heart sank and he began to sob. He sobbed and coughed, coughed then sobbed. He was feeling the pain of the journey that brought him to this point in his life. He said to the bird while staring at the ground: "if you knew how I was feeling about the way my life turned out, you probably wouldn't laugh so hard."

Mr. Thomas, I'm really not laughing at you. I am still tickled from a fantastic direct hit today. I mean, I dropped a load that splattered the top and the windshield of the prettiest little red BMW you have ever seen. The pigeon then said in a more subdued tone: you know, you homeless humans and us pigeons have a lot in common. It seems as if today, we are fighting for the same food crumbs to eat, the same city parks to sit and to sleep, and the same filthy streets from which we beg for mercy.

Perhaps, we do have some things in common Mr. Pigeon, but I'm a man. I should be doing better. As a matter of fact, I was doing a lot better. I have not been homeless all my life.

***

The blinking vacancy sign just outside the small, dusty, four paned window cast a strobe like shadow on the lanky figure lying across the motel bed. The man lay on his back, staring blankly at the floral design of the wallpaper plastered on the ceiling of the six-dollar per night room. The sparsely decorated room held a single wrought iron bed a four-drawer dresser and a lamp with a dusty shade covered in plastic.

Josh Stubblefield could feel the cold steel of the .32 caliber that lay on his chest. He felt the gun move up and down with each beat of his pounding heart. His index finger was wrapped firmly around the trigger housing, anticipating the moment when he would raise the barrel and fire at any intruder that entered the door.

Five days ago, Josh was an average law abiding citizen, managing, "Mega Bite," a computer sales and service store on Atlanta’s South side. Tonight, his life turned completely upside down. He was chased out of his hometown by thugs, killed a man who was trying to kill him, and he still didn’t have a clue as to what was going on. The most he knew was that he is held up in a cheap, dusty motel, wondering what his next move would be.

He couldn’t shake the memory of the jagged edged dagger ripping the insides of his assailant as he yanked it out from his gut. He remembered the feel of the warm, sticky red blood as it gushed from the wound onto his arm. Most of all, Josh remembered the blank stare of the man with the weird tattoo inside his left ear as he slumped lifelessly against the back of the elevator. Josh never dreamed he could kill another human being yet in this instance he knew that it was either kill or be killed!