Category Archives: Fiction

The White Man Asleep in the Black Man’s Yard

I wrote the first draft of this short story in 2005 but for years I felt the underlying premise was too absurd for readers to go along with. Now, thanks to the Social Justice Warrior plague it turns out that my twisted mind is actually a crystal ball!

But politics is merely the starting off point here. “The White Man Asleep in the Black Man’s Yard” is one of my most zany, dark, heartfelt, and even hopeful stories. Also included is an afterward which offers insights into the story’s history and stylistic influences.

Read it below or download the PDF free here.

White_Man_Asleep_by_Philip_Wyeth

My Family’s Last Meal

We arrived at Vittorio’s estate sometime before seven o’clock on a clear December night many years ago. One must be completely still if he is to notice the cold at all on nights such as this, and my family was in such a flurry of motion as we stepped from the carriages and into the manor house as not to feel the passage from nature’s vacant chill to the warm embrace of a home.

Entering first were my grandpapa Gregor, wise and proud patriarch bearing a full head of striking silver hair and neat pointed beard, and my grandmother Silvia, so elegant and graceful in my every memory of her. Following them were others from the gray generation, widowed cousins and siblings all wearing fine furs and jewels that shone. Then came my father and mother, he with black hair parted down the center and slicked flat, she tall and thin and made up like an ageless beauty. She carried my youngest brother Theo, age two, on her arm. Behind them streamed their generation’s cast of married couples as well as its bachelors and spinsters, about sixteen in all, followed by the youngest generation, which included myself, age seventeen at the time, my sister and two other brothers, and a handful of children ranging in age from six to thirteen. I was by far the oldest and Theo, a surprise to both my parents and the entire family, by far the youngest.

We wiped our damp feet before stepping onto the red carpeting that lined the entire floor of the ornate manor, an establishment renowned for the overwhelming hospitality it bestowed on its wealthy guests. Vittorio had befriended my grandfather upon coming to Austria as a young merchant and later became so wealthy that he transformed a portion of his home into a private restaurant in order to pursue his true passion, cooking. Among his properties were the twenty acres that surrounded this manor and here he forbade any farming or other development so as to provide his guests complete tranquility.

Vittorio greeted us heartily, embracing my grandfather and leading us through halls adorned with fine artwork and lit softly by low-standing candles. He took us into a long dining room that even few guests had seen, the private banquet hall usually reserved for such luminaries as visiting composers and royalty. Thus in such caring hands, among such opulence, and dining upon the most magnificent cuisine did my family partake of its last meal.

“With pleasure,” the Italian bowed before us, “I open this room to your family that I love so much. Gregor, dear friend, my home is your home. And tonight I am honored to personally lead those who will serve you in this celebration. My blessings to you all!”

Applause greeted this rousing tribute, followed by an enthusiastic bustle around the long table as each of us searched amongst the place cards for his assigned seat. Wine was immediately served, a light red of twenty-five years’ vintage.

My grandfather rose at the head of the table.

“Such a wonderful family I have had the privilege to lead,” he began. “So many beautiful faces, so much elegance, the beacons of our once glorious age. Thus I raise this glass of the finest wine bottled in the year 1874, drinking to you and the dearly departed not here with us tonight.”

“Cheers!” many called.

“Oh, sweet Gregor!” the ladies fawned.

“And I drink to you,” I said in rising from my seat at the middle of the table, tilting my glass toward the great old man.

This gesture the family lauded with a wave of spirited calls, and my grandfather winked at me, smiling softly.

In total there were thirty-four of us, the entire blood family. Since Gregor and Silvia had married over forty-five years before both the family and its wealth had grown, and as everyone had remained in our native province so too did the loyalty and love grow. For decades we were icons of class and culture, the local embodiments of an aristocratic way of life that was now coming to an end. I, of the generation born too late to have experienced the glories firsthand, was nonetheless educated in the ways of polite society even as the world around us seemed eager to bring everyone alike down into the muck.

Yet I must admit that as I developed into a young man with my own thoughts, their obsessive romanticizing of the past began to conflict with my natural interest in the happenings of my own time—and with the year 1900 approaching, bearing both the symbolic change as well as my own eighteenth birthday, I occasionally found myself feeling quite cheery about my future prospects. In the face of a new century, however, the rest of my family felt only a deep dread that infected every facet of their existence, and slowly an unshakeable depression cloaked us all.

“Here is the soup!” Vittorio shouted, bearing two bowls and followed by five servants who pushed carts of tomato soup and bread.

The family chattered noisily as the first course was served, the sound of spoons clattering against the china bowls mingling with our voices and the occasional shake of the salt or pepper.

One of the servants paused in placing a bowl. He, like all employed here, was a relative of the proprietor, and after removing the bowl approached Vittorio with a bow, then angled his body in the direction of his concern.

Vittorio approached one of the great old aunts who had never married and now sat still as a stone. The rest of us were oblivious and continued dipping our bread as he bent low and inspected her face.

Looking gravely around the room he brought his arms out and down to hush us.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your Aunt Rosa has passed. What shall be done?”

A very fat Auntie Zoë exclaimed happily, “Give her soup to baby Theo, he’s spilt his!”

The family was quite pleased with this suggestion and so the servant, who had held Rosa’s bowl patiently, placed it onto the tray of my baby bother’s wooden highchair, removing the toppled one and avoiding the splash as Theo slapped his palms into the fresh broth.

The soup really was delicious and I exchanged pleasantries about it with my neighbors at the table. I happened to notice at the same time that a nine-year-old cousin of mine who was seated next to the deceased Rosa had taken her wine glass and was finishing the contents. I smiled at his mother, who watched approvingly.

“Cammy’s died,” a voice from the far end of the table called. And indeed my sister had.

My father shook his head at the unblinking girl, thirteen and on the doorstep of womanhood. “She could have waited for the main course at least.”

Then, just as the white wine was being brought in, which caused no small degree of excitement, at the head of the table my mother grabbed my grandfather’s arm to gain his attention. Across from her sat her brother and his wife, hand in hand, dead. His head was slumped forward while hers had rolled back as if to admire the chandelier.

Cousin Edgar, third from the end and sitting to the couple’s right, politely asked, “Now what do we do?”

“Simple,” Gregor replied. “You take my son’s glass and I’ll take hers. Their remaining soup and bread are available to the first takers.”

And with that my grandfather held up both his own and his dead daughter-in-law’s glasses for the servant who was pouring the white wine; the latter glass still contained a dash of the red, and the resulting hazy mixture suggested a hint of the melancholy.

At that very moment I the felt slightest twinge of uncertainty or perhaps sadness in my heart. Without question the wine and soup had been delicious to no end, and this gathering of the entire family in the breast of Vittorio’s estate was more spectacular than any of our imaginings during the months of expectation—yet I found myself strangely detached, and when I searched the faces of those around me I sensed this same apprehension, if lighter and more vaguely, also within those of my parents’ generation. I closed my eyes and took a sip of water, then slowly exhaled.

Meanwhile three of my young cousins and my grandmother’s brother were found to have died between the clearing of the soup bowls and the main course’s arrival. Everyone had simply been so enthralled by my baby brother’s lively performance with Rosa’s soup as not to have noticed when someone adjacent or across the table died. Little Theo held the family rapt in attention as he took the large soup spoon in his fist, gathered up some soup, and then banged it onto his tray like a drummer. As bits of vegetable and red drops splattered him, the table, and nearby spectators, all burst out with great laughter and cheer. To see him so joyful and animated reminded us of happier times, a whisper hinting that there might indeed be hope for the future.

Vittorio himself presented my grandfather with his main course dishes, squeezing him on the shoulder with affection as the old man surveyed his last meal. Truly it was a great feast, with seasoned corned beef flanked by scallions, a generous portion of sautéed vegetables not easily obtainable this time of year, and a large bowl of Vittorio’s famous sauce drenching luscious green tortellini. My grandfather brought a bite of the pasta to his mouth, closed his eyes to savor the moment, looked up at his trusted friend, then died.

His portions were redistributed down my side of the table, with the glass of his murky wine coming to me. I had never mixed red and white wines before but could not deny that at least in this instance it made for a not unpleasant experience.

One or two more relatives passed away as we gobbled down the main course amidst much chatter and revelry. I dare to say that never before had Vittorio put so much love or care into his preparation than on this occasion. I and the other twenty living relatives lost ourselves in rapture with each morsel.

Then in a wave the room slowly hushed except for a handful of whispers.

“Theo’s gone,” my mother said, just barely loud enough to be heard. Now even the whispers ceased. No one chewed, not a single glass clinked. Each of us just stared at the motionless little body in the highchair. Theo’s eyes were closed as if maybe he were only asleep. The tiny hand that clasped the spoon was stained red with soup, and a curl of tortellini peeked out from between his frozen lips.

Auntie Zoë burst out laughing and clasped her hands. “By God, the baby’s gone and we didn’t even notice!”

A moment passed in silence, then the gray old man sitting across the table from her shouted, “Here, here! A toast to Theo!”

“A toast!” someone echoed.

“To Theo!” came the response.

“A toast!”

“To Theo!”

And it gained momentum around the room until all, especially I who loved my brother deeply, toasted him with drink and laughter and ate to his good name.

They began to die quickly after that. All the elderly and young died. My mother and two men her age died as the main course was being cleared.

Now there was only my father, two married couples, and me. I was the youngest left. Each of us sat silently, avoiding eye contact, flanked by corpses. Two of Vittorio’s servants entered with the dessert plates of truffle cake and ice cream. One man died as his dessert was set before him. His wife lifted her fork but died before touching the cake.

My father seemed very far away from me. I watched him take several bites of his dessert, gently wipe his mustache with a napkin, and then die quietly. The last couple were not long in dying after him. I finished the dessert and sat back into my chair. The room was completely still. All of the servants were waiting expectantly in the next room for the last of us to die. But I could not die. Whatever will in me there had been to go the way of my family had been trumped by that seed of doubt in my breast.

After five minutes of silence Vittorio and his servants entered the dining hall. I rose from my chair. We approached and he took my hand in his, saying, “I understand.” I then slipped out into the cold night as he and his men dragged the bodies of my dead relatives into the cellar for burial preparation. Walking away, I was torn by the impulse that I could still go back and die too, but knowing there was a reason I had chosen to live each time one of the others had not. Later I stood motionless in one of the pitch black fields some distance from the manor, feeling the chill of the night creep into my bones and constrict my every thought. What had I just done?

It has not been easy these last sixty years. In exchange for his hospitality and final arrangements Vittorio was willed my family’s entire estate, and thus I began life anew far away and without a penny. And while I made my way and built another family, around the world there have indeed come to pass many great changes that would have terrified my deceased loved ones—as man grappled with new ideas and inventions that upset the old order, man staggering and tumbling blindly and making a mess every step of the way, but still striving ever forward.

The Walk

Even after the workday rush slowly fades and night descends, one can never feel calm in the heart of the city. In darkness and stillness it becomes a disconcerting void, the choking specter of empty sports stadiums after the last fan has gone home, of ashen skyscraper columns and corners framing a ghost town where down below obsolete morning newspapers skip along the sidewalks until finally wedging against one of the sleeping homeless.

But a few miles out, in the suburbs, that elusive calm seems possible if one can tear himself away from the TV, the headphones, the online rabbit holes. And so on this November night, after years of city living have run ragged what was once an earnest young man full of dreams, I shut off my own gadgets and step out for a walk in search of a few clear thoughts.

Outside my apartment the brisk still air perks me up and I take in the sounds of insects chirping and the highway in the distance. A few blocks on and the cold has rooted out all the warmth of home, so I pull the sleeves of my fleece over my hands and stuff my clenched fists into the pockets. Mysterious cooking smells from people’s kitchens waft by my nostrils, then mix with the general aroma of leaves and burnt wood as I walk on.

Cars blaring loud music rush past so I move to the quieter side streets as I begin the slow incline toward the hills ahead, their dark silhouette dotted by the yellow lights of houses that blink now and again, and up top a lonely red beacon pulses occasionally to tell the airplanes, “I’m here.” And above it all the brightest stars peer down through the city’s night glare—how wonderful, this rare moment of tranquility to remind me what is real after so much frantic clawing in the pursuit of success.

I begin to take in all the small details of these neighborhoods in a way one never can while driving past—the unique design of each house, the bark on the trees, the feel of pine needles and crunching of leaves under one’s feet. Two old women across the street speak in a strange foreign language but when they quietly laugh the feeling needs no translation. Men and women walking their dogs pass with a friendly “Good evening” as their critters sniff about.

Further up the incline is a park sitting mostly in darkness except for a few lighted buildings further on, but just as I begin to cross the street I see a cat sitting on the curb. Quietly I approach, making affectionate sounds and rubbing my fingers together. I extend my hand to offer him my scent, and a few tentative sniffs are enough to coax him close. He warms up to the soft strokes upon his coat, and after I sit down on the curb he walks in circles around me, brushing against my back and legs and purring loudly, then flopping onto his back and rolling from side to side with wild eyes. After several minutes I bid him farewell and enter the park through its white arching gate.

A few street lamps lead the way toward the library up ahead, and as I approach an old Volkswagen Bug with clicking engine coasts down past me and away. Coyotes up in the hills yelp and howl, yet I continue onward though one could be stalking in the shadows.

The library appears to be an old converted house and the warm yellow chandeliers make it seem inviting—but I decide not go in and walk on. Angling left across the park I come to a gated building that sits in complete darkness. A distant street lamp casts enough light on a sign for me to read that it is a preserved local landmark that gives tours only during the day. Soon reaching the far corner of the property, I head downhill to leave the park through a different gate.

But just out of the corner of my eye—or is it by the bristles of my ears?—something draws my attention to an adjacent tea garden. Here about fifty feet from the fence is another small converted house, and inside I see a group of women…and they are dancing! About two dozen of them ranging in age from mid-twenties to mid-thirties wearing modest leotards are broadcast out to me in glorious bright colors through the large front window, and I duck into the shadows to watch. As their hips rock and sway slowly in unison with a hypnotic rhythm, I feel my hardened heart begin to melt in the warmth of their wholesome sensuality. Their laughter is crisp yet soft, the sound of women who have put their guard down safe in the knowledge that there are no men around. Though I burn to keep watching I feel it would be unfair to them, so I take a final glance through the bars of the fence and turn away.

I stand frozen in the darkness, haunted. I feel limitless hope, burning desire, crushing futility. Over and over I see the slight rise and fall of their bodies, see them gliding in a ballet of angelic grace that holds every mystery and promise of joy. My mind’s eye zooms in onto one woman with fair skin in a black leotard whose dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail. Her head is angled downward to her right and I cannot see her eyes. She holds her arms out with hands together, bent slightly at the elbow as if holding a wicker basket. I see her soft curving waist and then lose myself in a vision of falling into her embrace, feeling her warm breath on my cheek, and though she is but a hundred feet away from me it is simply impossible here, now, like this.

I have striven and struggled out here for many long years, having denied myself immeasurably to keep alive those ambitions which were so easy to believe in when I was young. But one day when I have either conquered or been exhausted I will leave this place. I will find a woman to raise my family in a big bright house, and then I will never again have to be that man smelling other people’s home-cooked meals from afar while living on cheap pasta in solitude.

The Pawned Ring

There once was a black teenager from South Florida named Darnell who got into a little bind with money, so he asked his girlfriend Denise if he could pawn the ring he had given her with the promise to return it as soon as he’d earned enough money to buy it back. She agreed and he took a job after school at a fast food restaurant, and two months later he had earned enough to fulfill his promise.

But when he arrived at her apartment with the ring Denise’s sister said she was at his friend Edward’s house, so Darnell walked over there and Edward answered the door in his underwear. Moments later Denise came up beside him, her shoulders bare and her body wrapped in a sheet. “I brought you your ring,” Darnell choked.

Denise said that he could keep it since she didn’t want it anymore, but he protested and explained how hard he had worked to get it back because he thought that they loved each other. She told him guys gave her stuff all the time and that he acted like a little boy, which is one of the reasons why she had never slept with him.

Darnell had always been rather passive and not one to fight, and now, after Denise and Edward had gone back into the bedroom, he stood quietly on the stoop as his heart broke. At last he shuffled away, clenching the ring in his fist as the hot Florida sun bore down on his drooping head.

On the way home some local tough guys who had seen him earlier at the check cashing store surrounded him and demanded the money. When he told them he didn’t have it anymore they grabbed him and searched his pockets, and finding nothing, began to punch and kick him until he fell down and dropped the ring. After pocketing it they yanked off his shoes, tied the laces together, and threw them over a power line. “Now you ain’t got no shoes!” they laughed and sauntered away.

Bruised, bloodied, and his nicest polo shirt soiled, Darnell crawled to the curb and sat there in despair. “What am I gonna do now?”

After a while he glanced up at his shoes dangling in the breeze, then looked over at the corner shopping center and the people bustling in and out of the liquor store, the Chinese BBQ, the payday advance, the barber shop. Discarded lottery tickets danced up and away as passing cars swept them in their wake. A grisly homeless man leaned against a pay phone muttered to himself between sips from a paper bag, and nearby a deal was going down in a parked car.

A sick feeling of futility burst up from his stomach. He saw the ugly scene so clearly—with himself stuck right in the middle—and it was a pitiful sight. “What am I gonna do? How am I gonna get out of here?”

He eyed the army recruiter’s office next to the BBQ and shook his head. Enough local guys had come back wounded or messed up in the head that Darnell knew better than to sign up for that. A quick way out with too many strings attached. Some other kids from around town went off to college on football and basketball scholarships each year, but a lot of them flunked out and fell right back into the soup. Darnell couldn’t shoot a free throw to save his life anyway. A lot of people were in jail, too many, but that was no way out either.

He thought back on those weeks spent flipping burgers to pay for the ring, how he hadn’t even minded the work because at the time he still thought Denise loved him. It was maybe the only time in his life when he had been able to focus on something and not worry about what was going on outside. Life felt good—it made sense—when you knew what you had to do to get something accomplished.

But in one afternoon he had lost it all and come crashing back to earth. And standing tall above him now were all the lies, violence, and ugliness that no tropical rainstorm could wash away from his world. “Oh no, no, no, no. What am I gonna do?”

That evening as the sun slowly made its way down in orange majesty, and the birds fluttered playfully amongst the treetops in a ritual millions of years old, young Darnell dragged himself home in sock feet feeling in his heart that same ache all sensitive souls have felt throughout the ages, men too simple and pure to stomach the lawless daily scrum that plays out from the mean streets and trailer parks to the gated communities and mansions beyond. Yet at the end of this sad day, despite it all, Darnell finally cracked a small smile when he figured that his mama would probably give him a few dollars to buy a pair of used shoes from the thrift store in the morning.

Whose Pride?

[I wrote this very short story back around the year 2000 but never sought to publish it perhaps because at the time it seemed so improbable, and because its subject could lend itself to the Pavlovian reaction of instant indignation from offended true believers who possess no sense of nuance.

Over the past 14 years our society has been pushed to the brink, to the point now of even losing the meaning of our words, by the militant Left’s inexorable and well-funded hot-button-issue crusades. Today they hide their fascism under a pink cloak—deaf to all reasonable opposing arguments, they simply call you a bigot if you disagree with them.

After the news this week that Mozilla’s CEO Brendan Eich was forced to resign because six years ago he donated money in support of California’s Prop 8—the state constitutional amendment that would define marriage as between a man and a woman—I feel that my hand has finally been forced and I must publish this story. Maybe it won’t make a blip on the radar, maybe I’ll encounter the typical reactionary, hate-filled Leftist response, but just maybe it will resonate with people in the way that the best dystopian science fiction does when it paints haunting portraits of the nightmare future man reaps from the seeds that he has sown.]

Whose Pride?

It was National Gay Day again.

“I can’t believe it!”

“Bobby, come on!  It’s not that bad.”

“Don’t talk to me, Craig.”

“It’s got to be done.”

Bobby cursed and pounded his fist on the kitchen counter.  National Gay Day had him fuming with anger—he could feel his body’s disgust.

“It just sickens me,” he said.  “I don’t see why we have to do this.”

Craig was seated on a stool.  He said, “They’re promoting awareness, Bob.  And understanding.  That’s not so bad.”

“You sound like you enjoy this.”

“Just obeying the law, trying to make the best of it.”  Craig rose and took a glass from a cabinet, then filled it with soda.  “Hey, at least it’s a national holiday, right?”

Bobby watched his friend gulping from the glass.  Then he looked out the window and smacked the counter, his teeth gritted.  What kind of a day was this?  He didn’t hate gay people, he didn’t call them faggots or beat them up.  He and his wife were raising their son to be tolerant of other people; but this he would not tolerate.

He eyed his best friend again.  Craig had sat in Bobby’s kitchen each National Gay Day since its inception two years ago and they’d had the same argument each time.

“I want to be with Deborah,” Bobby said.  “I want to be with my wife.”

“But she’s with Rachael right now,” Craig sighed.  “I have a wife too, you know.  We’ll clean up later and meet them for dinner.  Let’s just get this over with.”

No, Bobby said to himself.  No, he could not!  When the time came he would…do something.

The day was passing slowly.  He and Craig barely moved as they sat silently in the kitchen.  Occasionally Bobby stood to look out the window then paced around the room.

They both saw the soldier appear as he walked across the yard, clipboard in hand, rifle slung over his shoulder.  He glanced at his pad when passing the window and then knocked on the front door.  Craig looked at Bobby, who didn’t move.  Craig got up and opened the door.

“Please, just give us a minute,” he said to the soldier, then turning to Bobby, “He’s here.”

Bobby smiled.  “Do you think he’ll take a bribe?”

“I wish he would.  Hmm.  But there’s no fighting it.  The law’s the law and there’s a consequence for breaking it.  Probably worse than this.”

“Hmph.”

When Craig let the soldier in, Bobby began to shake and put his hands over his face.  Craig approached and stilled Bobby with a hand on his shoulder, saying, “Come on, bud.  Let’s go.”

Bobby shuffled away to the back of the house, followed closely by Craig and the soldier.  Reaching the bedroom, Bobby paused and turned his head.  “You got the lubricant?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then.”

They walked inside and shut the door.