Jerald Wegehenkel
Bio
Part time writer, full time weirdo. I focus on short works of fantasy and fiction, and dabble in a bit of poetry.
Stories (23/0)
The Curse of Knowing
I already knew the barista would intentionally mispronounce my name, hoping I would correct it and spark a conversation. As the only customer this late right before closing time, all his thoughts were directed at me and about me. I tried to drown them out, tune them out, block them out, like my Bunica taught me. But some thoughts are harder to block than others.
By Jerald Wegehenkel10 months ago in Fiction
The Crack
Morning crashed through the window, stabbing his face with searing rays. His flapping arm flipped the phone end over end to the vinyl floor. Grumples of age accompanied his crackle back as he cranked up to sitting. The sun was early. Or the phone was late. It silently mocked him from the floor, its downward face denying him the torment of knowing the time. Well worn hands who’s backs he knew flung the covers haphazardly aside, revealing legs past their prime, but still with a few miles left. He managed to get feet on the floor and hands on knees before the phone began its morning trill, confirming that the sun was indeed, early.
By Jerald Wegehenkel11 months ago in Fiction
Baked Beans
It was a typical Seattle Snowfall. Flakes plopped into the ground like dirty dish rags in a truck stop diner. Out of towners worriedly checked the forecast while locals donned an extra layer of flannel. But more importantly, at least to Jake, this meant the buses would be running late.
By Jerald Wegehenkel11 months ago in Fiction
The Lost Egg
As the days went by, the colors faded on the lost egg. Parents and children had moved on, forgetting about it. But for the egg itself, all was not lost. Changes were happening, the egg grew in size, expanding to fill the downspout it had been hidden in. When the rains came and forced it out, there was room to grow once more. Two weeks after Easter, sitting behind a rose bush, it was the size of a basketball, only the hints of color on its pocked surface.
By Jerald Wegehenkelabout a year ago in Fiction
Snowfall
The first flake splatted into the ground, as if the sky was throwing paint. Snow is usually silent, but these flakes were enormous, bigger than dollar coins, falling straight down with purpose and meaning, none of that time wasting gently wafting nonsense. The stranger nudged me from behind, and I realized I was standing transfixed in the doorway of the coffee shop. I scooted to the side to let him past, and watched as he stumbled to his car, the instant slickness of the parking lot turning him into a drunken sailor. I could see my bicycle propped up on the sidewalk, seat looking wet and cold in the splotchy whiteness. No. Just no. I went back inside, plopped my bag and helmet down, and back to the cashier.
By Jerald Wegehenkelabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mice in Me
“If walls could talk”. I have heard that phrase often over the years. The humans say it when they wish I would recount for them tales of the past. Of what was said and who was there. They assume that great things must have transpired. Well perhaps they are correct, but I would not know. Humans say a lot of things, I scarcely bother to pay attention, let alone remember any particular human event.
By Jerald Wegehenkelabout a year ago in Fiction
Northern Passage
Brezzny could hear the picks dulling with each strike, yet the work went on. There was no time to stop and sharpen them, trapped as they were by the beast beyond the rubble. It was Brezzny’s for rest, yet he found no sleep. The scouts were overdue, and the passage they were carving upwards was progressing slowly. This far into the northern mountains, the cold made even the stone harder than usual.
By Jerald Wegehenkelabout a year ago in Fiction
On the Kings Road
Branathataxis despondently sifted through the bandit remains, the days misty rain already turning the ash to mud. “I left my lair for this? A few coins and a pair of copper wedding bands?” Most days she was The Fire Queen of Crooked Peak. Today she felt more like a wet match lizard. Flying in the rain looking for a snack she had happened across these ruffians, unaware they had wandered into dragon territory. A gentle toasting later, and now here she was, scraping her claws in the mud like an animal.
By Jerald Wegehenkel2 years ago in Fiction