Robert Pettus
Bio
Robert writes mostly horror shorts. His first novel, titled Abry, was recently published:
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/abry-robert-pettus/1143236422;jsessionid=8F9E5C32CDD6AFB54D5BC65CD01A4EA2.prodny_store01-atgap06?ean=9781950464333
Stories (64/0)
Spinning Poplars, Sinful Shrooms
Brother Chuck Keaton’s thick, meaty palms gripped tightly the splintery pulpit. He stared out among the somber faces of his congregation. The wooden cross sculpted onto the front of his pulpit was, in his mind, the ultimate symbol of sacrifice. He loved his flock, but they didn’t understand that sacrifice – they couldn’t! It was the most frustrating aspect of being a man of God; most people just won’t live truly Godly lives. It was like they didn’t really believe it – not deep down. You can preach and preach at them, but laziness, unfortunately, is often incurable. People can’t accept that which is hidden from their sensory experience.
By Robert Pettusabout a year ago in Fiction
Wrecked Remnants
The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. She had never seen much of anything out there—it was like staring at a slightly mobile painting, one that changed only slightly each day—but she continued to peer into the curved glass of the scope anyway.
By Robert Pettusabout a year ago in Fiction
Footprints in the Snow
It was New Year’s Eve. It was colder than shit. The pavement was unobstructed, even though dry, powdery white snow floated peacefully down from the black, starry night sky. The Presbyterian Church was the best place for skating – at least for skaters of our skill level, and we were the only skaters in town. It’s parking lot featured a nice little gap, and an absolutely pristine three-stair. We would ollie it again and again, late into the night – well into the early morning.
By Robert Pettusabout a year ago in Horror
Three Musky Tears
A hulking drop of sizzling, putrid acid-rain crashed with force into Carew Tower, crumbling thousands of the old khaki bricks, sending them falling weightily downward hundreds of feet to the street below—its Art Deco, classic beauty now destroyed. Another drop fell subsequently, its size and shape similar to that of a Humpback whale. Each drop was filled with chemicals unnatural to normal precipitation. This bucket-like rainstorm hadn’t lasted long, but it was lengthy enough; the structural integrity of the building—along with several other nearby skyscrapers in downtown Cincinnati—was compromised. Carew Tower now stood—its naked interior exposed—like a slouching, decrepit midwestern obelisk glorifying the apocalypse.
By Robert Pettusabout a year ago in Fiction
Meat Machine
The box crusher buzzed and shoved the collected cardboard forcefully to the bottom of the machine. Neil loved that. It would be the favorite part of his job if the rest of his work didn’t involve chopping, slicing, and grinding meat. Nothing beat that. He grinned sadistically at the box crusher as it completed its only task, wondering what would happen if you stuffed a person in there.
By Robert Pettusabout a year ago in Horror
Falling Snow, Passing Time
We drove up the snowy, winding road towards the cozy A-frame cabin. It sat leaning over the edge of the mountain, the side of which we were driving along. It's comfortable, wintry, colorful appearance evoked a sort of Dickensian-Appalachia type of feeling. The gravel of the narrow road crunched under the weight of the Landcruiser’s tires. One the ground, squirrels dug around in the snow, searching for something to eat.
By Robert Pettusabout a year ago in Fiction
Thump
I walked in the backdoor tired from another tough day at work. I enjoy teaching—sometimes—but often it just exhausts me. I’m too introverted for the job; speaking for hours on end makes me want to crawl into my bed, get into the fetal position, pull the covers over my body, and shut off from the world.
By Robert Pettusabout a year ago in Horror
A Struggling Salesman
“Get your fish; get your fish and crustaceans! I got ‘em for a hell of a price! Local fish sold by a local man!” Mr. Bradshaw, the limping salesman, gripped his twisted cane tightly with both hands, leaning on it as its rubber base dug into the chalky gravel of the local fairgrounds. Prickly, curly stray hairs stretched from the shiny surface of his bald head as if competing with one another for sunlight. He loved the life of a traveling salesman, but he had a lot on his mind.
By Robert Pettusabout a year ago in Horror
Mournful Dove
Fog rose over the hillside, blurring the tree line as it mixed and fused with the leafless winter wood. Other than the somber call of the mourning dove, no sound came from that empty place. It was a cold, dry January morning; colder and drier than most.
By Robert Pettusabout a year ago in Horror
Squawking Chimes
I framed Grandma’s picture after she died. It was a small photo, nestled cleanly in a wooden frame I found lying around in my parent’s house back in Abry. It was an old photo, taken back in the forties. She was youthful back then, smiling in her twenties. Grandma had seen everything—the Great Depression, World War II, the Kennedy’s… Trump… COVID—all of it. She even contracted the virus, at 95 years old, and kicked it to the curb with only minimal symptoms. She was a tough lady. She had a good sense of humor, probably because she knew most people were totally crazy; she’d had too much first-hand experience with that shit, throughout the course of her century.
By Robert Pettusabout a year ago in Horror
New Year's in Kiev
They greeted us at the hostel with salo, pelmeni, and syrniki. It was a narrow room, featuring a cracked old, black fake-leather couch across from the receptionist’s counter. It was New Year’s Eve—not the Orthodox, Julian New Year, but the Gregorian—and they were preparing for a celebration. I took the meat and cheese and shoved it greedily into my gullet. I was hungry, and I loved trying new foods. I had never been to Ukraine before. Everyone in Moscow had told me that the culture was similar, but no one in Moscow greeted you at the door with snacks.
By Robert Pettusabout a year ago in Wander
The Shrine
Percy’s khaki, 1990 Volvo shook and sputtered laboriously as it made its way up one of the many winding hills of Bloomfield road. It wasn’t late, but it was dark. The overhanging trees blackened the road to the point that only the yellow lines were visible through the wobbling headlights. Two tall, cylindrical speakers sat duct-taped to the dash – bulky, white Hewlard Packards we had secretively stolen from the high-school computer lab. They weren’t great, but they were far better than the Volvo’s stock-speakers. Plus, they had an auxiliary chord that could connect to the Zune – our prized music-playing device. Percy scrolled through his collection of music – one hand on the wheel, the other on the Zune – as the car swerved across the middle lane and back to the right side of the road. He finally settled on Smashing Pumpkins. Cracked through the better, though still imperfect HP speakers, Billy Corgan’s voice rang through the Volvo, out the windows, and into the otherwise silent night. We sang along with him:
By Robert Pettus2 years ago in Horror