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)
Shots in the Pond
The golf ball slid smoothly from the club face of the pitching-wedge, a noticeable divot left remnant in the damp earth. The ball, soaring in a perfect arch, dropped with a loud plop into the mossy pond. Michael stepped away, holding his hand visor-like to his eye as he searched for a wake near the ball’s landing point.
By Robert Pettus2 years ago in Fiction
Kindergarten in Russia
The creaking elevator dinged shut. I pressed the first-floor button. The lift slid wobbling unstably downward from my small apartment on the thirteenth floor. It was early in the morning, at least for a Saturday – 7am. I had to work on Saturdays. I had to work on Sundays, too; I worked every day other than Friday. The elevator again dinged again as the doors slid open. I put my head down and paced hurriedly out of the building.
By Robert Pettus2 years ago in Journal
The Donkey Tree
The crack of the M-80 rang out and echoed off the damp walls before drowning in the murky creek below. Minnows darted about frantically, from both the explosions and also to avoid the claws of the backward-swimming crawdads looking for a meal. To James and Peter, this damp, hidden world under the bridge was the best place to light off firecrackers in town.
By Robert Pettus2 years ago in Fiction
An Elderly Citizen
Juan Pablo Dominguez walked the aisles of Parkview IGA, looking for the Valentina hot sauce he wanted. It was the best sauce on anything, and it wasn’t even close. The perfect blend of spicy and creamy. Perfect. He couldn’t find it. IGA had trouble keeping it stocked, he knew, and he was disappointed. It was one of the most magical things he had ever tasted in his ancient life, and he’d had quite the extensive gastronomic history.
By Robert Pettus2 years ago in Fiction
Cologne at a Touch
Luke Cologne at a Touch That’s what the advertisement on the wall of the pisser said. It was a large metal square container. Buttons spherically surrounded the middle casing of its door, displaying apparently classic scents such as Obsession, Eternity, and Polo. Luke stood staring bewildered, detached… foggy. He swayed back and forth, as did his piss as he made it — at least mostly — into the grimy toilet. The bowl wafted up a stench so fowl that Luke wondered, even from within his stupor, how anyone could possibly buy cologne when the obvious smell invading their nostrils was that of literal rank shit.
By Robert Pettus2 years ago in Horror
The Macaroni Ghost
“I saw it! I saw it again!” squealed Molly, running heavy-footed across the old, creaking wood-flooring of the upstairs hallway. It was the third time she had done this in only the previous five days. She ran to my parent’s room, thumping authoritatively on the white-painted door like a KGB agent looking to search a house:
By Robert Pettus2 years ago in Fiction
Void. Life. Winter.
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. It flickered lonesomely, alighting – in only shifting, shadowy fashion – the interior of the small, rustic room. A resident mouse, his senses alerted, dove scrambling from the tabletop, to the chair bottom, to the floor, flying frenziedly to his home inside the creaking bones of the building. That mouse had spent nearly all of the winter in the cabin, its shelter providing – though maybe not warmth – survival. This new light was unusual. It destroyed his daily routine; it awakened his temporarily dormant flight instinct.
By Robert Pettus2 years ago in Fiction
Onyx Olympus
The rover descended slowly into that ancient, immense crater; its lights flashing in scanning, counter clockwise fashion, splitting open the blackness only briefly. This ancient stone beast – so great in size – had swallowed the small ship, which now sank downward as if powerlessly through the vacuum of deep space. So massive was the mountain that falling was the same as floating. The ship was actually floating, though, or at least descending in a slow, meticulous manner. That was what Ariadne understood, anyway. She bounced back and forth across the small capsule – the main ship was left outside, at base camp – and stared out from the windows into the blackness. The ship’s lights shown out through that blackness into nothingness. Complete emptiness. It was reminiscent of her time spent down in the Marianna Trench, though this was much different from that, she knew. It wasn’t as dark – there aren’t many places in the inner solar system darker than the Trench – but it still, somehow, felt darker. Certainly emptier, which was saying a lot.
By Robert Pettus2 years ago in Fiction
Cathy in the Crawlspace
Cathy tossed the remnant butt of her Pall Mall Orange cigarette to the brittle grass and began twisting the knob to the lock of the crawl space. A former lock from a high-school locker – one she was given by her son, Jeremy, after he graduated – secured the crawl space; its door composed of old, cracked, white-painted wood. It was a little rusted, and didn’t like to work. She continued tugging at it, twisting the knob into the location she knew was correct. She tugged at the lock, but it was no use. She yanked it again in childish frustration.
By Robert Pettus2 years ago in Horror
The High Life
My favorite summer food is bottled Miller High Life beer. The most versatile of beverages, its circular, grated bottom slides spinning seamlessly into any occasion – whether an afternoon sitting by the noisy, urine-filled community pool; an evening flipping seasoned, elotes corn-on-the-cob with clicking, insectoid metal tongs on the grill; or a late, moon-lit night listening to classic-rock around the flickering fire. High Life is never out of place. As far as light, mass-produced domestic beers go, High Life contains within its bubbly, transparent glass encasement the best of every world. It’s hint of citrus provides refreshment, though its full-body is flavorful enough to be unique. It’s classic. It’s a beverage somehow both formal and trashy – somehow both pretentious and modest. And don’t go telling me that Miller High Life doesn’t qualify as food. I’ve spent many an afternoon filling my belly with that fizzy goodness, sustaining myself more than well enough – through an afternoon on the golf course, or at the pool, or by the creek – until the inevitable evening barbecue allowed me the opportunity to fill my stomach with something more traditionally “nutritious”. I can’t gush about it enough, as you can tell. It does its simple, though necessary job, perfectly.
By Robert Pettus2 years ago in Proof
