Robert Pyke

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Feb, 2024

Stories (7)

7 Stories

140 karma pts

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“The Elephant in the Waiting Room” by Robert Pyke

Submitted to Contest #259

“I had a very good reason for not answering your lousy email, and you know it! Who in her right mind would want another date with you?” That was the voice of Rona DiFranco over the phone. It sounded angry. But wasn’t it too strained to be dismissive? “But that was eleven years ago,” I replied, hoping she didn’t hear any desperation. “I was stupid then. And lonely. Okay: not just lonely, needy. Doesn’t some kind of statute of limitations apply?” I could picture her rolling her big dark eyes--or, the ultimate turn-off, squinching her ey...

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“Desperate Remedies” by Robert Pyke

Submitted to Contest #248

Diffident knuckles rasp at a hospital room door already ajar. A black, wrinkled hand pushes the door open. A hoarse whisper, “Willa?” A slow step, almost a shuffle, into the room. A wizened face pokes through the doorway, a mix of curiosity, anxiety, and guile. “Willa?” Willa, wasted, charcoal gray face leached of its former ruddiness, shuts her eyes, recognizing the voice. “What do you want, Bitsy? Missing that alimony?” Bitsy lowers his gaze and, with an apparent effort, brings it back to her face. “Just wanted to see you, baby.” Willa sta...

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“Sewer Pipe Village” by Robert Pyke

Submitted to Contest #246

Dad raised Robbie sternly. Every man was sir or mister. And every man, whether as stern as Dad or as kindly as Uncle George, was to be obeyed without question. That was before Robbie’s evening in Sewer Pipe Village. Sewer Pipe Village was the name Dad gave a dozen giant concrete cylinders strewn in a clearing of scrub—cottonwood and sassafras—across the tracks from their home in Indian Hills. It was along the South Crick, a ditch really, part of a system to drain the swamps south of Lake Michigan, land far enough from the beach for steelwork...

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“Benighted, Betrayed, Beshrewed” by Robert Pyke

Submitted to Contest #241

November 1962 We huddled around Father Fred with our heads down, eyes on the stage floor. Most of us had our arms wrapped around ourselves, whether to ward off the chill of the Illinois night or to comfort ourselves. The great director was browbeating us again. His voice echoed in the empty fieldhouse of Our Lady of the Holy Scepter College. “You girls, Bell Jacoby especially, show up looking like tramps—or like you’re trying out as prostitutes! And when you’re not on stage, you act like prostitutes—trolling for johns among the boys!” “Not...

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“A Breeze for Yolanda” by Robert Pyke

Submitted to Contest #240

In. Out. With my hands clenched together before my nose, breathing so deeply sends a hot breeze onto my chilled fingers. nnnHH. HHnnnn. I send. You hope. I send. You strength. I send. You love. Airy-fairy Eastern wisdom Buddhist bullshit? It doesn’t matter, not even in my logical, scientific heart of hearts. Sending messages into the air—that’s all I can think to do. It is 4 a.m on a cold February night. I am awake with an awful foreboding, a knowing that my kid sister Yolanda, my only remaining relative, is in intractable p...

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“Honey and Her Humans” by Robert Pyke

Submitted to Contest #237

The dog days of summer clung to the East Coast like a vinyl raincoat. In Connecticut, the humans who could drive off to air-conditioned offices did so. They left pets in the heat, their only consolation a few apologetic words. More aid would have been irresponsible: dialing the temperature down during the hottest hours of the day threatened brownouts. Fish and turtles didn’t care. The warmer the air and water, the higher they got. But warmbloods, dogs and cats, had to find ways to retreat with grace. One August morning, a female Maine co...

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“Wisaka and Friends” by Robert Pyke

Submitted to Contest #236

August 1948: ROY So far this month, skinny Roy Parr, all 127 pounds of him, has unearthed three chunks of petrified wood—a bit crumbly, not the shiny spars in the Field Museum nearby in Chicago, but real enough, multicolored pink and brown and crystalline white—plus various hunks of charcoal and driftwood, some tan pebbles, and two Indian arrowheads. Today Roy is digging again. He knows he’s too old for this, but he burns with curiosity. An inch below where he was digging yesterday, he finds two objects almost touching. One...

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Author bio

The power of story has always mesmerized me since Dad’s tales of Chirper Cricket. I got a PhD and an MD to pursue another kind of adventure, medical research, had two kids, and tried to settle down as a drug developer for mental and sexual problems. Drugs were band-aids, so I read, followed gurus, and attended workshops about shame and healing. I sweated in tents, swam with dolphins, and walked hot coals. Then I started drafting stories to entertain and inspire readers about our perennial problems—religious hypocrisy, forbidden love, misogyny, toxic masculinity, racism, Big Brother, and how to live a meaningful life.