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Short Stories & Tall Tales by Louis M. Serra
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Louis M. Serra grew up in Chicago Il, entertained both by
stories about gumshoe detectives and tales of werewolves, vampires, ghosts, and other supernatural beings. He began writing short stories at about ten years old, slowly developing a storytelling style that incorporated his favorite subjects.
After years of keeping his family entertained, they convinced him he should write some books.
Louis’ first published work, The Reluctant Vampire, is a story about a vampire who learns some new things about himself and his man-servant, Wilbur.
Louis has since, written seven novels, five of which are in print. These other novels involve visitors from other dimensions, outer-space, and even some from our very own soil. The book, Notes From The Hermit, is a collection of short stories.
To expand his writings, he has taken on a different genrex crime without things that go ‘bump’ in the night. His first crime novel is called, The Hawke’s Lair.
Sam & Sam Burgers
Louis M. Serra
Ol’ Shotgun insists I tell ya’ll about what happened here one day last year. Oh, by the way, it’s me, Prairie Pete. Ain’t real sure how it happened, but it seems like I’ve become the mouthpiece around here in Iron Hole.
I tol’ Shotgun that ifin he thinks this is such a dad-burned great story… he should tell it. He just shrugged me off and said I was gooder than him at tellin’ things. He says I got the mouth fer it. Whatever that means. I finally agreed to tell ya’ll ‘bout the two yung’ins that stopped by fer lunch only cause I think ya’ll will git a kick out hearin’ it.
Ol’ Jake Withers an’ I was cleanin’ up after the midday tourists all took off on the bus and Shotgun was in back in the kitchen. Jake said sumthin’ bout havin’ to see the baker for tomorrow’s order and started out the door when these two yung fellers came in lookin’ like they was dragged through a sand dune. Jake looked to me to see if he should stay. I waved him out. He nodded and left.
Besides wearin’ all that sand, they was packin’ honest-to-gosh six-shooters.
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KID ELAM
Louis M. Serra
By now you all know me. I’m Prairie Pete, the unofficial story teller here in Iron Hole, Utah. Some folks has gone an’ written to the people what print out these stories, claimin’ there ain’t no such place as Iron Hole. Well, if there ain’t, I’d sure like to know what we here in Iron Hole is doing in a genuine old cowboy town. Shoot, we still has hitchin’ posts in front of most places you goes to eat or drink. What we really like is when you all come here and help out our money situation. That’s probably the big reason I decided to let loose on some of the strange things that happens to some of us. Mostly it’s me, Ol’ Jake Withers, and the ornery Shotgun Hanks. (He’s still up in arms over my telling his family secret.) Ol’ Jake says to ignore em’, “He’ll git ov’r it.” We three have been out here the longest. I reckon you can say we re-founded the town way back when.
Now that I said all that, I think you should know that what I’m gonna tell ya about Kid Elam and his stash of gold and silver is kinda different from some of the things we’ve said an’ done aroun’ here. As far as his stash goes; he said it was his. Course, we’ll never know if‘n it were, because he died a little over a hunerd years ago.
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CHEST OF GOLD
Louis M. Serra
My name is Prairie Pete. You may recall me tellin’ you about the yung’n with the old Winchester 73 rifle. Then agin’ if you’ve been outta town for awhile, ask some of your friends about it. I can’t retell it right now because ol’ Jake Withers is on my back about tellin’ you how we were this… close… to havin’ all the gold we would ever want. It happened like this.
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TWO MEN GULCH
Louis M. Serra
Long before I was born, a little town gave up its existence so the State could build a much needed water reservoir. I thank all those that once lived there just so that many of us would not only have water all year long but have a place to fish and go boating in. It’s not a true lake, but we’re happy it’s here. Most of all, I wish to thank two gentlemen that my friend, Tom Lane, and I met there one Saturday morning.
Both men looked to be in their mid-thirties. Both were dressed in ranch-hand style clothes. Tom and I figured they must be checking for any stray cattle that like to come over the hill and drink from the lake. They were friendly enough to stop and chat with us for awhile.
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THE RIFLE
Louis M. Serra
Around here… and everywhere else I guess, they call me Prairie Pete. Ain’t never been on the prairie though. Ol’ Jake Withers says my face looks like the prairie… all dried out n’ crinkly. I’ve been running this ol’ off-the-trail hotel/saloon for so long that no matter what anybody who stops by here says to me, I’ve heard it before. That is until this young man showed up telling his story.
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What do you say to a ghost?
Louis M. Serra
At first I thought that I was just hearing things. I guess it was because, against my better judgment, I had agreed to fix up an old house for a friend of mine. It was a beautiful old place, built somewhere around 1860. It looked exactly like the ol’ Southern Plantation mansions you see in the movies.
The walls of every important room such as the Dinning Room, the main Study and so forth were paneled with deep oak or light birch, depending on when the sunlight came through the large glass doors and lit up that particular room.
I was in the cellar looking at the cement piers that were supporting the massive beams, which in turn supported the main floor above me. The beams themselves looked as strong as the day they were erected. The piers showed little wear. As I leaned in to check out a strange looking mark on the beam closest to the stairs, I heard what I thought was a weak, soft, voice say something like ‘they’re as sturdy as ever.’ Without thinking, I answered, “They sure look it.” Then it hit me. I’m the only one who is supposed to be here.
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Mr. Will Gates
Louis M. Serra
My name is Jerome Ira Barnes. Everyone just calls me Jib. It took me a long time to get comfortable being called Jib. I guess I have Mr. Will Gates to thank for explaining how some people just like to give out nicknames. Actually, I owe Mr. Will Gates my life. Here is why.
When Smiley Wilson an old friend suggested that we go camping up north, I agreed. Originally being from what some people refer to as the ‘backwoods’, I felt quite at home in the mountains. My childhood home may have seemed a little rustic to some because our running water consisted of two streams going past our place. Our neighbor, Mr. Gates, was a handy-man by trade. He and my pa fixed up the ol’ cabin so we two bachelors (my ma past away when I was only ten months old) could live there.
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TWO SOLDIERS
Louis M. Serra
One day my grandson came up to me and asked if I ever served in the Army. Before I could answer, he explained why he asked me about my ‘days when I was younger’.
“You see, Grampa, we learned about the Civil War this week in school. Did you know that the war was about Americans fighting Americans? Did you fight in that war?”
I did my best not to laugh. I just thought because he was so interested in his teacher telling the class about the war, that he probably did hear the part about 1861-1865. I may be getting older, but not that old. Maybe it was time for him to learn about the Civil War from where a big part of it took place.
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