By Thingy
I couldn't blame them when they stared at me with gaping mouths and clenched fists. I laugh when something bad happens, and this was very bad.
I didn't see him dart out into traffic. His head was half way in a pot hole, which really had me guffawing. Through my tears, I could see his little shoe blink on and off and like a flip of a switch, there was only the sound of his ragged breaths.
"Breathe, breathe. I will never get into a car again, I will never talk on my cell phone again. Please, little one, just live."
As the reds lights and white noise rounded the corner, I felt the first hit and heard a scream that could only come from the mother of this boy. I lay against the stink of asphalt and saw the rivulets of our blood mingle, the boy's and mine.
Like a bad cartoon that almost got me laughing again, the men in white bundled, folded and spindled the boy into the back of the truck. All I could see now were Jimmy Choo's and dusty Crocs face, then turn away from me.
"Looks like he'll be okay, ma'am. I'll need to get a statement from you."
I was going to ask the shadow if he wanted me to remain in my current prone position, but I was so drunk and tired.
Copyright ©2011 Thingy. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
I am a Midwestern girl, born and raised. Although I've been writing most of my life, I haven't taken my work too seriously, until the last few years. Writing short stories suits me, I think.
Thingy can also be found at her website, Pondering Life.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Jetsam
By MorningAJ
Eliza was a beachcomber - not that she made a living out of it or anything (nor was she like that weird old man who lived in half a wrecked boat at the shore). She would walk along the sand as the tide went out and pick up the jetsam that was stranded there, imagining how it had been lost.
She never picked up pebbles or a sea shell. She was only interested in the abandoned, manufactured items. She would take her finds back to her tiny flat in the middle of town and arrange them on ledges and bookcases and shelves around the walls. Then she would sit and look happily at her treasures, while she talked to the spirits of their previous owners.
When the building collapsed, the inquest jury agreed that the structure was never intended to hold such a weight of junk and the old woman’s eccentricity had contributed to her death. Her neighbours agreed it was an outrage that no one had done anything about it before.
The old man watched from his half-boat as the merpeople returned to the sea with their recovered possessions, then he headed up to the church on the cliff where he was the only mourner at Eliza’s funeral.
Copyright ©2011 MorningAJ. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
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This story was originally published on the Jobbing Writer site on June 15, 2011.
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If you like this story, check out these other Morning AJ stories, published on this site: Disguise, Earwig, Falling star and Helen's dilemma.
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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
MorningAJ is a professional (science PR) writer/rebel who fends off the
restrictions of her paid-for work by creating short stories, poems and
microfiction in her spare time. She’s even managed a novel, thanks to
NaNoWriMo, and is currently working on her second.
She also paints watercolours.
Badly.
Eliza was a beachcomber - not that she made a living out of it or anything (nor was she like that weird old man who lived in half a wrecked boat at the shore). She would walk along the sand as the tide went out and pick up the jetsam that was stranded there, imagining how it had been lost.
She never picked up pebbles or a sea shell. She was only interested in the abandoned, manufactured items. She would take her finds back to her tiny flat in the middle of town and arrange them on ledges and bookcases and shelves around the walls. Then she would sit and look happily at her treasures, while she talked to the spirits of their previous owners.
When the building collapsed, the inquest jury agreed that the structure was never intended to hold such a weight of junk and the old woman’s eccentricity had contributed to her death. Her neighbours agreed it was an outrage that no one had done anything about it before.
The old man watched from his half-boat as the merpeople returned to the sea with their recovered possessions, then he headed up to the church on the cliff where he was the only mourner at Eliza’s funeral.
Copyright ©2011 MorningAJ. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
#
This story was originally published on the Jobbing Writer site on June 15, 2011.
#
If you like this story, check out these other Morning AJ stories, published on this site: Disguise, Earwig, Falling star and Helen's dilemma.
#
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
MorningAJ is a professional (science PR) writer/rebel who fends off the
restrictions of her paid-for work by creating short stories, poems and
microfiction in her spare time. She’s even managed a novel, thanks to
NaNoWriMo, and is currently working on her second.
She also paints watercolours.
Badly.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Tangier
By Nick Nicholson
On the morning of August 14, 1955, the novelist Vannevar Mann awoke from a dream in which he was spellbound by the tears of a beautiful dark-haired girl, although in the dream it was uncertain whether the tears were of grief or joy. The cryptic vision of the girl haunted Mann. He sensed that there was something important about her, that she possessed a secret truth of some kind. A week later, Mann spied a dark-haired girl darting through the crowded markets of Petit Socco. Convinced that it was the girl from his dream, he followed her. She led him through a maze of back streets and blind intersections, the labyrinth of the medina, constantly slipping in and out of view, always just out of reach. Then she vanished. In the months that followed, Mann became obsessed. The girl continued to infiltrate his dreams. She materialised numerous times and each time, he pursued her through the kaleidoscopic streets of Tangier. Years passed but he never found her. Vannevar Mann died from a heart attack on December 3, 1962. The next day, a local newspaper reported the story of an unidentified dark-haired girl who had drowned in the Bay of Tangier.
© Nick Nicholson 2010, 2011. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or in part without written permission from the author.
------------------------
This is the final part of Nick Nicholson's theme-adventurous, eight-part Travelogue.
• • •
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Throughout his life, Nick Nicholson has pursued a variety of creative vocations: music, photography, painting and, in recent years, writing. He lives in Australia.
On the morning of August 14, 1955, the novelist Vannevar Mann awoke from a dream in which he was spellbound by the tears of a beautiful dark-haired girl, although in the dream it was uncertain whether the tears were of grief or joy. The cryptic vision of the girl haunted Mann. He sensed that there was something important about her, that she possessed a secret truth of some kind. A week later, Mann spied a dark-haired girl darting through the crowded markets of Petit Socco. Convinced that it was the girl from his dream, he followed her. She led him through a maze of back streets and blind intersections, the labyrinth of the medina, constantly slipping in and out of view, always just out of reach. Then she vanished. In the months that followed, Mann became obsessed. The girl continued to infiltrate his dreams. She materialised numerous times and each time, he pursued her through the kaleidoscopic streets of Tangier. Years passed but he never found her. Vannevar Mann died from a heart attack on December 3, 1962. The next day, a local newspaper reported the story of an unidentified dark-haired girl who had drowned in the Bay of Tangier.
© Nick Nicholson 2010, 2011. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or in part without written permission from the author.
------------------------
This is the final part of Nick Nicholson's theme-adventurous, eight-part Travelogue.
• • •
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Throughout his life, Nick Nicholson has pursued a variety of creative vocations: music, photography, painting and, in recent years, writing. He lives in Australia.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
**One of my stories, Peak Times, got published on the Every Night Erotica site
One of my X-rated stories, Peak Times, got published on the Every Night Erotica site.
This only-for-mature-audiences story is about a couple who engage in BDSM play on a commuter train - known as BART to those of us in the East Bay. It's trashy and over-the-top, but I've seen people do worse on BART. =0
This only-for-mature-audiences story is about a couple who engage in BDSM play on a commuter train - known as BART to those of us in the East Bay. It's trashy and over-the-top, but I've seen people do worse on BART. =0
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Smoldering
By Michelle Purvis
Of course, I left the T-Shirt on his dresser despite the softness of the fabric and the faint hint of his cologne. It was my version of a pacifier when he was away on his long trips I'd wear it to soothe myself to sleep, but now, like the owner, it was an albatross around my neck. If I kept it, like my secret heart wanted to, the pathway to him would be left open and, like my secret heart also knew, it must be severed absolutely with no way back.
So why was my car parked outside his house on a Friday night?
Was I that self destructive? The answer most emphatically, would be “Yes”. Smoking cigarettes for the past 12 years had proven that my well being was not essentially what motivated me.
I popped the cigarette lighter from the dash and lit another Camel. Breathing in the smoke calmed me and solidified my mission, how else could I be truly at peace unless this relationship ended? Unless he felt the emptiness, the nothingness he left me?
The gas cans were easy to get out of the back of my pickup, I just needed to sit tight for another hour until the lights went off for the night.
Copyright ©2011 Michelle Purvis. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
•
Michelle Purvis is aspiring to get more writing on paper rather than leaving the stories in her head where they cannot be shared. She shares her humble abode with her supportive and caring husband and her love starved dog, The Chomp.
Of course, I left the T-Shirt on his dresser despite the softness of the fabric and the faint hint of his cologne. It was my version of a pacifier when he was away on his long trips I'd wear it to soothe myself to sleep, but now, like the owner, it was an albatross around my neck. If I kept it, like my secret heart wanted to, the pathway to him would be left open and, like my secret heart also knew, it must be severed absolutely with no way back.
So why was my car parked outside his house on a Friday night?
Was I that self destructive? The answer most emphatically, would be “Yes”. Smoking cigarettes for the past 12 years had proven that my well being was not essentially what motivated me.
I popped the cigarette lighter from the dash and lit another Camel. Breathing in the smoke calmed me and solidified my mission, how else could I be truly at peace unless this relationship ended? Unless he felt the emptiness, the nothingness he left me?
The gas cans were easy to get out of the back of my pickup, I just needed to sit tight for another hour until the lights went off for the night.
Copyright ©2011 Michelle Purvis. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
•
Michelle Purvis is aspiring to get more writing on paper rather than leaving the stories in her head where they cannot be shared. She shares her humble abode with her supportive and caring husband and her love starved dog, The Chomp.
Monday, June 6, 2011
**One of my stories, Winter 2001, got published on the Photograph Prose site
One of my impromptu/picture-prompt stories, Winter 2001, got published on the Photograph Prose site.
This 126-word, sorrowful and dark work was inspired by CJ Schmit's picture.
If so moved, feel free to read and comment on it. =)
This 126-word, sorrowful and dark work was inspired by CJ Schmit's picture.
If so moved, feel free to read and comment on it. =)
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
He Preferred Red
By Baird Nuckolls
Her hair was palest silver, curling in wisps on her head, yet she had it “done” every Friday, without fail. When I came in last week, she asked me to clip her toe nails, too. She said she couldn't reach them any more and they were growing crooked.
With her tiny foot in my lap, I asked her about the dress she was wearing. It was a clear shade of blue, the color of the summer sky.
“I love this color,” she told me. “I wear it all the time.” She twisted the wedding band on her left hand. “Stewart always said he liked it, but I don't think he did.” She leaned forward. “He preferred red.”
I continued to work, rubbing lotion into her heels. Sylvia was silent for a while, then resumed the conversation, as if she had to rest between sentences. It was hard to be nearly a hundred. She told me once that after she turned ninety-five, she wished she was eighty again. Not young, not twenty-five? I asked her. No, she didn't mind being old, but everything hurt less when she was eighty. She liked talking about Stewart. He was her husband for sixty-eight years, until the cancer got him.
“I never liked red. It was too gauche.” She chuckled. “He bought me a red dress once.”
“Just once?” It was the way she said it that made me ask.
“Oh, he knew I didn't like it, but he bought it for my birthday.”
“What did you do?” I put down her right foot and picked up the left. “Did you return it?”
“Oh, no. I wouldn't do that. I wore it once.” She was silent for a long time while I clipped her nails. “Then, I buried my mother in it.”
It was so unexpected, my laugh burst out. She certainly showed him her true feelings.
“Yes, I never had to wear it again.”
Copyright ©2011 Baird Nuckolls. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
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If you like this story, check out Baird’s other stories, published on this site:
Chickens roosting in the trees, Jet lagged and Scarred.
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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Baird lives to write; the rest of the time, she drives around, feeling lost. Eating chocolate helps, but time spent in the middle of a story helps even more.
Her hair was palest silver, curling in wisps on her head, yet she had it “done” every Friday, without fail. When I came in last week, she asked me to clip her toe nails, too. She said she couldn't reach them any more and they were growing crooked.
With her tiny foot in my lap, I asked her about the dress she was wearing. It was a clear shade of blue, the color of the summer sky.
“I love this color,” she told me. “I wear it all the time.” She twisted the wedding band on her left hand. “Stewart always said he liked it, but I don't think he did.” She leaned forward. “He preferred red.”
I continued to work, rubbing lotion into her heels. Sylvia was silent for a while, then resumed the conversation, as if she had to rest between sentences. It was hard to be nearly a hundred. She told me once that after she turned ninety-five, she wished she was eighty again. Not young, not twenty-five? I asked her. No, she didn't mind being old, but everything hurt less when she was eighty. She liked talking about Stewart. He was her husband for sixty-eight years, until the cancer got him.
“I never liked red. It was too gauche.” She chuckled. “He bought me a red dress once.”
“Just once?” It was the way she said it that made me ask.
“Oh, he knew I didn't like it, but he bought it for my birthday.”
“What did you do?” I put down her right foot and picked up the left. “Did you return it?”
“Oh, no. I wouldn't do that. I wore it once.” She was silent for a long time while I clipped her nails. “Then, I buried my mother in it.”
It was so unexpected, my laugh burst out. She certainly showed him her true feelings.
“Yes, I never had to wear it again.”
Copyright ©2011 Baird Nuckolls. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
#
If you like this story, check out Baird’s other stories, published on this site:
Chickens roosting in the trees, Jet lagged and Scarred.
#
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Baird lives to write; the rest of the time, she drives around, feeling lost. Eating chocolate helps, but time spent in the middle of a story helps even more.
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