Literary Short Stories

A man is haunted by the 35-year institutionalization of his older brother.

A Brother's Love

In the hodgepodge that passes for my life, there has been one constant: my love for my older brother, Barton. Through my marriage and divorce, through the death of my father and my mother's hasty remarriage, through my numerous "career" changes, through the dissatisfaction and restlessness and loneliness that paint my life, there has been Barton. There's no doubt in my boozed-up mind that I would have let go a long time ago, and not minded my drowning one bit, if it wasn't for Barton. I stay in this city, live alone in a small apartment, because I couldn't bear to be far from my brother.

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Floyd is a survivor. He wishes he weren’t. He is scarred by memories he cannot shake and tired from his daily battle with arthritis. What is a man supposed to do when all he has is pain?

A Walk in the Park

Spring in New York. From the eerie evening quiet of Downtown to the teeming streets north of Central Park, the city basked in unseasonal heat. Yesterday’s rain was forgotten and the storm forecast for tomorrow wasn’t worth worrying about. Tourists tussled with salarymen for seats outside cafés in the Village and kids hurled themselves round the Heckscher playground half-watched by their chattering nannies.

Floyd Henson stood on the Bow Bridge in the centre of the park and watched the couples in their rowboats struggling and laughing.

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Understanding reality has a downside.  Humans are weak, we are needy, we are foolish, and we are temporary.  How do we dare live, love and call our endeavors art?  The author here offers a way.  Grab the rope and hang on for we need hope like we need... air.

Air

Fate can be a funny thing – and by that, I don’t mean humorous, not all the time, not at all.  Let me show you:

Once upon a time a young man, not yet in his teens, was sitting, watching a stream of bubbles break the surface of a small, dark backwater.  This bend in the river made a lake, which prior to that day, was known only for good fishing.  Young Ellis waited.  As dawn’s colors moved toward rain-cloud gray, the bubbles became fierce.

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An annoying little man strikes up an unwanted conversation on a bus. He seems to enjoy the attention. His needs are complicated and urgent.

All Change

‘Used to subscribe meself,’ the little man shared conspiratorially as I half-heartedly turn a page, bored with the formulaic plot and unimaginative use of language.

‘Mmm?’ I replied. It was ill-considered for a closed response. He judiciously leaned into an acute bend in the road without grasping either support rail or seat grip.

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How Alec Morton's life is changed by the intensity of his dreams and the death of his cousin.  A taut, compelling narrative, dealing with the interweaving of dreams and reality.

Baggage

Alec Morton approaches the cashpoint machines outside the railway station.  He trundles his suitcase, on wheels, behind him; his other hand rests, lightly, on his shoulder bag.  There are queues at all three machines.  He tags onto the shortest one, sets the suitcase down and reaches into the shoulder bag for his wallet.  A glance at his watch tells him he has fifteen minutes before the train is due to arrive.  Should be ok, he thinks.  He still has to buy his ticket, but the queue ahead of him seems to be moving quickly.  He brushes away a few beads of sweat from his brow.  There is a clear blue sky, and the noonday sun is at its hottest.  He looks forward to relaxing, on the hour-long journey into London.

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Following a tragic childhood accident for which he feels partly responsible, Georgie is haunted by flashbacks of what happened that lead him to follow a life of trouble. Will Ugly Suzie provide him with the lifeline he needs or will Georgie be forced to make a terrible decision?

Counting by Numbers

In the days before Duchess and the Ugly Suzie, when Georgie was very small, the cupboard in the spare bedroom was his favourite hiding place. It was always the last place that Mama looked for him and it was warm and dark and soft in there. He would squeeze himself in at the bottom, and wait until she came to find him. While he was waiting, he would run his finger along the inside of the cupboard door where Mama had scratched how tall he was each year. He hoped he would grow big and strong like Mama always said.

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Vicky’s world falls apart when her husband tells her he wants a divorce. Picking herself up, she makes a decision that shakes not only her husband but her family and friends as well.  How a mother could abandon her children is incomprehensible to them, but Vicky’s made of more determined and sterner stuff than even she herself realised!

Crossing the Wasteland

The minute they walk into the restaurant, Vicky Barrett knows it’s wrong; the little black dress and pearls, confirmed by the Maitre D’s supercilious smile. As outdated, among designer outfits smart and casual, as the word frock in the new millennium. Ushered to their table by an underling, they’re seated away from the mainstream.

She turns her attention to the table.  Napkins starched, convoluted into swan shapes, silverware catching candlelight. It’s Valentine’s Day with heart-shaped chocolates on their side plates. .   She was one of three runners-up in a competition,.  Dinner for two at the exclusive La Premiere was the Consolation prize.

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Not all war injuries become evident on a soldier’s body, nor do they show themselves without delay.  Years after a stint in the service, one man treasures his experiences and boasts about them, yet suffers the real results silently.

Curtis, Alone and Aging

"C'mon, Curtis, make up your mind.  You've had all lunch hour to think."

The young waitress, as lush and appetizing as her pies, bounces the eraser end of her pencil on the order pad.  Every part of her pliant body pushes a rounded curve against the thin white uniform.  Curtis wonders why he prefers to consider relishing the taste of pie to that of flesh.

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After being hit by an automobile, a man afraid of the dark is confined in the nightmare of a ‘conscious’ coma.

Deadly Nightshade

I smile inwardly when I think of my eldest brother, Ed.  He was a rock and was more responsible for my upbringing than our parents were.  He taught me how to play sports and fight my corner.  He taught me about girls and we even went on double dates sometimes.  On my twenty-first birthday, we swapped our dates in the middle of the night.  The next day, he took me to the pub and told our mates about it.  You should have seen the looks we got from them!

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How could that which terrified me in life be embraced in my dream as freedom and escape, and how was my daughter able to love the very thing I feared? Can echoes from the past be heard today?

Depths of Memory

I am a timid swimmer. Ten minutes of being bullied by the waves is enough for me so, toes groping for the slippery rocks beneath, I make my way back to the safe embrace of the sandy beach.  I spread my towel on the warm, soft sand and feel the sun chase away the dread of the water. I lie down to read but gradually my book falls from my hand as I doze. I am dreaming the dream.

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Somebody is waiting, putting off the moment when a momentous decision has to be made. Nature itself provides both a countdown and some solace.

Dignity

I’ve vowed to do it when the last leaf falls. There are still three clinging on - brown, desiccated, wizened things. At night time they take on a different appearance. The cherry tree burns in the orange glow of a streetlight. On the tip of a low branch two leaves overlap, a third hangs below, silhouetted against the sky. A black crow. A black crow waiting for me to act.

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Treasures waited, battles were won, castles grew and magical moments never ceased in The Forests of Brooklyn. They were there; they are still; just close your eyes and open your heart to know them.

Forests of Brooklyn

You had to do a little magic; you had to see more than was there. An abandoned car could be a castle if you liked and the ice cream truck could be driven by a king or a knight. The sidewalks could be painted and even the sewers held treasures that parents were denied. Trust me still and know that great forests were there in Brooklyn and this one I will tell of was filled with more wonder than all.

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Frank is a disturbed man living a fragmented life in a haunted hotel - or is it? Nothing is what it appears to be in this highly original and disturbing short story. Delve into the warped mind and world of Frank.

Fragments of Frank

Hello. My name is Frank - some say Frank by name Frank by nature. We don’t use second names in this hotel where I live with Simon, John and Rio. Today is my birthday and we have been promised a special trip out to the shops to buy some sweets. I am 33 today and looking forward to the trip as we don’t go out much.

How I came to have Room Number Four at this hotel is still a bit of a blur as far as I am concerned. At this hotel, we are not guests, but clients. It is a hotel for the insane and everyone thinks it is haunted.

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A therapist recalls the small town funeral that set her life in motion. (A story of abuse.)

Hear me in the Hollows

I come from a land of withered souls.  The Hollows was one of those placeless, useless, tiny towns which, if you've ever travelled by bus, can serve to elongate into weariness an already tedious journey.  From the bus's heavy green windows you can look out at a small cluster of those two-bedroom boxes of sadness which huddle anonymously about FM road 7681 just north of the county seat.  There's a store there, with a tiny Western Union sign tucked in the corner of a window and a painted Greyhound bench in front, and not much else.  No one ever gets off there; occasionally, a bedraggled, hopeful youth with too much carry-on luggage will board.  Those that leave never go back and those that remain close in a little tighter.

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Hogg is the Beckett style account of the life and hallucinations of a mentally-ill tramp and his hilarious life. It is written in experimental style in the original voice of its author Clive Gresswell. It is a unique and uncompromising tragi-comedy.

Hogg

Blank, blank, blank. A white unpainted canvass of lapsed memory. Tears well up in his rheumy eyes. Must catch a train or a bus to some other place. Any place. Parrots too he had never taken to.

There was the one a landlady had.  Couldn’t recall her name. Place was in – almost had it but could not quite form the words.

There were years at some point of happy families he was sure – at some point past. Now no sense of self or future. Father to who knows how many? And who was the mother? Some brothel whore consumed from the vast vats of drink. Come on Irene, where have you been?

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Having a new baby isn’t always the joyous experience it’s supposed to be.

In this Place

Swaddle him, the nurse had told me. They like to be wrapped tight, to feel secure. And I thought about Jesus, swaddled in his manger, because that’s the only swaddling I’d ever heard of. Did Jesus cry this much?

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Inheritance is a story about a young woman dealing with the death of her mother. Will the stranger at the wake reveal family secrets to her that have stayed hidden for a lifetime?”

Inheritance

The music drifting down from the upstairs flat breaks my reverie and the soft single bed creaks as I adjust my position. My back is aching: goodness knows how long I have been sitting here in my old room, daydreaming, staring sightlessly at the pink flowers on the faded wallpaper. I shift the laptop back onto my knees and try to concentrate on the email that I’ve been struggling to write for the past hour.

“Dear Friends, I am writing to tell you…” I pull a sour face and delete the last three words with a quick click of the mouse.

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A mother packs up her daughter and sneaks out of a perfectly good marriage in the middle of the night, but once she crosses the state lines, she questions her decision.

Inside the Lines

Across the border, Valdosta, Georgia, had great air. Like an idea taking form, it hung visibly between the tall skinny palm trees that lined the road. It filled the spaces between the franchised restaurants and motels, and like an embrace, it made them appear cared for. Nikki knew that in a few hours the sun would burn the illusion away, but at that moment, dawn and dew infused the air with hints of color, soft like hope, and she rolled down her window to breathe it in. She needed a taste of hope.

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1975: 23 year old arrives in Vegas to become a poker pro.  Joe Nevada, his favorite dealer, embodies the joy of Vegas.  Realizing poker pro dream not likely, the boy leaves, but returns to Vegas yearly to play at Joe’s table.  In 1995, the man returns to find the poker room closed.

Joe Nevada

When I was 23, I flew to Vegas for the first time, twinkling with dreams of becoming a professional poker player—dreams more flickering, flimsy, and capable of annihilation than the gaudy strip lights which to this day rest on the whim of an oil cartel continents away.

I knew I was ready for them. I’d read Scarne and various other poker whizzes, knew the odds of drawing three to a pair versus two to a pair and a kicker, knew what I had to have to call a bet in draw, depending on where the initial bet was made, and I even knew what I had to have to call a raise or re-raise, given my position at the table and the amount of the raises and calls in front of me.

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Mitch has just discovered that his recently-deceased father was, in fact, a contract killer.  As Mitch begins to assemble the pieces of his father's life, he must cope with his own identity, his father's identity, and a strange man who seems to be following him...

My Father's Bullets

My father was a contract killer for twelve years of his life.  Sometime between retiring from the Army, and writing investigative pieces for Canadian wildlife journals, he traveled the world assassinating people.  He only took two or three jobs a year; I remember him being home during my childhood, keeping up the house while Mom worked at the shop she owned.  When I asked my father what he did for a living, he would reply that he did "security work," and that occasionally he had to go overseas.  Hong Kong.  Havana.  Cairo.  I was too young and too politically naïve to ever connect his travels with the subsequent assassinations; the people he killed were usually too low-key to make the American press anyways.

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They are opposites in every way, but they come together briefly, for a rescue attempt.

Opposite Poles

‘The name is Moon. Charles Moon.’ He runs his right hand over his extremely bald head. He should be wearing a hat today, she thinks. The sun is strong, reflecting brightly off the water. Well, to be truthful, he is wearing a hat, but it is not on his head. His black bowler hat is clutched in his left hand, firmly against his groin. It is the only piece of apparel he has on.

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Lou spends her life caring for her elderly, obtuse mother. She’s desperate for a break.

Past Caring

“I’m not going.”

The creases deepen around the tight grimness of her mouth. The blue eyes may have faded, but they’ve lost none of their intensity.

“It’s only for a fortnight, Mum, and it’s such a lovely place. It’ll be a holiday for you, too. I’ve booked you a room overlooking the sea.” Lou pounds the dough, folding her anger through its softness. How many more times do they have to go through this?

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Eighty-year old Sam reviews his life as he attempts to prolong it through exercise.

Personal Best

Sam aimed for ninety minutes on the exercise bike, at level number three. For a week he’d been doing 80. Today he would increase the time by ten percent, as his trainer had suggested. He fudged a little on the ten percent, but he felt good and knew he could make it easily.

At age eighty, after two heart attacks, he felt fine. He always used his time on the bike to relax his mind and reminisce about his full and contented life. He might live forever! He’d already done ten minutes.

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Rosa and her grandfather live together in a small apartment. Each relies solely on the other for company, yet Rosa desperately wants her grandfather to play the piano again. She constantly asks him to play, until he finally agrees, but his playing will come at a price.

Play for Me

Rosa lifted her head up from her work space, rolling her neck with two short cracks. All the room’s natural light had vanished since she’d sat down with her canvas almost two hours ago. She reached out to switch on a lamp. Her hand missed the switch on her first try and knocked against the solid wood of the piano which had unwillingly retired to live out its days as a table. Rosa got the switch on her second shot and light spilled across the room. Her grandfather hardly stirred where he sat in his armchair.

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A 10-year old African-American girl tries to find her place in 1950s America.

Reach Up and Touch the Sky

Being black sure is hard work.

At least that's what I told Big Mommy and she just sighed and said your being a girl makes it even harder.  That's all I needed to hear.

I mean there's days that go by that I wish I wasn't even black.  There's too many rules.  You have to use the colored fountain.  The colored rest room.  You have to sit in the back of the bus even if there's no one else on the bus.

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