Sparkler LoveWhen Mom comes home, she slams the door and throws her keys across the living room. It just barely misses my head. I pause Heavy Rain and say, “Take it therapy didn’t go too well then?”Sparkler Love20 hours ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She sighs and passes in front of me to pick up the keys. “You think it’s so easy? Why don’t you do it then? I’m sure you need it more than I do. If I have to spend one more minute discussing your father, so help me—”
“That bastard’s not my father. Don’t even remind me that I’m only alive because of his sperm.” I duck my head around her body and start playing my game again. Ethan’s just spinning around in the play park, screaming for Shaun, when my mother plops down next to me on the couch. She has her glasses on as she stares down at a notepad. Up close like this, I can see every line etched onto her once lovely face.
“Guess what I’m writing?” Mom says after a while.
“Another angry le
CarouselI sit on my favorite horse. She is tan and lovely with dark brown speckles sprinkled all over her shoulders and rump. In her hair are ribbons and yellow tulips woven through painted braids. Everyone else always loves the roses, but me I like tulips best. Together we fly through the world. Her name is Jordie and I always know her by her face. Her blue eyes reflect the sky and actually look back at me as I ride. Her eyes are cast in panic with her head tucked in and angled just slightly towards the left. Her hoof is raised as though she would step off the track were she not frozen in time. But I love her best because I imagine myself soothing her fear; I whisper in her ear calming thoughts that melt her terror. I tell her she should be proud of the silver armor that decorates her saddle. It means she is a warrior fit for battle. It means she will fight fiercely or die trying. My horse is noble.Carousel3 hours ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
As we slow to a stop my dream ends. I leave the ride as I walk to where my father sits.
Night InFiona came out of her room to find her father watching an old western show. She stretched and yawned. At least the nap had done her some good. She went and sat on the couch next to him.Night In37 minutes ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Ugh. Nick and the others go out every weekend to parties or to the beach or whatever. Who could do that?" she asked, shuddering at the thought.
Her father thought for a moment. "Extreme extroverts," he told her, deadpan.
"Well I for one, am glad we are not," she responded, cuddling up and watching Bonanza with great interest.
Her father just chuckled.
Please Excuse My ADHDAaron Thompson, a troubled, twenty-two year old dressed in black coveralls and Timberland boots, was struggling with the realization that he hadn’t seen his brother in months. The distance between them was greater than ever, a fact that he was well aware of and attributed to his substance abuse. Aaron, in a last ditch effort to treat his ADHD and debilitating depression, was suddenly and painstakingly addicted to the drug Ambien. But that, he thought, wasn’t the only thing that had driven Chad away. Although things changed between them, it wasn’t until their father, recently relapsed and very vindictive, told his youngest son that Aaron was stealing from him that Chad had severed all ties with him.Please Excuse My ADHD12 hours ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
And he hadn’t been, a frustrated Aaron told himself. He had a full-time job as a mechanic and come hell or high water he wouldn’t steal from the other boy. But try convincing him of that. Hurt all over again, Aaron began sharpening pencil
UntitledHow many times have I said those words? How many times have I put my hand on the shoulder of a widow, a grieving mother or father, hell, even an orphaned child and told them, “God wanted another angel in Heaven” or “It was their time to go?” Of course, I had wondered about it often enough, but today was no exception. Mrs. Eleanor Mahone was weeping inconsolably, her husband dead of a heart attack at fifty-five, and I was speaking softly to her and her two sons, Marc and Norman. Telling them that Mr. Mahone was in a better place.Untitled13 hours ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Could I say for certain? No. Marc Mahone, his step-son, was a handsome young man. He had spent the past four years serving in the U.S. Marine Corps. But the tell-tale scar emblazoned across his left temple and jutting into his eyebrow wasn’t what I remembered him for. It was the scared sixteen year old who came to youth group on Thursday afternoons. The same one who flinched when the other teenagers spoke to loudly or lowered his h