Don't Look Under the BedThe only rule we had when we were children was to never look under the bed.Don't Look Under the Bed11 hours ago in Short Stories More Like This
Not just any bed, but the bed of our mother. She hid something down beneath the bed that we weren't meant to see. Some great secret protected by the boogeyman, she would tell us. "If you get on your hands and knees and try to look... he'll jump out! And grab you!" After the threat was made, she pounced on either myself or my brother, laughing and tickling until we were nothing but a pile of small giggles on the floor.
We took the words seriously, however. Running into the room to awaken our parents on holidays like birthdays or Christmas, or Thanksgiving, any of them and never once did we look under the bed. Sometimes we hesitated, sometimes we thought there would be a hand reaching out to grab us if we weren't fast enough. The ruffles of the bed covered the foot of the bed, so logically as the little kids we were, jumping at the foot of the bed was safest. It's what we always did, to get onto the bed and avoid
Ariza's TheoryMom used to tell me about my little brother. She never met him either, but she’d heard a lot about him. She showed me pictures of him and he’s real cute. What I can’t get over is his white hair. He looks a lot like Dad.Ariza's Theory26 minutes ago in Short Stories More Like This
I don’t remember my dad too well to tell the truth. He disappeared when Mom died. I remember that he always called her his sweet Kee. I always thought it was lame and stupid, but most people just called my mom Kay. She had a real sweet voice.
Something I do remember about my dad is that he had a nice voice too. I always wonder what Seth sounds like and if Mara can sing because I can’t even though Mom and Dad could real well.
Mara is my dad’s wife. He never married my mom. Sometimes, though, I have these recurring dreams in which my dad loves me more than Seth and Mara. I know that it’s bad to wish for something like that, but truthfully I don’t mean it. I don’t like the dreams that much.
It is nice to believe he didn
Familiar WaysFamiliar Ways10 hours ago in Short Stories More Like This
He showed up to that God damn funeral. Not for anybody else’s sake but for his own.
He approached the casquette with a sullen countenance and gazed into a withered face. He saw those saggy jowls sulking away, those dark bags under scornful eyelids.
Muttering his final words cold as the corpse before him.
“Good riddance, you mean old son of a bitch”
He utters a tired breath and leaves the funeral home, stepping outside for a moment of solitude – and a moment of comfort. Out comes his precious flask, pouring a strong bitterness down his throat.
Just like his old man.