short stories
The Letters, A Short Story
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Check out my short story, The Letters, now published on Amazon.com/Shorts.
EXCERPT
The attic housed a mountain of dust and cobwebs. In corners, on cedar trunks, under the mahogany desk, strung from hat racks to bookshelves—cobwebs. Some were old and deserted, hanging broken, as the breeze from the open door rushed in to sway them like tattered sails on a sea worn ship. Others were fresh and new, inhabited with all species of insects indigenous to the little city of Long Pond. Stray beams of light looked through the stained glass windows on either side of the vast room. Five years of dust gave a gray hue to the dimly lit space. The paintings hung tilted and dark, covered with time. An old piano stood on three legs, defeated by loneliness and silence. Boxes of tattered games lay atop its grand frame, sharing in the mood of its unexpected life—five revolutions around the sun it has stood.
Edward had been dead for all those years. His books, writings and letters had long been placed amongst other long forgotten items and distant memories, some forgotten by intention, others through the suppression of pain—all now a mishmash of events in time. The large black trunk sat under his desk. It was ominous, almost expecting—waiting. It sat diligently, patient, as Edward would.
New Orleans On Fire , A Short Story
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A group of women embark on an adventure in the heart of New Orleans. Their antics leave them with days of laughter, tears and some interesting memories.
Download an ebook copy today 
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A Field of Lilies |
Prologue
They call me Lily. They said it’s because I was born with a
birthmark on my left thigh that looks a lot like a real lily, just not
as majestic, not as loved, not as beautiful. I’ve never felt much
like a lily, so I don’t know why they decided to name me that.
But it’s my name, and I’ve gotta live with it, even though
it don’t feel much like the truth. But I don’t know much
about the truth these days, maybe never have. My daddy told me there
ain’t no truth in the world. He said the sooner I realized and
accepted that, the better off I’d be. But believing that
ain’t made me much better off. He still come in my room at night,
whispering in my ear about mama and her triflin’ ways. He says he
feel better when he touch me. And he touch me all the time, almost
every night. Some nights, I pretend I like it. Other nights, I wish I
were dead. The wish I were dead days come more often as the months go
by.
“Daddy, I don’t wanna play tonight,” I mumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
“Baby, daddy need to feel good, and mama fell asleep again,” he insisted as he pushed the door open wide, letting in the light from the hall. He was standing in his boxers, grinning like he won the lottery. I was feeling like I lost it.
“Then wake her up. I wanna sleep,” I continued, hoping he would give up.
“You can sleep afterwards,” he almost shouted, slamming the door behind him.
This is how it was every time he
came in to be with me. He would never let me say no. It always had to
be yes. He even came to me on the night of my thirteenth birthday, said
he wanted to give me a birthday present, something special just from
him. It was the first of many birthdays. I was hoping for a break that
night, but after the first slap across my mouth for asking, I knew
there was no use trying to stop it. So I pretended he was Sammy from my
gym class. Sammy was the cutest boy in the school. But he didn’t
notice me. He hardly even said hello sometimes. Sammy had all the girls
chasing after him. But I wouldn’t chase him. I just watched him
from a distance, hoping that one day he would see me. I saw him though.
I saw him almost every time my daddy came in to be with me. I saw Sammy
touching me and making me feel good. Sammy was a good lover, best there
ever was. But some days, Sammy didn’t show up. And I was alone,
alone in my mind with my daddy and his heavy breathing and pumping. He
pumped me like I wasn’t a person, like I wasn’t there, like
I was just something for him to get off on, like a blow up doll. I
wished every night that someone would stick a pin in me, deflate me so
he couldn’t touch me no more, so he couldn’t reach me in
the places I tried to hide.
(to be continued...)
