A Story Of A Short Story

“In the kitchen, he stirred the coals in the old Home Comfort wood range. The coffee in the black percolator on the side of the range was still hot. He had made it by lamplight before going out. He poured a mug of the strong brew and sipped it as he took a heavy cast iron skillet from a hook on the wall and placed it on the range top. He set the coffee down and dropped a tablespoon full of soft butter into the warming skillet and broke two eggs into it, lightly salted them and sipped his coffee until they began to whiten around the edge.”

She slowly got up, wondering who she should wake up. She decided to let them sleep, just going down stairs and starting to make breakfast for all of them. She knew that they loved chocolate cake so she made a bunch of that, along with some bacon, pancakes, and eggs. She got the table ready before plating all of

Mrs. Johnson checks her watch and realizes that it is almost time for her to head back to her home. As she is trying to hail a cab, Mrs. Johnson lets the people who look like they are in a rush take the cabs before her. This takes a lot longer than she expects and decides to take the bus home. “You look very dapper today,” Mrs. Johnson said to the bus driver.

“That's alright, Mr. McClure. I'm just going to fix some flapjacks and sausage this morning. I was able to get some maple syrup while I was in town the other day; it will be a real treat for Henry and the children; you and me too,” she added, almost as an afterthought. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table with

Ralph’s mother’s voice floated into his room. “Ralph, lunch is ready. Are you hungry?” she called. No, Ralph was not hungry. After weeks and weeks of surviving on such a meager diet of fruit and the occasional bite of pig, his stomach still hadn’t recovered. Ralph shuddered at the thought of eating pig. A week or so ago, his mother made him eggs and bacon for breakfast. Upon seeing the bacon, Ralph was violently ill with thoughts of Jack and his hunters.

Johnson. She inquired, “How was your day?” “It was terrible; ordinarily, I didn’t wake up until noon because of that godforsaken nightmare! I accused the couple that moved in several blocks down of robbery, moreover, a different couple I met yesterday tried to bore me with accounts of their date. The cab driver that drove me home agonized me with petty small talk; all in a day’s work,” accounted Mr. Johnson. “Am I required to be rude tomorrow? It makes me feel terrible,” he begged. “Sorry my love, you promised me that I could be nice tomorrow,” Mrs. Johnson said sincerely. “Fine,” droned Mr.

I would not have stopped there if it wasn’t for my children’s constant begging for ice cream, even before 9 A.M. It seemed a suitable place, with a garden and several empty tables where the sun’s rays intended to stay a little longer that morning. Or maybe it was the desire for a cup of coffee, or perhaps the smell of mint or fresh pastries. Somehow that place had gathered all fragrances from one New York, April morning, just far enough away from the crowds and noise, yet close enough to everything.

. . there’s always good old PB&J,” I offered. “Peanut butter and jelly isn’t a special meal,” Delaney scoffed. “It’s the best we’ve got for now. At least we have the bread,” I smiled, pointing to my large pile of loaves. “Okay. New plan,” she announced. “Go beg the cafeteria ladies for all the peanut butter they’ve got. I’ll rummage through the walk-in refrigerator and hunt for grape jelly. Meet me in the kitchen in five minutes. Got it? Run!” “Yep!” I replied, bolting out the door. Unfortunately, there was just one little detail we didn’t think about- peanut allergies. Our school was not allowed to serve peanut butter. When the cafeteria lady reminded me, I fizzled like a day-old balloon. What now? I wondered sadly, as I ran to tell Delaney the bad

I was walking down 7Th Avenue and the clocks had just struck 11. It was foggy, which I really didn’t mind, as I wasn’t supposed to be out. When you’re a crime-boss like me in a city as large and as complicated as New York you rarely go out. Yet, tonight, I had to be. I had to collect some money from someone in particular—a job none of the other guys could do. This was a lot of money.

“John” time for breakfast Dear. Ok stepmother, he said with a yawn , Time for school and get dressed now . Once John got his clothes on he got a little bit of cereal and warm milk . he went to his room to get his backpack.and he did not brush his teeth, his mother didn’t want to spend any money on

It was a gum wrapper. I looked up into the porch, where several supercilious conversations could be heard. It was one of those background noises you don’t detect until you see it, not so much a rarity to me because I had come from New York City, where many-a sound tried to interrupt my day. I’d grown used to them. Inside the porch stood about a score of people. Men and women, they have all dressed the same: A long coat, much was the style back then, with dress pants and a matching hat to tie. Some were standing or talking to another, while most of them sat down on one of the white benches aligning the walls of the porch.

Sebastian sat calmly; relaxing on the sun drenched veranda of his country home, he smiled a contented grin; a comfortable smirk, the single dimple on his cheek punctuated an expression of great solace on the old man’s deeply lined face, his eyebrow lifted, the other eye squinted to a perceptive wink, watching with amusement as an ice-cream bar melted on a tray, the once solid cold treat now a mere lump and puddle of goop had been abandoned by the twelve year old grandson of the old man. The boy was Francis, he had deserted the confection to rush off to explore “Gramp’s” Studio. Sebastian had given him the key to the large building in the garden at the back of the country property, where the old man and his wife Priscilla had lived for the last twenty-six years. *(1)The old studio was filled with a plethora of wonderful objects, shelves and cupboards benches and tables racks and hooks containing all sorts of historical treasures, old dusty relics and gleaming wonders that jarred the imagination of the twelve year-old. Rarely on his annual trips to Gramps house from his home in Detroit was he allowed to

When not writing, he heard the words inside his head. A smile broke out on the old man's cheeks. His aging skin, patchy and rough in too many places, stretched as the smile overtook him. Reaching across the table, he picked up a piece of bread and ate it. "This is a meal," he commented.

Al’s Diner down on the corner of fourth and maple street is James’s favourite joint. The place is coolsville. The owner, Al, is a real cat. The owner does not let no nerds, nosebleeds, germs or punks hang in his place. The boys park the horses and head inside. The gang take a seat at their usual red booth in the back of the diner. Pauly begins to fiddle with the tabletop jukebox and rock ‘n’ rock begins to blare from the gang’s table. James leans back into the worn leather booth, scopes up the menu and glances around the place. The simple white walls are covered with different posters of various celebrities, flags from different universities and street signs from all over the States. Apparently ankle-bitters use their five finger discount and get all the décor for Al in return for some ice cream during the hot summer days. Al keeps his place neat and tidy, never a speck of dirt on the black and white polished checkered floors. If a Greaser does not knock their damn boots at the door, Al will flip his lid. Al tried sprucing up the place with some leafy, green plants here and there, but goofs kept chucking their butts in the pots, Al blew a gasket. There’s a big, old, light-up jukebox in the back with enough room to dance, Al has endless sides to listen to. It’s a rock ‘n’ roll lover’s dream. Al prefers the King though, Elvis’s soulful voice is usually playing from the jukebox hours on end. Al is a real pal man to James, he let’s his gang take care of business out back and all James has to do is slide him a little bread. Sometimes Al helps out, and man he can serve a real mean knuckle sandwich. Since the local theatre is right next door it’s the perfect place to take a chick after a quick flick. Eat a little, pay for the meal like a gentleman, twist a little, then try to cop a feel on the way home in your set of wheels. The booths in the back of the diner are the perfect place to try to

“Hello there, what can I get for ya?” She said as she chewed the inside of her lip. She did not seem to recognize me, but I knew instantly where I had seen her before, her strawberry blonde hair already familiar and the knobbiness of her knees a welcoming sight. There was a bulge in her cheek that looked like she might be hiding a wad of gum. She would tell me later that her boss, Mr. Frye, forbade the habit and labelled it as unprofessional, often making her spit out the pieces she smacked into his outstretched hand. It took me a moment to respond, both taken with the notion that I was staring down at the striking, scowling girl from the liquor store parking lot and entirely unsure of what I wanted to begin with.