Short Story

The pain was mild at first but started to spread as I into a pair of cut-offs. I stopped at the top of the stairs. Caught my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks were a tinge red and the veins in my neck bulged—the slight after-effect of racking my balls.

“I fell,” Madge answers through gritted teeth, clutching her calf tightly as she blinks out tears from her eyes as quickly as she can. It was just her luck that she’d fall off the wall like a complete idiot right after being told to quit. Maybe the odds really weren’t in her favor.

“The Outer-Ring,” he said, laughing at the irony as he braced for impact. “A new step for mankind.”

The lopsided battle raged for over two hours, the Army and Marines, also cleared the housing area. They captured seventy-five of the enemy combatants to include one make believe General, who told them they had no right to hold him as the United States of America no longer existed as far as he was concerned. Finally, out of exasperation at hearing the man rant and rant, Captain Gaston, who was now in Tomakow headquarters, had him tied and gaged then set into a corner so they didn’t have to listen to him anymore.

His frantic pacing had slowed, but hadn’t completely came to a stop yet. It was nice knowing that just by being in the same room with him he’d stop pacing like he had been. That just by staring at him, his frantic hair pulling and tussling would cease and it would just be her and the man she loved. Even if it was for just a split second, just a glimpse of the man she knew and loved, it was him and she enjoyed every second of it.

It was the Fourth of July, and Dominic Santanelli was watching the ballgame. He had taken his shirt off twenty minutes prior when he came through the door of his third-floor walkup. The awful apartment had no cross breeze, and even if it did, the sweltering midday heat made the room hotter than the pizza oven at his favorite Italian restaurant. His button-down dress shirt from Sears, sweat stains on the collar, lay on the Formica kitchen table. His sleeveless white undershirt was half tucked into his slacks and his gray loafers were kicked off partway between the easy chair he was in and the television.

Last week, dressed in her tailored suit and mile-high red heels, Morgana walked into the neighborhood watering hole in the Bronx. The pub was dim, crowded, and smelled like stale beer and musky cologne, but despite the irritating odor, she enjoyed the drinks and the laid-back atmosphere, even if she stuck out like a sore thumb when she came dressed in business attire straight after work. But that didn’t really matter, because she and her crowd were celebrating Merlin’s master’s degree by consuming nachos, wings, and beer. It was a fine night to let loose and chow down on greasy food. After all, this was Merlin, who worked so hard at his two jobs, teaching grade school and tutoring disadvantaged kids at the community center, all while

Apologies from Phelps followed an established routine. First came the words. Then a brief silence as he fought to justify his actions. But Tom knew, when it happened, his explanation would be thorough, heartfelt and sincere, and he sensed he would learn more about his father's disappearance in the coming minutes than in the previous six years.

“How many times do I have to tell you to let go of me?!” She screams sharply, tugging and pulling violently against the secured fist gripped around her delicate wrists that were leaving ugly, purple bruises and cuts on her colorless skin.

He first glimpsed the sun as it rose above the bell of a French horn.

It was Christmas Eve day in London, England 2015 and Baltimore was in a staring with his cat Shawlings. “Blast!!!” he called out. “You’ve beaten me once again in another staring contest, Shawlings. I don’t know how you do it”. Shawlings starred as Baltimore hopped off of his bed to get his phone and text his all-time and only best friend Sebastian. Baltimore: Hey, Bastian, you wanna come over now?... He noticed that Sebastian hadn’t texted back as fast as usual. He looks over to Shawlings. “He isn’t texting back like he usually does, Shawlings… Oh well I guess I’ll just call him in about five minutes” he said; jumped onto the bed to continue his staring contest with Shawlings.

There is nothing amazing about being a wannabe YouTube star, however my neighbor, a tall, greedy, e-begging, neckbeard seemed to believe otherwise. His large YouTube channel was an excellent measuring tool for his insatiable ego. He had made a steady living over the years from his pseudo-intellectual rants covering a wide variety of topics. He also did a fair number of internet challenges so he could get some money from the high number of views they received. Needless to say, he was a greedy person. He could eat his own weight in cake, and was probably about two happy meals away from a mobility scooter. He was a chronic narcissist who also owned a podcast with three other people. You’ve got the man himself, his brother wearing sunglasses

“What don’t you understand by that?” I responded. “I told you, my Ayah always did.”

It was near dinner time in the Castle of Rowland and the little prince had spent every minute since the occurrence in the garden never more than 10 paces from the King.

I'm sure this will jog your memory. You know who it was, right? Just tell me and you get to keep the money.