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Posted by on in Short Stories
There was a man who loved his daughter, and as such loving fathers do, wanted her to be most happy. The problem was a simple one, she wished to marry; and she being very beautiful would surely have no difficulty in finding a husband—no difficulty were it not for the fact that this loving father was a pirate, the captain of a black-flagged ship that sailed the Caribbean preying on merchantmen from every land.   Although the father was himself a buccaneer, he would not accept a scurvied sea dog ...
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YOUNG BOY LEANING OVER BAKERY COUNTER   Maybe it would have helped if I had raised my hand some decades ago and told my story. “My name is Jeremy and I’m a sugar addict. I’ve come tonight seeking help.” But I didn’t. Nor did I look to psychoanalysis to help me. My father had raised us to distrust “those meddling brainpickers.” In fact, even before dementia riveted him to the same sound-byte loops in which repetition ruled at the slightest provocation, Father was well on his way with a favorite...
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Posted by on in Short Stories
  “Hank.”  What’s wrong now? “Yeah.”  “Your sister.”              “Elena? What about her?” “She’s on the phone.”  “What does she want?”  "Ask her yourself.” Yeah, she’s angry.             Hank picked up the phone. “Hi.” “Did you call Mom?” Elena wasn’t one for small talk. Hank could imagine her in one of those gray business suits she seemed to always wear. She probably sleeps in one. He smirked to himself.  “What?”  “Mom. Did you at least call her?”  “Wh…”  “It’s Mother’s Day yo...
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Posted by on in Short Stories
They walk the shady paths of the park. He pushes the carriage, which holds their sleeping child. “Have you told your secretary we’re going on vacation?” “Don’t worry about it. Just let me run the office.” He remembers a phone call that must be made. Two weeks later, now alone, she understands. Certainly the secretary had known his plans.
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How did the man become trapped inside a jar? Don't let the megaphone fool you. He can scream all he wants, but he will remain trapped, splashing in the briny depths. Something horrid this way comes...   My pet you say? From the door where you stand, perhaps you thought, Old Mr. Svenson has an odd-looking fish or a reptile splashing in that jar.  Then as you slowly walk towards the table, your pretty eyebrows inch up towards your forehead, your eyes grow large, and I must restrain myself from...
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