This short story was written for a Flash Fiction challenge based on a set of clues found at the following link: https://mendingbrokenwings.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post-new.php?post_type=page.Summary:The only time I had ever seen my father cry was September 23, 1955 - the day James Dean died. It was such a shock, if anyone appeared to be invincible it was certainly James Dean, but reality is he was human like the rest of us; his passing a surreal realization that death does not discriminate, the Grim Reaper comes for us all, but sometimes before he is supposed to. Just so happens, James Dean died the same day my father received his draft card for Viet Nam. Before long James Dean’s death would be but a shadow in relation to the death and destruction my father would experience firsthand of many he loved.…
This is a short story written for That Which Remains Reliquary Competition in which clues are mailed to the participants and all write short stories based on those clues. https://mendingbrokenwings.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=3249&action=edit…
This was another short story written for That Which Remains Reliquary competition. Follow this link to the clues. The clues are bolded in the story.https://mendingbrokenwings.wordpress.com/2014/09/12/september-2014-that-which-remains-reliquary-short-story-competition-clues/…
This is a story written for That Which Remains Reliquary competition.Follow this link for the clues. The clues are bolded in the story.https://mendingbrokenwings.wordpress.com/2013/11/01/that-which-remains-reliquary-fiction-contest-clues/…
I LOVE personal stories of tragedy . . . back stories filled with adversity . . . not just to know the depths to which one has plummeted but so I can truly appreciate the heights they now soar, and what they did to get there. It fascinates me. True stories fascinate me. I love books, and movies, in fact I write movie reviews . . . I am just fascinated by stories.So if you don’t mind I would like to share such a story with you; a story that is not in written form elsewhere or I would recommend the book . . . but it is a story that breaks my heart any time I think on it, yet also inspires me to be the best version of myself I can be every day. This is about a couple of hillbilly redneck kids growing up in the 60’s and 70’s on a remote farm in the Texas Hill Country. It is a brief outline of their upbringing and the many blessings, yet many challenges , they faced and continue to face even today. It is not explicit in nature, but that doesn't mean it is not hard to read the imagery so know that going into it.I hope it inspires you. It is too dear to my heart not to share. Enjoy!…
It was just like any other summer’s day in the Lone Star State, except there is only one July 20th, 1973 in history, and the only time Lacey would turn thirteen. But otherwise it felt like any other day. How could I have known it wouldn’t be? Lacey and I were hanging out at my house after her roller skating party in town. I had been granted a well deserved ‘free day’, mamma argued, much to the protest of my Father. He didn’t like Lacey one bit, and if not for my mother our friendship wouldn’t be allowed at all. “She’s bad for that boy’s head,” he huffed, “bad for this family!”All I know is that I wanted to spend every waking minute with Lacey, even though we were from opposite sides of the track, different worlds all together really.***It was ten minutes after one o’clock. I know because Lacey announced it after looking at her new watch; pink with little sparkling gems around the face. Five minutes ago it was ‘five minutes after one o’clock!” or “fifty five minutes until two o’clock!” She was awfully proud of that watch. Lacey had a pink bicycle with a multi-colored banana seat on which she was now perched; legs flailing, hair flying in the wind and exhilarating squeals of delight piped from her lungs filling the air with sounds of adventure. We were only going to the mailbox for heaven’s sake. But Lacey found adventure in everything, and she was infectious. That’s why I loved her so much; she made me feel alive. My bike was blue, and rusty, but much faster. Lacey gave me a Queen of Hearts playing card, which I attached to my spoke with a wooden clothes pin. . . . rat-a-tat, tat, tat, tat, tat it hummed as I peddled faster and faster. It was important to be faster, I mean since she was pretty, popular, talented and smart. I had to have some claim to fame for my manhood, didn’t I? We called my bike the ‘sound machine’.…
