A young Frenchman died on a battlefield one hundred years ago in World War I. Countless others too. His grieving family kept his bedroom just as it was when he left, as so many families do. But this family wrote into the deed of the house that all future owners must keep the young man’s room just as it is for 500 years. Five hundred years! The soldier’s dress uniform is falling apart from age, and maybe moths. Photographs and possessions are neatly laid out–a private museum to his memory. But no one remembers him. His family is long gone,…
From my soon-to-be-published Short Stories for the Soul: “The Forgiver” Shireen’s heart pounded as hard as her feet. None of this was happening. It couldn’t be for real. It was all too—that word she’d just learned—insane. She stopped for a bicycle rickshaw passing in front of her and kept running toward the park. No. Papa said bad men might do bad things to her there. Ah, Mr. Varghese’s shop just beyond the park. He was kind to her, and in the back he had a small courtyard where he drank tea with favorite customers, like Papa. She turned left around…
From my soon-to-be-published Short Stories for the Soul: “The Survivor” I glance down as the speedometer’s passing 90. No helmet, of course. The sun’s setting under a blushing sky, succumbing to darkness. Dark is good, closer to oblivion than light. Leather-gloved hold on my Ninja 650, engine fever pitched. Hunched behind the windscreen, wind thundering over my head, I’m riding a rocket. A long, straight stretch, and I surge to 120, 130. Adrenaline pumping. A car in front of me. I pass it as if it’s standing still—and the whoosh makes life feel almost worthwhile. But I’ll always have to…
From my soon-to-be-released Short Stories for the Soul: “Journey to the Edge” Suited up, helmets on, inside the spacecraft Wilson and Clark climbed into their seats. Switches, dials, and levers filled every inch of the surrounding control panels. Gauges and monitors glowed in green and amber, a soft visual buffer to the darkness outside. Wilson glanced at the small mirror he’d glued—against regulations—to the console. No sandy brown hair and gray-blue eyes looking back, just the white sphere of his helmet and the face shield that looked like the giant eye of a bug. A bug in outer space. Just…
From my soon-to-be-released Short Stories for the Soul: “The Wonder of Og” Og traced his fingers across the images of sun and moon he had scratched on his cave wall. His father had taught him to bow down to the sun each morning and the moon each night. They ruled the sky, and every day and night they crossed from one end to the other. Bowing to them made sense, even if they sometimes hid behind the white fields that floated in the sky. Yet Og could not stop wondering if there might be something beyond the sun and…
