From my soon-to-be-released Short Stories for the Soul: “Bronze Man” In late afternoon I met a woman in a park. She sat in a circle of elementary school kids, doing crafts with Popsicle sticks and telling stories about what’s important in life. I paused to watch, and she called me over to help. She said I looked as if I needed to join in as much as the kids. Not sure how or why to say no, I sat down with them. I listened and helped. I asked her why she did this, and she said, “It’s an expression of…
From my soon-to-be-released Short Stories for the Soul: “Anna’s Treasures” Seattle 1954 Anna Petrovna died in springtime. She had always wanted to die in winter because that’s when everything slept. Death was natural, and properly done, in winter. But the cancer metastasized like a trespasser over the borders of her wishes and took her three seasons early. This upset her. Sergei clutched her diary as he gazed at the old lithographic photo in the gray light that filtered through the rain-streaked window. By the date on the back, she would have been in her forties, and every inch of her…
From my soon-to-be-released Short Stories for the Soul: “Turning Point” Sophie cringed at the smell of medicine and reached into her Louis Vuitton purse for her Eau de Cartier. She sprayed a bit on her neck and wrists then hesitated in the doorway. A curtain shielded the bed. The lights were off, and the TV loomed silently. She gripped her purse handles tightly with her right hand, mindful of the bandage around the scrapes on her swollen left hand. Her nail polish remained remarkably intact. Deep breath. What would she say? If he were asleep, she could…
From my soon-to-be-released Short Stories for the Soul: “In the Ring” I clenched my tired fists. Sweat soaked the leather inside the bulbous gloves, and I couldn’t remember when I’d last taken them off. High-intensity lights glared down from a broad ceiling. A square of three taut ropes surrounded me, a mat at my feet. Beyond that everything was gray. In front of me stood my opponent. I swung and struck him. A weak hit, but I forgave myself for that. Hits lose strength as they lose count. He did not strike back. He was a tricky one. He would…
I will soon release a book of short stories that I think you’ll love. In this next ten week series, I’ll introduce the openings of each one. I’m curious to know what you think of them. 2. “The Dancer” Are my body parts being robbed, or am I just living too long? Grace let the door shut behind her. She laid the mail on the kitchen table and sat down, then pulled off her shoes and massaged her feet in circular motions, one at a time, the way her doctor had shown her. The walk through the apartment halls…
