Love and hate_Bowling Against the Damdykers_Shakespeare's Second Act_Flavored People
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Love and hate
Hello everyone,This story is the sequel to 'Blue Bates bed and breakfast'. (You can find 'Blue Bates bed and breakfast' in my previously published Reedsy contest stories. Thank you.) In thwww.onedoor.ccis story, 'Love and hate' Weston and Miss Daniels return. Will they fall in love, and can they admit their feelings for each other? Next, can they avoid violent acts, or will they cause mayhem?Last, but not least, this story is dedicated to Liz Redt. Thank you for requesting this sequel. (I hope you enjoy reading it, as much as I enjoyed writing it.)*****The dream is always the same. I am running late to meet...
Bowling Against the Damdykers
“I quit,” I flatly exclaimed. Since I was the captain of our bowling team I decided I was not going spend my Sunday nights tolerating the sight of Allen and Lu Lu Damdyker purposefully aim their bowling balls straight for the gutter anymore. I was also stuffed up to the neck with the obnoxions that spewed forth from these people. I was through. But it wasn’t only Allen and Lu Lu’s futile “Pie Chucking” type of bowling form that needed changing. It was more about their know-it-all disguise they wore over the obvious ignorance that existed underneath. Lu Lu, I know, was not physically coordin...
Shakespeare's Second Act
Shakespeare’s Second ActHark! I hath risen.The year is but young: Two thousand the twenty-third, by modern count, and aye, I am living in it. Verily you ask how this transpired, so anon I’ll bid thee listen.In a word: witchcraft. I am familiar with such (toil and trouble, yea), yet never outside the realm of theater. Dead for centuries, until I heareth a voice calling me backeth. The voice of Jan.Jan is a witch—though only by night. By day, the lady tells me, she worketh at the “DMV,” though she shan’t tell me the nature of it. Jan liveth in the Uniteth States, in the province of New Hampshire...
Flavored People
tw: dismembered body partsHe kept his gun pointed at her even as they sat across from each other at his little wooden table in his little apartment living room. He held his weapon against the table, between his wine glass and a single lit candle centerpiece. “I promise you,” she said, “I won’t tell a soul if you let me go right now. Not the cops. Not my friends. Not even my deaf grandma.” A little old man shuffled toward them holding the handles of a silver serving tray. He transferred in front of each of them a bowl of steaming soup. “Thank you, Pedro,” he said.SOUP: HUMAN FLESH POZOLE “You w...