Staying Home_The House on High Street_A Bittersweet Sunset_Moral Fortitude
Catalog Guide:
Staying Home
“We’re done here, Mr. Goodrich!”It was the guy in charge of the movers, Joey V, standing in the driveway. Goodrich knew this was coming: a yell or a voice from downstairs, saying it was all over. He took slow steps over to the bedroom window and struggled to lift it. The weather had been damp and these old wooden windows stuck. He banged the upper rail with the palm of his hand and it stubbornly moved. He banged some more, allowing for an opening, and leaned towards it.“Thanks, Joey! We’ll see you in two days.”“Two days, yeah,” said Joey V. “Oh, yeah, and Mr. Goodrich? Wicked house you have! ...
The House on High Street
Knuckles, Chapman, and Whisky stopped in front of the house at 624 High Street just as the nearby streetlight flickered and then went out. Chapman looked up at the dead light and scratched his threadbare head. “Well, that’s convenient.” Knuckles played with his lighter, grunted. “This the place?” “Uh, yeah,” Whisky said, each word a whine. “I think so.” He pulled a crumpled paper from his vest and squinted at it. And then flinched when Knuckles snatched it. “Man, what is this?” Knuckles said. “Your writing is garbage, you idiot. What is – is that a seven? Seven-thirty-one? Seven-eighty-one?” “...
A Bittersweet Sunset
Author's noteI took inspiration from the character le Survenant in Germaine Guèvremont's novel Le Survenant to create Jonas, the new person in town in my short story. They are similar in the sense that they are both strangers whose origin remains unknown.*****Honeyhill was like any other washed-out town of the countryside. The old pastel houses stood like lonely scarecrows in the dry wheat fields that lined the cracked roads. The winters there were long, dreary and dark whereas the summers plunged the townspeople into a sort of comatose state. It was during one of those summers that Jonas firs...
Moral Fortitude
NOTE: CONTAINS PROFANITYMORAL FORTITUDE BY CYNTHIA FARRELLRetching sounds emanated from the Men’s Room, echoes of misery bouncing off the marble walls. Anson Beckwith, Birmingham Civic Center’s Religious Programming Coordinator, headed in that direction when he felt a gentle touch on his right arm. “Don’t. He’ll be fine. He does this before every Revival meetin’.” Said Bobbie Jo Talmadge, a pretty blonde sporting an out-of-date bouffant hairdo (the higher the hair, the closer to God) and make-up bold enough to be seen in the nose-bleed area of a ten-thousand seat venue. Bobbie Jo pulled out ...