Category Archives: Writing

Short fiction for guests of the WordFeeder.
Sunday, July 17, 2011

Even from their bathroom, over the sound of the shower, “Benny” could hear her phone ringing, the cell phone she’d left on their sofa in the small… no, tiny city apartment she shared with her friend, Denise. (“Benny” was short for “Benjamin,” her mother’s maiden and her middle name.)

“GET THAT!! If it’s Marc,” she shouted, “tell him I’m in the shower, ..naked, ..alone, ..thinking about touching myself, but saving myself…

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get it,” Denise yelled back. “…How long,” she thought to herself, “can she stay in the shower? No wonder people in the building complain about not having any hot water. Maybe she’s…,” her eyebrows went up, her head angled slightly, her eyes looking around while she thought about it.
Continue…

Short Fiction for Guests of the WordFeeder
Sunday, July 10, 2011

Ordinarily, on any other day, Muriel would have found the banging of their front door knocker annoying, some delivery or salesman she really didn’t need interrupting her work. There was always so much to do. Their children had grown up in this place and moved out after college but, even without their kids around, they were somehow busier than ever. Her husband, a reasonably successful writer of pulp fantasy fiction, had always worked at home except for trips to his publisher, for the occasional book tour and sci-fi/fantasy convention..

“Yeah, he went to those,” Muriel took a breath, shaking her head slightly, side to side. “Said it sold books, but I think he just liked being there. Even took me to one when it was just the two of us. ..I remember this kid, dressed as God-knows-what, came up to Danny, put his hand on Danny’s chest and told him, tears in his eyes, ‘You’re the real deal, man.’”

..and to Los Angeles, the one time they made a TV movie based on one of his short stories.

Today, in the late morning, doing chores in a house that would never again make the familiar sounds she had taken for granted, today, any interruption was welcome. This one, in particular. Without bothering to peek through the side windows, Muriel turned the oblong brass knob and threw open the door. Standing there, she wiped her hands on her apron and smiled, her eyes watering at the site of Julie, her oldest and best friend, looking as disheveled as ever.
Continue…

Short Fiction for Guests of the WordFeeder
Sunday, June 26, 2011

From their respective offices where they worked throughout the sprawling single story complex, the four interns – the only four the firm had hired that year from the best of the best universities in architecture and urban design – converged and now walked side by side down wide diagonal path that led to Craig’s corner offices.

Built on the farm his grandfather had left him, its pastoral rural location was in stark contrast to struggling urban centers in which the young firm had made its fortunes. With degrees in finance, urban economics and design, Craig – who insisted that everybody call everybody by their first names – had found a way to renovate the worst neighborhoods in our major cities, making them thriving communities, mostly for their original residents and businesses, and do it all at the expense of the private sector without a single dime of government funding. If that just sounded like a lot, it was. He was only in his early 30s, but this was already his time.

The four of them worked together, more or less, and were the closest to being friends any four 20 somethings as self-absorbed as they were could be.

“Why do you suppose he wants to see us?” Alice was uncharacteristically nervous. “Are we in trouble?”
Continue…

Short Fiction for Guests of the WordFeeder
Sunday, June 19, 2011 (Father’s Day!)

“You know,” Verna observed apprehensively, closing the front of the sweater she was wearing to cut the cool evening air while they drove deeper and deeper into the countryside toward the renovated eighteenth century mill where Jacob lived and worked, “I didn’t realize how far out you lived.”

“What?” Jacob faked an offended tone. “Have you been talking to the parents of the other women I’ve murdered?”

She giggled back at him nervously. “That’s not funny. This is only our fourth date.”
Continue…