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Archive for the 'Issue 1.11' Category
(3 votes, average: 3.67 out of 5)
Loading …Her hand hovered tentatively over the skin of the beautiful red fire truck. She was almost afraid to touch it. As her hand finally crossed the space and rested, she remembered vividly that morning in September. The children rushing for the bus, playing tag in the front yard with the neighborhood, moms waiting at the bus stop, sharing stories and bowls of fresh garden tomatoes to share.
The boys got on the bus, and she went about her morning duties, wondering why the siren was so loud. The fire house was only three blocks away, but the sirens were more and more common once school started. She heard the siren pass, heard the sounds of the trucks as they rumbled by the end of the street. This truck.
(4 votes, average: 4.25 out of 5) Loading …“Man, that’s a beauty!”
Jerry was walking past the new fire station on Avalon Canyon Road. It was a handsome building in a backdrop of hills and palm trees — white adobe, red tile roof, and four engine ports fronted by huge green garage doors. One of these, the one closest to the main building, was open, and the inhabitant of that space was the object of Jerry’s admiration.
“She is at that!” came a voice from the back of the garage.
Jerry startled. He hadn’t seen anyone there by the gleaming red truck that was currently bringing back memories from his youth, real and imagined. He had always wanted to be a fireman when he was a kid. He still fantasized about it now. In a way, he did know how to put out fires — but just the technical ones, not the real ones. He watched as the owner of the voice appeared from around the back of the truck. He was an older man, maybe in his early sixties from the looks of his wrinkled, pleasant face and his grey hair and old-fashioned handlebar mustache. But the guy was in better shape than most men Jerry’s age. His shirt was off and he was sweating. He held a chamois cloth in his hands and it was obvious that he had been in the process of polishing the fire engine to its current pristine sheen. The man’s chest was tan and well muscled behind a screen of silver fuzz, his biceps brown and large as tree trunks.
“Want a closer look?” he asked with a bright smile, waving Jerry into the garage.
(3 votes, average: 3.67 out of 5) Loading …John pushed the broom back and forth across the floor of the firehouse, taking great care to expend as little actual energy as possible while appearing to be working. He could hear Casey’s voice drone on and on as she gave her standard spiel to the last tour group of the afternoon.
“And so fifty years ago, the city fathers acquired the very latest in fire fighting technology..”
Blah blah blah. He had heard the same speech 2 times a day, 3 on the weekends, for the entire summer. Actually it had only been the past 6 weeks as he had worked off the terms of his community service. John was sure those bastards thought the sentence was great irony, making the juvenile firebug work it off in the firehouse.
(4 votes, average: 2.75 out of 5) Loading …“Money doesn’t necessarily have any connection with happiness. Maybe with unhappiness.”
- J. P. Getty
The social policies of students in Clemmons High School, North Carolina, mirrored the time honored tradition of a social caste system. Jocks and pretty people enjoyed popularity, while smarts and integrity held much less influence.
Lucas Timberland and Aaron Ringus sought a quiet place to eat lunch, away from the boisterous cafeteria, prying eyes, or cheerleaders ready for yet another joke at their expense.
“Oh, I have something cool to show you.” Aaron said sitting down on concrete curb. Technically not off school grounds, the duo retreated to their own semi-imposed solitude. “I know what I’m going to buy first.”
(4 votes, average: 4 out of 5) Loading …The day after Christmas, the year I started shaving, my grandfather died.
He had been sick for a long time, a cancer that had started somewhere in his guts, that wasn’t discovered until it had invaded too many organs to count. He had been in bed for a month, eating less and less, talking less and less. What little he did say at the end made less and less sense, as well, as the cancer ravished his body and starved his mind. His lucid periods slipped away, until he sat in the medical bed with the rails, the bed that the hospice had set up around Thanksgiving, sat motionless and expressionless in my grandparent’s living room, as the family laughed and joked and tried not to show tears around him. There was plenty of crying, however it was all done around the corner in the kitchen for the women, or the men would come back from the bathroom with puffy eyes. It wouldn’t do to show fear in front of Pops.
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