The mobster had many fancy rings. His fingers were all the same size, due to a meat-packing factory accident, so he frequently rearranged his rings in patterns.
Sometimes he sent messages to his CIA handler using ring-based codes, but mostly he tried to distract people from his freaky-weird breakfast-sausage-shaped digits.
He dreamed of flying.
Every day he stayed home, sequestered himself in his workshop, and pursued his dream.
He considered himself the Noah of the twenty-first century. The global flood was coming, and he would live in the sky.
But he was not this era’s Noah: he was its Daedalus.
As if he were sleeping, wrapped in swaddling clothes, she held him in her arms. He was warm against her chest, like an angel that had fallen from Heaven above and then returned home, leaving his tiny body behind.
Joshua left behind his footprints on her heart.
Shelia Burket is a wife and mother and the author of the upcoming “Sissy Stringbean” children’s stories. She has published one romance, titled “Longing For December,” which is available on Lulu.com and through the Kindle store. Read more of her writing at wvcoffeechick.blogspot.com.
I am getting married tomorrow.
For those of you on the east coast, or in Europe, tomorrow is already today. I envy you.
Today has been a busy day. Tomorrow will be, as well. That’s why I’m writing this instead of a real story.
I hope you don’t mind. Thanks!
“Ruff woof,” said Fido, wagging his tail, but Max just said, “Bad dog,” and put him out in the back yard, because Max didn’t understand the witty wordplay (barkplay?) Fido was using, which involved a canine equivalent of something like “putting the ‘toy’ in ‘toilet’,” and was really very clever.
Would you do what I did if you knew what I know?
You’d like to think you would. Heck, I’d like to think you would, too. But I know you. I know a lot of things. I doubt you would have followed through.
Sick puppies make messes that scar psyches.
Scrib scrub, scrib scrub…
Inch by inch, the tiled floor returned to its original lustre.
The scrubber had mixed feelings about the procedure. On the one hand, it was a tedious chore. But on the other hand, it was a pain in the butt.
Actually, his feelings were pretty consistent.
I clutch the pink note in my sweaty hand.
My heart beats furiously.
The room smells like chalk.
“Welcome, Dads!” is written on a big blue banner.
The cruel children laugh at my shoes while I hand over the note.
It reads, “Dear Ms. Wheatley, Elena’s father died last year.”
This story was submitted by Elena Agnello.
Much to his chagrin, Tim discovered that several indispensable streams of life were converging at that precise moment. Unfortunately, they were not complementary. There was the possibility that he could endanger the enjoyment of one or the other.
Should he choose the honeymoon suite with the twenty-four hour sports channel?
Harv Thiessen, my soon-to-be uncle-in-law, wrote this story for me for my birthday. It’s playoff time in the NHL right now, so how am I going to be able to fully relax on my honeymoon unless I can watch the Canucks play!?
Overwhelmed with inexplicable love, she holds her newborn baby to her breast.
She nurtures her child with tender, loving care through the years, through all the joys and challenges.
Even into adulthood, she watches this beautiful life with amazement and wonder, thanking the Creator,
Until this mother’s heart stops beating.
Brenda Thiessen, along with her husband, Harv, lives in Port Colborne, Ontario, where she serves with Operation Mobilization Canada. They have four children – three girls and one boy – and will soon have a son-in-law (and a nephew-in-law: me!).