The latest Short-Stories articles published and distributed by Articles3000.com http://www.articles3000.com/rss/Short-Stories.xml Sat, 21 Nov 2009 07:15:28 +0100 FeedCreator 1.7.2 http://www.articles3000.com/Short-Stories/208607/Is-my-Property-Haunted.html Over the last twenty years we have seen a huge increase in all paranormal subjects areas Investigation groups have sprung up all over the place and reality television featuring hauntings, investigations etc r Fri, 13 Nov 2009 19:07:57 +0100 http://www.articles3000.com/Short-Stories/206859/The-Cat-Who-Came-to-Dinner.html Until this three-month odyssey, I wasn’t much of a cat fan It’s not that I disliked them i Thu, 05 Nov 2009 15:01:07 +0100 http://www.articles3000.com/Short-Stories/204906/Santa-Claus-Good-Old-Saint-Nick.html The original idea of Santa Claus, (or Father Christmas in Britain, or Papa Noël in France, etc) came from St Tue, 27 Oct 2009 11:57:01 +0100 http://www.articles3000.com/Short-Stories/204020/Pick-of-the-Litter.html As John watched from the car, he saw his one and only son being bullied at the bus stop Two larger kids were pointing and laughing; making faces and holding up Coke Bottles in front of their eyes J Fri, 23 Oct 2009 09:15:06 +0100 http://www.articles3000.com/Short-Stories/202219/A-Walk-to-Recovery.html A friend of mine, Carla, lost her boyfriend of ten years in a very tragic accident, a very sad ending it was for a love that has stood the test of time A love so true, a love that has not lost its meaning even through the years r Wed, 14 Oct 2009 22:56:58 +0100 http://www.articles3000.com/Short-Stories/201030/The-Poker-Game.html The late night poker game at Felix Hurdsman’s suite was a very prestigious high-stakes affair The potential for substantial losses was great for poor players, and even greater for the better ones the time Felix left the golf course, the double eagles he had scored were the kind seen on the backs of American gold coins. Poker, on the other hand, was a different matter entirely. Felix was known to express contempt for the reality poker game shows popular on television. He not only thought the players were lame, but sneered at how many wore sunglasses so no one would see them blink when they were trying to bluff. Once, some of the senior vice presidents had conned an up-and-coming new regional vice president named Jason Fielder into sitting down to Felix’s poker table wearing sunglasses. The VPs told Jason that Felix liked to play a challenging game, and that obvious tells in the other players irritated him. The senior VPs had decided that poor Jason was a bit too up-and-coming and needed to be shown where his place was in the larger scheme of things. As Felix dealt the first hand, no cards were given to Jason. “Oh, Mr. Hurdsman, I think you forgot to deal me in,” suggested Jason meekly. Felix looked up from his cards at Jason as if seeing him for the first time and remarked, “Oh, is that you, Mr. Fielder? There’s so much glare in here from the bright lights, I didn’t see you.” Felix returned to his cards and ignored Jason. Finally seeing the prank played upon him, Jason excused himself and left the room. Further advancement never came for Jason Fielder. Felix operated under the belief that his first course of action was winning, whatever the cost. If that didn’t work, then cheating was the second course. He made sure that there were plenty of distractions and temptations in his suite. Call girls, gigolos, alcohol and drugs were the mainstays. Cerbere was usually in attendance watching for over indulgers or troublemakers. If someone fell over the cliff edge toward idiocy from too much booze, cocaine or both, one of the people of negotiable affections would see to it that the executive was tucked safely into bed in whatever room was closest to Felix’s suite. It was always considered poor taste to see a senior VP staggering down a hallway arm in arm with an apparent supermodel. That tended to create uncomfortable questions or comments at lunch the next day. Felix knew well how to cover his back and, when necessary, the backsides of those under him. ––––––––– Fred Frangelico stared at the gold-embossed formal invitation in his hands as he stood outside Felix Hurdsman’s suite. Something isn’t right here, thought Fred as he ran his finger along the gold leaf edging on the card. Why would any of us from Milltown be invited to Hurdsman’s infamous poker game? Yes, we qualified for the Conference, but none of us are big enough producers to deserve something like this! Besides all of that, I’d be one of the last people Mr. Hurdsman would want in his poker game. What was Luís thinking? Stepping forward, he knocked, hoping no one would answer. The door soon opened before him, revealing Cerbere Kuislane wearing a stunning, shimmering emerald green evening dress. Fred had read the instructions on the card warning that formal attire was required, so he had hurried to the resort’s tux shop and rented one for the evening. Feeling prepared, he timidly handed the card to Cerbere. “You’re one of the Milltown people!” exclaimed Cerbere, sounding like an East Coast socialite. She gestured for Fred to come in. “We are SO glad you could attend our little gathering. The game will be starting shortly.” “Thank you very much for inviting me,” replied Fred as he walked into the suite. “Oh, think nothing of it,” laughed Cerbere. “We enjoy mingling with the little people from the field now and then. It keeps us in touch with our roots! Hmm, I think I hear someone else coming. Please feel free to get yourself something to drink.” Cerbere turned back toward the door, checking her hair and smile in a mirror on the wall and giving herself a wink as she waited for the next guest to arrive. Fred spotted the bartender in the next room and moved in that direction. The suite was full of people. Most of the faces he recognized were ones that he’d only seen in the occasional Home Office publication or the annual report. He identified them as senior VPs, investment fund analysts, department heads, and a few of the heavy hitters from the wealthiest districts across the US. All those guys have to do is sit still for a moment and someone with more dollars than sense is knocking on their door wanting to buy something. That certainly is a far cry from my middleclass American factory town, thought Fred resentfully. There are very few people here who know what it’s like to beg for sales in order to meet Company quotas. Many of these upper-management people are the ones who never had to get their hands dirty generating any sales. A business degree magically qualified them to manage without any real hands-on experience. All they care about are the Numbers and whether the returns make them look good or bad while they sit comfortably in meetings passing judgment on us agents. Little wonder I feel so dirty here. “Yes, sir, what can I get for you?” asked the bartender. “I don’t suppose you have any Milltown Black Lantern Ale?” asked Fred hopefully. “Uh, regretfully, no, sir, but we do have a selection of light beers,” replied the man. “I didn’t think you’d have any Black Lantern, but I thought I’d ask anyway,” remarked Fred in disappointment. “Well, how about two fingers of a single malt Scotch on the rocks?” “Yes, of course,” answered the bartender. “Here you are, sir. I hope you enjoy the party.” “Thank you. I’ll try,” smiled Fred as he turned to see if there was any place he could hide. Suddenly Fred felt someone take his arm. Smiling up at him, Cerbere beamed, “Fred, there’s an empty chair at Mr. Hurdsman’s poker table. Would you like to join the game?” “Oh, I’m sure that Mr. Hurdsman wouldn’t be interested in playing with me,” replied Fred nervously. “You couldn’t be more wrong!” exclaimed Cerbere as she propelled Fred into the next room. “Mr. Hurdsman likes playing with agents.” I’ll bet he does! thought Fred with great trepidation as he followed her lead. It’s a good thing that I followed the instructions on the card and brought a thousand dollars in cash with me. Rather a shame that I have to pay for my own execution, though. As Fred approached the table, he could see Felix Hurdsman chatting among the other players. To his surprise, Les Mohr was seated directly across from Felix. Fred could hear Les entertaining the other men at the table with tales of staff C’s sales results for the past few months and making promises of even better ones in the future. “So, Les, to what would you attribute your meteoric change of fortunes?” asked Godfrey Troubadoure III, chairman of the TICoK Board of Directors. “Oh, my success is the culmination of years of hard work, and a talent for hiring and training highly effective agents,” bragged Les. “Once I trimmed out the deadwood in my sales staff, forced them to work as a team, and had them perform the tasks that each one was best at, the result was the creation of a lean, mean selling machine. They all have a role in getting each piece of business completed quickly and efficiently. Our district hasn’t seen sales results like mine for over a decade.” “Good man!” exclaimed Godfrey. “Felix, I think we need a winner like Les, here, in a position where he can train others to be as accomplished as he is!” “Indeed,” agreed Felix, removing the large cigar from his mouth and giving Les a toothy smile. “Perhaps we can discuss Mr. Mohr’s future at one of our Board meetings after we get the fourth quarter sales results. I’ve always been one for embracing new and effective sales ideas.” “Capital idea, Felix!” exclaimed Godfrey. “That’s why the Board appreciates having you at the helm!” “I do my best,” smiled Felix as he returned the cigar to his mouth and started shuffling the cards. “Mr. Hurdsman, sir? I think I found someone to fill that empty chair at your table,” declared Cerbere as she arrived with Fred. “Excellent,” replied Felix, gripping the cigar between his teeth. “Have a seat here on my right. If my memory doesn’t fail me, you’re Fred Frangelico from Milltown, correct?” “I’m very impressed that you know my name, sir,” answered Fred as he sat where Felix had indicated. “I always keep an eye on our best agents, Fred,” flattered Felix. “Now, am I wrong in assuming that you have a thousand in cash to pay for your share of chips?” Fred knew this was not a question as Cerbere opened a small strongbox already containing a large number of bills. Fred quickly reached into his coat pocket, pulled out an envelope and dropped it in. “Good, no need to count it, I’m sure,” smiled Felix. “Here are your chips, Fred. We play a straight game of ace high Five Card Draw Jackpot poker. There are no wild cards or other nonsense. At the end of each hand, the Fri, 09 Oct 2009 10:08:07 +0100 http://www.articles3000.com/Short-Stories/200012/Sterling-Silver-and-Beaded-Trendy-Jewelry-A-Short-Story-About-It.html Beaded trendy jewelry If you are the kind who loves to have jewelry that matches your collection of clothes perfectly, then beaded trendy jewelry is just what you should be looking for This jewelry is perfectly fashionable and you will not make a hole in your pocket buying large numbers of it to accessorize your wardrobe d Sun, 04 Oct 2009 16:08:03 +0100 http://www.articles3000.com/Short-Stories/199050/Recovering-Charles-Chapter-3-Excerpt.html Six o’clock am The TV was on again Wed, 30 Sep 2009 02:56:50 +0100 http://www.articles3000.com/Short-Stories/198658/Recovering-Charles-Chapter-2-Excerpt.html I was fourteen and certainly not the most popular kid in Mrs Ingham’s eighth grade music class Mon, 28 Sep 2009 07:07:57 +0100 http://www.articles3000.com/Short-Stories/193159/Pressure-Points-An-Excerpt-From-Secret-Daughter-By-June-Cross.html My stepfather Larry Storch’s success as a character actor hinged on the indeterminate ethnicity of his face: his broad forehead, defined cheekbones, slanted eyes, and that thicket of dark hair allowed him to play a range an Asian, a Mexican, or someone from the Mediterranean Now, he wanted to be considered for a starring role the time I hung up, dinner was ready. “We’ll see if it lasts,” Peggy said as she served the plates. “It could all fall through tomorrow. You know how show business is: when you’re up, you’re up; and when you’re not, you’re not.” This was Peggy’s first and final word about show business. She recited it as if giving thanks not to be in such a fickle enterprise. Paul just grunted. F TROOP premiered in September 1965, with Larry playing the zany Corporal Agarn. “F Troop” meant “Fucked up”; and the Indian tribe, the Hakawi, was named after the punch line to an old joke that ended “where the fuck are we?” The show was anachronistic in its stereotypical depiction of Indians, its doting females – but the white male characters were just as ridiculous: dumb, dumber and sly. After its third week, bursting with a secret I could no longer keep, I announced to my fourth grade class that my stepfather was on tv. None of them believed me. Santa Monica October 6, 1964 Beautiful palm-lined Palisade Park provides a semi-tropical setting of palm trees, flowers, and lush green lawns for beautiful Santa Monica Beach in the background. Dear June – We won’t be moving here after all! And I’m rather sorry. But Larry decided it was too far away from the studio. So we’ve rented a house nearer to his work – move in 2 weeks. This is final! No more changes! Larry starts a new movie in 2 weeks too, “That Funny Feeling” with Sandra Dee – love you very much xxx ooo Mom and Larry We followed the saga of Mom and Larry’s house search through their postcards. Mom wanted a house with a story, a history of importance: they looked at one that Mary Pickford once lived in; one whose owner once designed costumes at Twentieth Century Fox; one with the high gate which reminded her of Sunset Boulevard. They finally settled on a place Mom called a Bird house (bringing to mind a cockatoo in a cage, although it really was named after an architect. To this house, she and Larry brought their own story: the seller knocked twenty thousand dollars off the asking price after they agreed to adopt the cat. Aunt Peggy and Uncle Paul and I laughed at the notion that a cat could be worth twenty thousand dollars. Had my own honey-colored tabby disappeared, five strays outside were begging to take its place. Mom called to describe the new house. It had a pool in back with a windmill, and a patio that looked down on north Hollywood. Larry added with a sense of wonder in his voice, that on a clear day they could see the ocean. On a real clear day, Malibu, and little white dots of sailboats. Up the road, Stevie Wonder owned a house, although they hadn’t seen him yet. At dawn and at dusk, deer came to feed on the apple tree by the carport. At night, they heard coyotes howl. They were living a life of Hollywood dreams: expensive car, big house, designer clothes, paparazzi following them down the street. Meanwhile, in Alabama and Mississippi, demonstrators trying to register to vote were set upon by police dogs and mowed down by horses. I watched on them on the brand new color tv Larry had paid for. Mom and Larry were living the life, I thought, while in Birmingham, my brothers and sisters were putting their lives on the line. I felt helpless to resolve the contradiction; all I could do was learn to live with it. In South Central LA, just down the mountain from my mother’s new house, other black Americans watched the images of civil rights demonstrators, including children, being tossed around like beach balls by the force of fire hoses. The pressure of their deferred dreams of would soon reach volcanic force. I visited my mother’s new home for the first time in August of 1965. I would spend a month in Los Angeles every summer thereafter until I graduated from high school. Mom and Larry’s new house was small by Hollywood standards. Covered by cedar shingles, a kitchen and dining area bordered by west-facing bay windows yielded to the living area, a bar, and a bedroom facing a modest, guitar-shaped pool. It overlooked the area now known as Beverly Center. The room I would stay in faced the driveway and the ridge over which the deer came each morning. “It’s the Moroccan room” my mother announced gaily as she led me to the southeastern corner of her new brick and shingled bungalow nestled in a craig of Nichols Canyon. Mom and Larry had named their Hollywood retreat Dittendorf. They were the Duke and Dutchess. Larry named me the Countess. The Countess of Dittendorf had a room worthy of Sherherazade. Tucked under a sloping roof anchored by a small, round fireplace, my hideaway was not much bigger than my room in Atlantic City - but oh, what a room! It was wallpapers with a mustard paisley Indian print. One whole wall was mirrored. Candle sconces Mom had bought in Marrakesh cast patterned shadows. Inside a small, circular fireplace, a huge hukkah pipe sat like a prize trophy. I imagined lying on the Hollywood bed wearing layers of chiffon, ochre ringing my eyes, gold jewelry dangling from my ears as I regaled my court with stories. Aunt Peggy would have been aghast at such a room for a little girl, filled as it was with the hint of fire and passion. All my life Aunt Peggy tried to squelch my sexual nature; but Mom never did. That contradiction, too, would be one that lasted into adulthood. My days filled with leisurely rituals. At dawn and at dusk, Larry fed the deer, beckoning them with a whistle and call he had invented. Mom and I crouched like hunters behind the bamboo shades of the kitchen, watching as they ate the apples. Their large eyes fastened on the fruit; their papaya-shaped ears surveyed the canyon like radar. One move from either Mom or me and they were gone in a blink. Ten days after I arrived in Los Angeles in August of 1965, police stopped a black motorist in Watts, tried to arrest him, and ignited a riot. Sitting in my mother’s living room, watching the riots on tv, I had only to look west, through the glass sliding door, to see smoke rising from the valley below. Just a year earlier in Selma, television newsmen had been on the frontlines with the demonstrators, but now, their cameras stayed behind police lines. From this safety zone, their zoom lenses shakily recorded images of looters chanting “Burn, baby, Burn!” My mother came and stood behind me, watching the explosions of fire that followed Molotov cocktails flying through the store windows that lined 103rd Street in Watts. “What do they want?” she asked. It was the question of the day, being asked by whites all over America, and even some Negroes. “Why are they burning down their own neighborhood?” A lifetime of forging relationships with people who weren’t my blood relatives, of being with my mother only when she chose, of absorbing the perils of revealing our relationship, informed my answer. “They’re angry,” I said soberly, “because they’re tired of being not wanted by whites. They’re stuck in the ghetto because whites won’t let us live anywhere else. You don’t want us around.”. I was only eleven years old. Adults had invented this system. How could she not understand why we were angry? She fixed me with a long stare, then turned herself and looked out of the window towards the tornado of smoke rising from Watts. High up in the Hollywood Hills, we looked out the sliding glass doors that lined the patio. I was nearly as tall as she. We stood with our arms around each other’s waists - white and black, mother and daughter, observing the smoldering city below. Three or four nights later, I had for the first time what would become a recurrent dream, that the rioters had moved out of Watts Mon, 31 Aug 2009 09:07:43 +0100