Break From Reality. Daily.
“Okay, see, there’s this bar high atop a skyscraper, a guy named Cal, a drunk sitting at a table, a bartender named Joe, and a young guy named Eddie, who some would call slow. It’s late in the evening, but before the beginning of a new day. Midnight.” “I heard it was before midnight.” “Okay,…
The pickup, long past its prime, bounced and rattled over ruts in the hard-packed road. The road ended at the base of a trail that would take her to the top of Mesa Roca.
It was late June in west Texas, just after midnight of a day so hot it could rip the hide right off you. A battered driver-side door opened, and a figure stepped down from the ancient F-150.
The vertical wall and jumble of rock at the base of the mesa re-radiated the day’s heat. Even after sunset, it was still brutal.
She lifted a backpack from the truck’s bed and steadied it on the side while she checked the water bottles and the main load in the bag. That secure, she shrugged into the straps, buckled it about her waist, and grabbed the walking stick.
Gary Little has been stringing letters into words and words into sentences for 50 years. First as a Baptist preacher, then as a programmer and now as a fiction author. Content advisory: Please be advised that this story contains graphic violence and combat. Alvin sat in Wally’s World, nursing a Scotch when he noticed them….
This story is by Gary Little and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Permanently locked at 14 degrees above the horizon, the pale blue marble watched the yellow school bus bounce its way along the northernmost school route of North Fork, Luna 90210. Joe Strickland…
This story is by Gary Little and was part of our 2023 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. The hard and grizzled hands of the carpenter, today held no saw, nor hammer nor shave. The hands drove no nail, nor turned no lathe, nor formed neither wheel spoke nor table…
On a gorgeous day, the old man and his grandson rode side by side on the buckboard. Blue skies, white puffy clouds chased by a light wind, and songbirds provided a lovely chorus in the background. Ol’ Dobbin had his head low as Grampa gently clucked and encouraged him along a well-known trail.
Near the top of a low ridge sat a shed used by the old man for years to sell the produce from his truck garden to travelers on the road to Easton, going one way, or those on the road to Weston, going the t’other.
Grampa eased Dobbin to a halt behind the shed and gave the reins a turn around a pommel. Stepping down from the buggy, he pulled a red bandana from a hip pocket, doffed his hat, wiped his brow, wiped the inside brim of his hat, plopped his hat back on his balding noggin, looked at the sky, and said, “Gonna be a beautiful day, Billy.”
This story is by Gary Little and was part of our 2020 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Standing five feet one inch, shrunk from the five feet four he had towered to as a youth, Michaleen Oge Flynn stood and surveyed his realm. Wet and soggy and muddy…
This story is by Gary Little and was part of our 2017 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the Summer Writing Contest stories here. The old man stirred. The heat and effluence from the day pervaded his nose, but he never noticed it. He got used to it. Mostly it was him, mostly it…
This story is by Gary Little and was part of our 2017 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the Spring Writing Contest stories here. Ben Edwards drifted down the corridor with the ease of a lifetime spent in microgravity. Using a single digit on right or left hand he gently pulled himself along using…
“I ain’t got no stinking bookshelves,” sang the curmudgeon in an off-key baritone, as he opened the refrigerator to see what was for breakfast. Standing there with the refrigerator blowing cold air up his pajama shorts and chilling his nether regions, Charles “Chuck” Magnus pondered the possibilities.
“Ok, no pizza. I had that for lunch yesterday. So . . . milk?” he mumbled to himself.
He shook the milk carton, heard it was nearly empty, opened it and sniffed. Wrinkling his nose he said, “Ugh . . . no milk.” That eliminated cereal. He dumped the odious liquid into the sink, ran water and threw the empty in the trash. Leftovers? Yeah, last night’s meatloaf and the roasted Irish potatoes. “A breakfast fit for a curmudgeon,” Chuck mumbled and shoved the afore mentioned items into the microwave.
She who must be obeyed nagged him. Miss Martha, his health care nurse, looked at George with determination in her eyes. “You need the walk. Besides, Charlie would want you to,” she said.
“Now that is not fair,” George answered, “using Charlie like that.”
“If it keeps your butt moving, Charlie wouldn’t mind, and you know it.” Both of them looked at each other and chuckled.
“S’pose you’re right,” George agreed, plopped his cap on his head and opened the door.
“Don’t forget a jacket,” she nagged.
He grabbed the windbreaker from another hook by the door, shrugged into it, and then stepped outside.
by Gary Little John threw the covers off his portly form and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked down at the expanse of his belly, and for the thousandth time mumbled something about getting to the gym. Maybe he’d call Howard and set up a game of racquetball. Oh yeah, that’ll…
