Break From Reality. Daily.
This story is by Shane Fitzpatrick and was part of our 2022 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. “Your social worker, Kerrie, says that you’ve lived a life already Riona,” offers Maeve as a conversation opener. “I suppose,” I counter defensively. I feel uncomfortable, yet peaceful. I’m chatting to…
This story is by Shane Fitzpatrick and was part of our 2021 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. The wind was carrying small white and pink cherry blossom petals through the air, spring gusts dusting the front steps of our building. I could hear Alison’s voice in my head,…
This story is by Shane Fitzpatrick and was part of our 2020 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. It changed from clear fluid to a shade of pale blue. Knocking it back, it turned into a syrupy mess, oozing down the sides of my mouth into dark recesses of…
This story is by Shane Fitzpatrick and was part of our 2020 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. I want you, Martha, to tell everyone, that I saved your life. I’m not some ravaged, cold-hearted person. There were many reasons behind the bomb. Foibles and infuriating personality traits irritate…
This story is by Shane Fitzpatrick and was part of our 2019 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Frank heaved the grey wheelie bin in across the threshold of the sliding balcony door, the weight pounding onto the laminate oak floor inside the living room. It was 8 am…
This story is by Shane Fitzpatrick and was part of our 2018 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. My knuckles are raw, despite a morning soak in a bowl of iced water. A glimpse of her image and a faint whiff of her smell drove me to smash the…
I am minutes away from spending time with my parents for the first time. My first name is Oliver and that’s all I know. I’m a seventeen-year-old orphan and the white sales associates inside the Memory Room are viewing me with suspicion. A Hispanic man should not have access to 300 credits.
I sit in the pristine, sterile booth waiting for the associates to attach the helmet and goggles. They scan the barcode on my arm, expecting my code to flash red and set off alarms. Nothing happens but the number 0000003 appears. They huff, shuffle, and then retreat, believing their brainwashed stereotype of other races being inferior. Fear rules our society.
This story is by Shane Fitzpatrick and was part of our 2018 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Legacy or Chocolate Broccoli. “I love you more than sausages, dipped in ketchup!” My daughter, Annette and I, played nose to nose about whose love was greatest. “Mixed with mayo too!”…
This story is by Shane Fitzpatrick. and was part of our 2017 Winter Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. “Put it down Eve! There’s no need for this!” “You ruined our lives Kurt! You killed Jack!” “Please put the knife on the counter. I didn’t kill him and neither did…
My body brought daily torture. Each day was a series of adult diapers that chafed, applying creams, lotions and potions to offset the itching, annoyance and never-ending pain. Swelling of the ankles, no tastebuds and the loss of self autonomy led to a life less enjoyable.
Dignity had long departed, along with my nurse of seventeen years, Esmeralda. She used the excuse that she was moving south to help her youngest bring up her latest grandchild. She had many others, so I didn’t understand why this one was so special. As she left, I reminded the Puerto Rican witch that she wasn’t getting any of my Meyer fortune.
My Vincent died many years ago. He was taken suddenly by night terrors, overdosing on medication I had never seen before. He locked the bathroom door and died a silent death in an empty bath with his pale silk boxers on. I had to endure mortification for years, as pointed fingers and whispered chats were conducted in tearooms at my expense.
This story is by Shane Fitzpatrick and was part of our 2017 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the Summer Writing Contest stories here. Gunnery Sergeant John Keogan stroked the Beretta M9 handgun on his lap, assessing his options. The air conditioning blasted chilled air from the vents in his Ford F150, yet he…
Inside a grey cubicle over a period of time, your enthusiasm drains and your appetite for life dissolves. You have a squeaky chair, recycled air and plastic plants for forty hours a week. You need something to tax your brain as well as the body. Answering monotonous internet connectivity questions isn’t challenging.
Then a random ad in a free-sheet paper caught the attention.
“Applications sought for a gravedigger. Tools will be supplied on site. Applicants must be over eighteen, fit and healthy. Must be willing to work unsociable hours, including weekends. Salary will be consummate with experience.”
I sent off the email application. and got an immediate reply. I had an interview that very evening at St. Michael’s Rectory and advised to dress appropriately.
by Shane Fitzpatrick I flex and close the fist of my right hand. My fingernails dig into the flesh. It doesn’t hurt to inhale deeply and my stomach isn’t doing cartwheels. My tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth. The steady bleeps of machines drown out my sorrow. My mother Judeline, died a few…
