Category Archives: Short Stories

A Short Story -Uncovered

Bob had decided his morning run was going to be part euphoric and part dreadful. For the former, he was on an unanticipated paid vacation that would allow him to spend additional time on the golf course, as well as convincing his wife of thirty years to have a few more dinners with him, in lieu of shopping for trinkets she didn’t need.

For the latter, there was a sense of dread at being alone with his own thoughts for the next five miles. Oh sure, the Frank Sinatra blasting in his ears might mitigate the sound of the issues he was wrestling with in his mind, but he knew better. Adding to his anxiety was the eery fact that the buildings he was running past – usually bustling with life, artwork, debates, and history – stood quietly, as if their only purpose now was to hold up the sky.

As he turned down the avenue, he inevitably began to think about the recent turn of events. Specifically the issue that precipitated his unscheduled vacation. He struggled for clarity as to how he really felt about the subject as an individual versus how he presented himself when part of a team. Although he was seemingly just one person, in reality, he represented so many more. And with too many egos and no consensus on the horizon, was this really what he signed up for in the first place? Endless arguing and agendas?

Approaching an intersection, he cautiously looked both ways before proceeding. His mind so full of thoughts and Sinatra though, he didn’t hear the taxi cab blare its horn.

Upon awakening in the hospital, he could hear the doctors arguing about saving his life with a woman in a business suit who was advocating for the most affordable course of action.

“Affordable? Do they know who I am?” He thought to himself. It was a question he couldn’t ask aloud though, with the all of the tubes protruding forth from his severely deflated lungs via his mouth. Questions that struck fear in his weakened heart, because at the time of the accident, he had no identification on him.

As he faded in and out of consciousness and heard the doctors and the woman in the suit ramble on and on about the shutdown ending, Obamacare going into effect and the like, he realized his vacation was now over, and he would have to go back to work. But as the doctors and businesswoman argued both sides of his life to no satisfactory conclusion, Senator Robert Servison’s eyes closed for the very last time.

On his death certificate, the cause of death simply read, Politics.

Peace.

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A Short Story – The New Writer

Natalie wondered if she would ever make it as a writer. In a way, she had arrived late to the game. While she’d always loved the written word and was quite good at expressing herself with a pen and paper, it still didn’t equate to the volumes of work successful writers had amassed by her age.

Many of her writing projects to this point revolved around corporate affairs. A press release here, a company statement there, and even the solemn task of a writing a recall notice for a product that had taken lives. All of which was done just on the other side of receiving her weekly paycheck.

So when she decided on a creative writing path – leaving the doldrums of describing the features and benefits of the latest must-have product behind her – had she veered too far off course? Life changes come in many forms, and she wondered if she was redefining herself a bit too dramatically, a bit too late, and for a bit of what? Were the company mission statements really all that bad?

These are the thoughts Natalie was having as she was sitting in her local library. Today was her first book signing and the turnout had been mediocre at best. Of course, the family and friend well-wishers were there, for which she was most thankful, but her core audience was missing. There was not a single child in sight.

So while she packed up and courteously smiled, thanking everyone for coming, she was startled by the little voice behind her saying, “Am I too late?” Natalie turned around to see a raven haired boy about 10 years of age, clutching a tattered and well-read copy of her book.

All he asked was, “Can you please sign this?”

All she heard was, “You’ve made it.”

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