by R.L. Corn
(As with all my short stories, they are works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.)
by R.L. Corn
The Final Wish
by R.L. Corn
The gray and rain-soaked sky covered the city like a wet blanket blocking any light or hope that might have tried to break through.
Zzzzzzp. John snatched the paper out of his typewriter and without looking tossed the crumpled paper over his shoulder into the fireplace behind him. He never missed. He had had a lot of practice.
The gale force winds drove the falling rain into the windowpanes of the old stone building like tiny missiles.
Zzzzzzp. Another sheet was ripped from the jaws of his old Underwood typewriter. In a singular motion the paper was removed, scrunched, and sent to join the hundreds of other pages that had preceded it.
John was experiencing a bit of writer’s block. Even his old-school typewriter could not help him tonight. It was not his typewriter’s fault. If anything, the old machine usually inspired him, but his splitting headache was not making this any easier. (Read More?)
Few things can compare to a spring day in New York City. The warm weather had begun to coax the infant leaves out from the trees in the same manner that the residents were drawn from the winter confines of their homes. Not unlike the bears from upstate, the citizens initially faced their withdrawal from hibernation a little bit hungry and a little bit cranky. But it was nearly impossible to stay cranky on this, the most beautiful day in months. The morning trip to the neighborhood deli for a fresh bagel resolved the issue of hunger, and the bearish ill humor evaporated like the wispy clouds that had been present that morning. Spring had come to New York and the city was awakening. (Read More?)
by R. L. Corn
In memory of Roman.
Just a few years ago, he regularly bounded up the three steps to his front door. Today, the same three steps left him breathless and exhausted.
Where had the lasts three years gone? The days filed by like a monotonous parade of identical soldiers. These “day” soldiers had turned into weeks, and then into years. They marched on in their uniformity until he had lost count, and their passage meant nothing —just an unending parade. The death of his wife had changed everything. (read more?)
Trial and Testing
“Winds are out of the north, northeast at fifteen knots.”
“Copy that, Tower,” Nick responds as he continues checking his gauges. “Looks to be another good night for flying.”
“Roger that, Nick. Radar indicates no disturbances in your flight path. You should have an easy night of it. ”
“Easy night sounds good to me, Tower. Will you be closing down after my takeoff?”
“Yep! We will keep you on radar until you are out of range, but we’ll be back in the morning to pick you up on your return.”
“10-4, Tower. You all have a safe evening and we’ll see you in the morning.”
“Roger that, Nick, in the morning! Oh, and Nick. Merry Christmas!”
by Robert Corn
(I love the line "It's coming on Christmas" by Joni Mitchell in her song The River. With that line in my head, this story is a compilation of thoughts about growing up in my home town, and a made up story of a young man who wanted to "Fly Away".)
It was coming on Christmas, and Chris just wanted to fly away. Life had been hard. And there was the pain. With a diagnosis of Lupus in his early teens, his life had changed overnight. Where he had once been a fifteen-year-old teenager in a muscular shell, he was now swollen and bloated. His appearance had changed so quickly it was as if he were a prisoner in an alien body. The mirror lied each morning when the face that stared back at him was unrecognizable. That year, he faced Christmas with a death sentence that he would endure in a foreign body that promised continued pain forever. (read more?)
Most of our lives occur with the passing of days that, for the most part, look like the preceding day . . . and that is not necessarily a bad thing. We get up; we go about our business; and we go to bed. Life is more structured for some and more spontaneous for others. But from time to time a day comes around that changes the course of your life even if only by the smallest of degrees. Sometimes, it is just a day (or night in this case), that stands out vividly in your memory for whatever reason there may be. This was one of those nights:
“Point, set, match…again! I forgot how bad you are,” Keith yells smiling from across the net. “I should be tired of beating you by now, but somehow, it just keeps getting better and better!” he continues as if reflecting on this newly acquired truth.
I should have been stopped playing hours ago because my head was just not in the game. But that was okay because my mind was on other things. I would be entering my senior year in another month, and there were a lot of things to consider. (Read more?)
The Cat’s Story
by R.L. Corn
(This is just a silly story inspired by seeing my neighbor's cat sitting in a bird feeder.
It seemed like a good strategy to me if you could pull it off.
I had just gotten back from NYC visiting family so I had my interpretation
of a "Jersey" accent stuck in my head.)
So you see, I was just walking down the street, and I’m feelin’ pretty good, ya know? It’s a Friday and the week is over. I am heading home to the missus and I’m feeling pretty frisky. Yeah, it is going to be a good weekend.
So, as I say, I am strolling down just a couple of blocks from home and I sees this cat. Now, I ain’t no cat expert or notin’, but this cat is sitting in the boyd feeder on Ms. Johnson’s porch. That just ain’t right, is it? (read more?).