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Last updateTue, 06 Aug 2013 2am

Back You are here: Home Stories Words for the People Short Stories
Short Stories
Monday, 06 June 2011 14:47

This Letter to Norman Court: 18

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This letter to Norman Court is a novella consisting of 22 sections (each around 1250 words) I am releasing by way of serializing the piece across blogs, by reader request. A little hub site is set up at www.normancourt.wordpress.com that has a listing of the blogs that have featured or will feature sections—please give it a look, get yourself all caught up if the below piques your interest.

It is my simple hope to use this as a casual, unobtrusive way to release this material to parties interested. As of now the 22 slots have all been requested (cheers to everyone for that) but if you enjoy what you read please do get in touch with me via This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. . I welcome any and all comments on the piece (positive, negative, or ambivalent) or general correspondence about matters literary.

Cheers,

Pablo D’Stair

Thursday, 02 June 2011 17:11

The Rotting Stars

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The grocery store at Harris and Mt. Holly still smoldered, windows blown out, fire dancing in the glass shards on the ground like a million atoms humming with excitement.

'The fire trucks are probably busy,' I said, pointing out a glob at the base of a streetlight, from where we stood far enough back from the flames to feel the warmth on our faces. 'We'll have to walk another three blocks, but we could use the exercise,' I said. The little boy nodded before leaning down and poking the blob. The mass was thick but fragile; a smoke colored jelly, like liquid fog. I made a note to wash his hands the next chance I could.

Wednesday, 15 December 2010 04:32

Things You're Supposed to See

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It is awkward to link arms, I haven't linked arms with another girl since my pre-teens. I tell her so, she says everyone says that. It doesn't come naturally, I am nervous and hold my left arm high like I am a soldier escorting a lady home after a dance. Her own arm hangs limply in mine, like she might just slip away any moment; I begin to sweat and she trips over the curb.

“I'm sorry, sorry that was the curb.”

“It's okay! You'll get used to it, pretty soon you'll be dragging me around like it's nothing!”

Wednesday, 15 December 2010 04:31

Myocardial Devotion

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It's not as apparent as it used to be, but you can still see a line slicing down most of the left side of my chest. The scar is slightly lighter in color than the rest of my skin. If anything, the scar matches the color of my nipples; a Nadeshiko pink. During the summer it’s more noticeable when I get a tan. They say the surgery was the first of its kind. Especially to be performed on a baby merely a few days old. The surgery is no longer practiced as there have been alternatives to treat the defect.

Sunday, 14 November 2010 20:19

Moonchild

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‘Don’t hold your breath with your eyes open all night. Go to sleep, moonchild.’

Katerina loved the night and considered herself a member of the nightworld. She stayed up many nights gazing out her window at all the wondrous wandering stars and the paleglow of her friend, the moon. She knew a man never lived there, but she felt comforted by the soft moonlight. The first thing she remembered remembering was the first time she saw a full moon howling in a redorange light when she was still a baby. Just thinking about how the moon looked on fire that night sent all the breath out of Katerina in an exhaustive sigh, as if everything inside her released at once into a glorious feeling of calm. Her mother bought her a silver sicklemoon necklace for her fourth birthday, which she never took off, not even when she slept.

Friday, 08 July 2011 16:40

The Exterminator

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When I arrive, police cars are already there and a man is snapping pictures in the hot early morning sun, and I know it is her before I see the yellow tape stretched around the palms and poles like saltwater taffy. I spot the coroner, the gurney with the sheet pulled over the body, the blood seeping into the fibers. Everything slows down. Even though I’ve done nothing wrong, I want to turn around, get back in my van, drive far, far away. But there is nowhere to run. When you have a record like mine you are going to be questioned, sooner or later.

I hear the detective say, “Bring me the Bug Man.”

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