David Wiggs
I shoot for 500 words at a time. No editing. They wind up as short stories.
Ballard's people were gone now. He was an orphan and at an age too young to care for himself. At night he still cried himself to sleep.
Most people who worked in music stores were musicians, just like most book store employees are writers. The former fit fit the lifestyle: late nights meant even later mornings, wholesale deals on g...
Charles Whitmore was an oysterman since he was ten. His mother wouldn't let his dad take him on the boat until they could get the calf high boots to actually fit him. Somehow she was convinced he'...
After he died they finally talked about it. Bess and Maxine said he was never the same after the war. He was always the kindest of men. Everyone loved him, but some how, he was different--and it wa...
On the third ring of the doorbell the man got up from the chair, taking time to fold the throw blanket he'd had across his lap. Absent-mindedly, he picked at a cat hair the wool blanket hung on to....
Two stroke engines were so obscene, especially when it was porch sitting time. Nearby, the playground rattled with clinking metal and squealing children.
Thoughts turn golden like the leaves. Memories crisp as mid-day breeze. Fragrant with the change from Summer to Fall.
The couple moved down the meandering stairs toward the empty train station. The sun was strong and bright with just enough wind to carry the blossoms’ fragrance intermittently on the breeze.
