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Submitted to Contest #339
Death by Chocolate by Haline GregoryRuthie Lysinger sank slowly to the concrete driveway outside Norman Brothers Produce. Tomatoes, and navel oranges spilled out of the bag she was carrying. Charlie, her husband of forty years, stood over her and thought, “She’d better be careful not to roll over on the tomatoes.” Ruthie looked up at him, clutching at her chest and gasped, “But you’re the one with the weak heart, Charlie.” Then she sighed, and died. The funeral was lovely, thanks to her two best friends –...
Submitted to Contest #337
Leading Man by Haline Gregory (Note to reader) This can be read starting here at the top, at Rewind 1989. The End. Or it can be read at the first paragraph at the bottom Rewind, 1953. Scene One. Rewind 1989. The End. He sold his house. But wouldn’t leave. He had no place to go. He and his old dog. He couldn’t get out of the La-Z-Boy where he sat all day, a bottle of wine on the terrazzo floor beside him. The last time I saw him, he sat there, carefully rolling a cigarette. He asked me about “the advertising game.” He thought he could be...
Submitted to Contest #335
LEADING MAN for ReedsyBy Haline Gregory Note to reader: Start at either: "The End” ( First paragraph) Or Rewind 1992 Scene One” (At the bottom.) Rewind 2024. The End.He sold his house. But wouldn’t leave. He had no place to go. He and his old dog. He couldn’t get out of the La-Z-Boy where he sat all day, a bottle of wine on the terrazzo floor beside him. The last time I saw him, he sat there, carefully rolling a cigarette. He asked me about “the advertising game.” He thought he could be a freelance writer. But those days were long gone....
Submitted to Contest #330
Note to reader: You can start at the top: Rewind 1989. Or start at the end: Rewind, 1953. Scene One. He sold his house. But wouldn’t leave. He had no place to go. He and his old dog. He couldn’t get out of the La-Z-Boy where he sat all day, a bottle of wine on the terrazzo floor beside him. The last time I saw him, he sat there, carefully rolling a cigarette. He asked me about “the advertising game.” He thought he could be a freelance writer. I tried not to let the wasted man before me intimidate my memory of him. When I left, I was in full...
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