Carmine's Short Stories
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Short stories and poems - click on the underline title . writings cannot be downloaded without permission from the author. All writings have copyrights
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...The night fall in the prairie is a cold place where shadows cannot hide and the stillness pretends to lay silent. The dry long prairie grass nested between the northern Rockies in the west, and the scoured landscape of the barren Wyoming terrain to the north, would make a fitting backdrop for an old western film, but hardly a place where dreams, ambitions, and love can flourish...
...The taxi to the rural road that led to Sandra’s farm was having trouble holding the road. A gentle fine snow continued to fall rendering everything around them invisible except the dance of the swirling hypnotic snow. In the quiet confines of the cab, both Joe and Sandra’s expressions revealed a concerned about the ability of the driver to deliver them to their destination. The weaving motion of the car was making George a bit pale causing him to look away from the front windshield and out into the misty distance of his side window. The driver slowed and pulled into a snow-covered shoulder where the remnants of a rotted and worn wooden gate marked the entrance way to a long a path that led to Sandra’s place. The driver handed Joe and George the lion share of the grocery bags from the trunk, as Sandra paid the fare...
Coyote felt the conviction of his principles at that instant, though at times he had moments of doubt and regret for his actions. The pain he caused his family; the shame he inflicted upon his father. His father didn’t understand his actions, and he could never forget the look in his eyes when he saw him for the last time at the subway stop the day he decided to leave. He had broken his father’s heart, and that look more than anything, haunted him during his exile.
...“His name was Atian. We knew each other since the womb. Menominee is a small town, and so you make decisions early in life whether to stay and be a part of it or go and seek your fortune and fame elsewhere. Most of the people in this town leave. Whoever remains, usually remains for the duration of their existence. Atian and me, we decided we were going to be one of those few that stayed. It seemed like a good a place as any.”...
...Their arrival in Albuquerque exposed a city laid out in a strip dotted with palms and Spanish red stone buildings, sparse of pedestrians with few finding shadowed shelters from the heat of the day. The distant vistas glistened with glass reflection of structures speckled in the hilly surrounds of the crimson peaks. Thirst was on their minds and their eyes were on the lookout for a place to cool and quench the aridness of the day. They came upon the Santa Fe watering hole outlined in terra cote trim and stucco white exterior that sheened brightly in the midday sun, lines of parked cars baking and adding to the reflections with rippling heat waves that visibly perturbed the air. The inside of the Bar was dim and cool with the stench of stale beer and smoke, a row of bar stools stood half empty, its residents with heads pointed downward looking into the bottom of their glasses in a meditative state. A slim dark haired figure was seated next to the windowed area of the bar, long hair straight and freely spread across the middle of his back, a denim shirt sequined in turquoise, straight leg wrangler jeans and well-worn cowboy boots housed the tall thin frame...