Short stories written by Carl Purdon.
Deception
Ma Frazier died for three days. Hard days. Days filled with groaning and wailing and profanities above and beyond her occasional hells and damns. Reverend Thomas admonished her to maintain her dignity, but Ma kicked at him with her good leg and told him to shove dignity up his ass. The good reverend slipped from the room and joined the men on the porch.
Uncle Doyle sat barefoot in a wooden swing that hung from the rafters of the tin roof by chains. His belly spilled over his belt and pushed out the tail of his shirt. Ben stood against the corner post at the far end of the porch, chewing on a piece of weed he had pulled from Aunt Molly's row of azaleas. He and Uncle Doyle ran a junkyard together and had been friends since grade school.
Conversation fell away when the preacher came out. A red pickup truck rattled up the gravel road and disappeared over the hill, leaving a thick brown cloud of dust in its wake. Over the next couple of minutes, the dust cloud drifted across the yard and added another layer of brown to everything it touched.
The screen door opened and Aunt Molly stepped out, hair disheveled, eyes tired. She took her first breath of fresh air in days, savored it, then sat beside her husband in the swing.
"Momma finally calm down?"
She took Uncle Doyle's hand and gave it a squeeze, then broke the news that his momma had passed. Reverend Thomas led them in a prayer. Aunt Molly and Uncle Doyle sobbed. Ben rubbed the back of his neck because the prayer dragged on too long.
"Amen."
"That was beautiful," Aunt Molly said.
"You have a way with words," said Uncle Doyle.
Ben snorted and spat into the azaleas.
"Your mother confided in me before she got bad," the reverend said after a while. He raked a partially decayed dog turd off the porch with the side of his brown loafer. It hit a pink flower, then dropped through the leaves to the dirt. "I waited until she passed to tell you because that's what she asked me to do."
"You've got some turd on your shoe, Preacher," Uncle Doyle said. His hands twitched because he couldn't get the bottle from the cabinet by the stove with the preacher around. Alcohol didn't own Uncle Doyle but it borrowed him on occasion.
"Did you hear what I just said, Doyle?"
"I know what you're gonna say," Uncle Doyle said. "Momma got on me all the time for not going to church regular."
"That's not it."
Ben left the corner post and joined the group. "Some souls just ain't worth saving, Lester."
"Ben!"
"Don't Ben me, Molly dear. Me and Doyle and the good reverend used to stomp these back roads together."
"I'm a different man now," the reverend said. "I'm like the thief on the cross. Redeemed in the Glory."
"Save it for the flock, Lester."
"Don't mind Ben," Aunt Molly said. "He don't mean nothing."
The preacher chuckled. "He don't bother me, Molly. I know where I've been. More importantly, I know where I'm going."
"Amen."
"Remember that time we picked up the Carter sisters -- "
"Shut up," Uncle Doyle said.
"I was just --"
"Don't just!"
Ben raised his hands, palms out, as a sign of surrender.
"I've been trying to tell you something important," the preacher said to Uncle Doyle. He shifted to the other foot and waited until he had their attention. "Apparently your father buried a large sum of money in the back yard."
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Uncle Doyle sat barefoot in a wooden swing that hung from the rafters of the tin roof by chains. His belly spilled over his belt and pushed out the tail of his shirt. Ben stood against the corner post at the far end of the porch, chewing on a piece of weed he had pulled from Aunt Molly's row of azaleas. He and Uncle Doyle ran a junkyard together and had been friends since grade school.
Conversation fell away when the preacher came out. A red pickup truck rattled up the gravel road and disappeared over the hill, leaving a thick brown cloud of dust in its wake. Over the next couple of minutes, the dust cloud drifted across the yard and added another layer of brown to everything it touched.
The screen door opened and Aunt Molly stepped out, hair disheveled, eyes tired. She took her first breath of fresh air in days, savored it, then sat beside her husband in the swing.
"Momma finally calm down?"
She took Uncle Doyle's hand and gave it a squeeze, then broke the news that his momma had passed. Reverend Thomas led them in a prayer. Aunt Molly and Uncle Doyle sobbed. Ben rubbed the back of his neck because the prayer dragged on too long.
"Amen."
"That was beautiful," Aunt Molly said.
"You have a way with words," said Uncle Doyle.
Ben snorted and spat into the azaleas.
"Your mother confided in me before she got bad," the reverend said after a while. He raked a partially decayed dog turd off the porch with the side of his brown loafer. It hit a pink flower, then dropped through the leaves to the dirt. "I waited until she passed to tell you because that's what she asked me to do."
"You've got some turd on your shoe, Preacher," Uncle Doyle said. His hands twitched because he couldn't get the bottle from the cabinet by the stove with the preacher around. Alcohol didn't own Uncle Doyle but it borrowed him on occasion.
"Did you hear what I just said, Doyle?"
"I know what you're gonna say," Uncle Doyle said. "Momma got on me all the time for not going to church regular."
"That's not it."
Ben left the corner post and joined the group. "Some souls just ain't worth saving, Lester."
"Ben!"
"Don't Ben me, Molly dear. Me and Doyle and the good reverend used to stomp these back roads together."
"I'm a different man now," the reverend said. "I'm like the thief on the cross. Redeemed in the Glory."
"Save it for the flock, Lester."
"Don't mind Ben," Aunt Molly said. "He don't mean nothing."
The preacher chuckled. "He don't bother me, Molly. I know where I've been. More importantly, I know where I'm going."
"Amen."
"Remember that time we picked up the Carter sisters -- "
"Shut up," Uncle Doyle said.
"I was just --"
"Don't just!"
Ben raised his hands, palms out, as a sign of surrender.
"I've been trying to tell you something important," the preacher said to Uncle Doyle. He shifted to the other foot and waited until he had their attention. "Apparently your father buried a large sum of money in the back yard."
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Sisters
It was not uncommon for Megan to drop by unannounced, but my apartment was a mess and her sister was dead on the couch. It was complicated, and about to get worse.
Samantha was a year older than Megan, with dark brown hair instead of blonde -- natural, not from a bottle. Megan liked imported beer and bloody steak. Samantha drank bottled water and sorted her trash into separate bins for recycling. The last place in the world Megan would expect to find her sister would have to be in my apartment.
The look on her face when the chain caught the door was priceless. Like the bewildered look of a toddler the first time his mother spats his bottom.
“What’s with the chain?”
My brain scrambled for an excuse she would buy. I stuttered something about needing to clean up the place, which was an understatement. She rolled her eyes and sighed.
“Open the door already. This is rude.”
She was wrong. It was survival. Megan dabbled in karate. I’m pretty sure she hadn’t earned a belt but I’d seen her break a man’s arm in a bar one time because he spilled his beer down her back. My fighting experience began and ended in the third grade when I got my eye blacked by Hector Gonzales because I called him a wetback.
Inspiration struck. I leaned into the security chain and whispered: “Beat it. I’ve got a chick in here.”
She laughed. “A chick?” She pushed the door again and made the chain snap tight. “Stop kidding around and open the door. I think something’s happened to Sam.”
My blood ran cold, like ice water, through my veins. I know that’s a platitude but it actually felt that way. First my chest went cold, then up the back of my neck like a chill. Had she been paying attention she would’ve seen the horror in my eyes.
“Samantha? What makes you think something’s wrong?” My voice cracked, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“She didn’t come home last night. Open the door, dork. You’re starting to piss me off.”
“Really Megan, I’ve got company. Samantha probably just got lucky last night. She’s probably home already.”
“Getting lucky for Sam means finding a good spot for another compost pile.” She tried to peep through the crack in the door. “I don’t see anybody in there.”
“She’s in the bedroom. Now can you go away?”
“If you don’t open this door I’m calling the cops.”
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Samantha was a year older than Megan, with dark brown hair instead of blonde -- natural, not from a bottle. Megan liked imported beer and bloody steak. Samantha drank bottled water and sorted her trash into separate bins for recycling. The last place in the world Megan would expect to find her sister would have to be in my apartment.
The look on her face when the chain caught the door was priceless. Like the bewildered look of a toddler the first time his mother spats his bottom.
“What’s with the chain?”
My brain scrambled for an excuse she would buy. I stuttered something about needing to clean up the place, which was an understatement. She rolled her eyes and sighed.
“Open the door already. This is rude.”
She was wrong. It was survival. Megan dabbled in karate. I’m pretty sure she hadn’t earned a belt but I’d seen her break a man’s arm in a bar one time because he spilled his beer down her back. My fighting experience began and ended in the third grade when I got my eye blacked by Hector Gonzales because I called him a wetback.
Inspiration struck. I leaned into the security chain and whispered: “Beat it. I’ve got a chick in here.”
She laughed. “A chick?” She pushed the door again and made the chain snap tight. “Stop kidding around and open the door. I think something’s happened to Sam.”
My blood ran cold, like ice water, through my veins. I know that’s a platitude but it actually felt that way. First my chest went cold, then up the back of my neck like a chill. Had she been paying attention she would’ve seen the horror in my eyes.
“Samantha? What makes you think something’s wrong?” My voice cracked, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“She didn’t come home last night. Open the door, dork. You’re starting to piss me off.”
“Really Megan, I’ve got company. Samantha probably just got lucky last night. She’s probably home already.”
“Getting lucky for Sam means finding a good spot for another compost pile.” She tried to peep through the crack in the door. “I don’t see anybody in there.”
“She’s in the bedroom. Now can you go away?”
“If you don’t open this door I’m calling the cops.”
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A Bag of Snickers
Cort Hatcher hadn’t always been a drunk, but a drunk he was and there was no denying it. He opened the door of his mobile home and stepped out onto the plank porch in his bare feet. It was cold, the first cold morning of the season. Soon the frost would come and coat the landscape with brown. His was a small lot but private, with trees of varying species dotting his yard. Fall was his favorite time of year but it never failed to plunge him into melancholy.
He eased himself into the wooden swing that hung from the rafters by chains and cradled a hot cup of coffee between his massive hands, hands that had once been hard and calloused. A gentle breeze blew right through his white cotton t-shirt and green checked pajama bottoms.
“It’s cold this morning.” Sometimes Cort talked to himself. He raised the blue cup to his lips and took a sip. “That’s hot. Feels good, though.”
The coffee warmed him but his system needed more. “Not today. We’re not giving in this time.” Even as he spoke the words his mind slipped through the door, to the kitchen, and into the cabinet beside the refrigerator. Whiskey. “No. It’s Halloween and I can’t be drunk when they come this time.” He remained in the swing and took a deep breath. It was not quite cold enough yet to see his breath when he exhaled. “Not this time.”
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He eased himself into the wooden swing that hung from the rafters by chains and cradled a hot cup of coffee between his massive hands, hands that had once been hard and calloused. A gentle breeze blew right through his white cotton t-shirt and green checked pajama bottoms.
“It’s cold this morning.” Sometimes Cort talked to himself. He raised the blue cup to his lips and took a sip. “That’s hot. Feels good, though.”
The coffee warmed him but his system needed more. “Not today. We’re not giving in this time.” Even as he spoke the words his mind slipped through the door, to the kitchen, and into the cabinet beside the refrigerator. Whiskey. “No. It’s Halloween and I can’t be drunk when they come this time.” He remained in the swing and took a deep breath. It was not quite cold enough yet to see his breath when he exhaled. “Not this time.”
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The Scented Scarf
I knew she was trouble the first time I saw her. Something in the way she stood reminded me of the others: the way she moved about the room with her hypnotic innocence; the way she looked past, not at me, like I didn’t exist. My tiny cubicle may as well have been a broom closet on the moon.
Her blonde hair flowed across her shoulders, tangled in a single ray of sunlight that had cheated its way through the slats of the closed blinds. The fist-sized flowers on her dress followed her curves and tricked my eyes into looking more than was proper. She was a living breathing floral arrangement. Starting over in a new city was not going to be so easy
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Her blonde hair flowed across her shoulders, tangled in a single ray of sunlight that had cheated its way through the slats of the closed blinds. The fist-sized flowers on her dress followed her curves and tricked my eyes into looking more than was proper. She was a living breathing floral arrangement. Starting over in a new city was not going to be so easy
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