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⚽ Twelve 8-year-olds + 200mg of caffeine + one mortified coach = the best bar story you’ll hear today. Trust us, you want to hear how this ends.
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A late-night traffic stop becomes a reminder: storytelling connects us, grounds us, and makes us known. In a world of strangers, our stories are how we find our way home.
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Grant’s thoughts about purchasing the Toyota snapped away when the officer softly tapped the driver’s side window. “Hello? Can you roll down the window for me, sir?” Grant didn’t realize the young officer was standing next to his door. The lights were blinding and hypnotizing all at the same time. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.” He quickly
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Before I was old enough to read, I told stories. Imagination incubated, spit out into the world through my limited toddler vocabulary. After being taught how to read and write, the magic turned from oral stories to written stories. Now I was writing my own material, reading everything I could to get ideas, even the
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Staring right at me, I thought she would start screaming, yelling at the top of her lungs. Before you start in on me, I just want to set the record straight – I didn’t start this argument. No. Really. I didn’t. It wasn’t my fault. But then again, the guilty always have a way of
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Kathy finished her cry, knowing it had been a minute since she checked on Floyd. “I need to check on Floyd,” she said, getting up from the crates. “I’ll go check on him,” Cookie said, wiping his hands on his apron. “Just needs coffee, right? Kinda like Jim? Drinks coffee all day long?” He touched
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Cookie was sitting on a few upside-down milk crates, jumping up as soon as Kathy opened the swinging door. Tears streamed down her cheeks, smearing her eyeliner and foundation. No sound came from Kathy, her hand pressed tightly over her lips. The older man knew best to leave well enough alone, especially when it came
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“Who’re you callin’ old, you old coot.” Floyd Patterson leaned back in the booth, sipping his coffee. He hadn’t touched it in the last hour, until now. Sipping his lukewarm coffee, he looked outside the diner’s filmy window, wondering what had happened to the bacon, eggs, and pancakes he ordered. “Kath, this coffee is lukewarm.”
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Before I was old enough to read, I told stories. Imagination incubated, spit out into the world through my limited toddler vocabulary. After being taught how to read and write, the magic turned from oral stories to written stories. Now I was writing my own material, reading everything I could to get ideas, even the
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Jim hated funerals. He’d been to four in the last fifteen years, three of which Doc was also at. This time was different. This time, Jim was alone. Those who knew Doc either lived too far away to attend a funeral or wake in his honor or died. A lot of veteran pals were either
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Zander wasn’t comfortable talking to another attorney about the scam connecting him to Unger and the Zaterelli family. So, instead of mentioning any names, connecting him in any way to Mark Unger or the crime family, he spoke about the shell companies and private investors that he wasn’t at liberty to discuss. Attorney-client privilege worked
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Three years ago. That’s when Mark Unger introduced himself to Zander Melton, believing him to be the right man to help him put his get-rich-quick scheme. If anyone had a reputation for being a strategic player, it was Zander Melton. As a financial advisor, Unger dealt with influential people. The majority of them were honest,
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“Are we ready to open next week, Cole?” Cole Wilkes, the Global Human Resources Director, was working hard to hire new staff to open their latest hub facility, a segment of their production line that would utilize cheap U.S. labor to assemble each of the pieces needed to complete a variety of products overseas. RDF
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Pulling off the highway onto the gravel road leading to the new plastics facility, Emulsion Plastics, Kathy’s heart raced, thinking about the different kinds of work she could soon do if the hiring manager decided she was the right fit. Instead of wearing the uniform for the diner, she wore a very modest dress with
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Kathy pulled into the parking lot of Janice’s Diner, dust flying over her new 1985 Oldsmobile Cutlass Sierra. It drove like a luxury vehicle, unlike Jack’s Studebaker. The cloth seats felt like butter compared to the pseudo-pleather of the Studebaker. All electric controls meant she could roll down the passenger window. It wasn’t a convertible
Stories. Enjoy!
5 Minute Observations 