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Short-Story.Me!

The Fuck Pit

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After all these years, Mavis and Karlo Duncano are quite a team. The couple met at Coney Island. It was lust at first sight and love eventually entered the picture a very short time later. They are still together, still partners and the best of friends. Mutual Muses, that they are. Through the turbulence of the last fifty odd years, they still remain quite a unique and eccentric item. He the wacky inventor/writer, she the serious artist.

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A Voice From Beyond

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“Why are you asking me to do this?” I asked Jackson.

“Because I saw how you cried at Ingrid’s funeral, Bennie.”

It’s true. I was devastated by Ingrid’s death. She was so young, only 38, and had so much promise. She was also Hollywood star beautiful. We were never lovers but the best of friends.

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Beauty Treatment

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I hate being woken up especially when I’ve been in a deep sleep. Every day it seems the same,shuffling and fretting all night. Then just when sleep is at its most distant from the real world, the alarm shatters my sleep and drags my consciousness back at high speed to another dreary day. I feel so tired as I dress. The water from the tap as I clean my teeth, makes me jump from its cold bite. I sit at my bedroom mirror a twenty four year old woman. The reflection seems nearer forty.

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Here Today, Guam Tomorrow

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Thursday, September 7, 1972 - NYPD Ninth Pct. - 2300 hours

“So tell me again, this time like you’re explaining it to a five year old,” Patrolman Lorenzo De Frenzo, Shield # 13077 said, staring at the man sitting on a broken chair in the 124 Clerical Room of the NYPD’s Ninth Pct. Station House.

Quinten Bialy started to explain his story again, as slowly and as methodically as he possibly could. Patrolman De Frenzo’s initial, professional and correct decision stood: “The missing person, a male caucasian, 30 years old, Bella Berousky, was not Quinten’s relative, but was his roommate, even so, Quinten could not report him missing.” That fact was already explained during the first minute of their encounter, re: NYPD Policy.

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Mr Frosty

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There was a time when I heard nothing.

Nothing.

Not the croaking of tree frogs screaming over and over again.  The rustling of leaves scratching at the street as they made their escape from one lawn to the other.  Not even the screech of some far off car escaping from something or trying to make its way home after some night shift.

None of it.

Nothing.

Only the quiet dead movement of blistering hot Summer air.

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