Anthony Criswell
Stories (6/0)
Charlie
My father had two loves: whiskey and violence. Meanwhile, my mother huddled herself away in prescription pills and excuses. Excuses why she could never leave him, and excuses why she needed more medications. I say these things factually, no malice for either of them in my heart. In the end, maybe he did care more for her than I thought, because when he found her body, dead from an apparent overdose, he drank himself into a stupor, put his Smith and Wesson 442 to his head, and joined her. At least, this is the story etched together by the police and relayed to me. They didn't believe my mother's overdose to be intentional and, truth be told, neither do I. It's more likely that she didn't care either way. Maybe being alive and dying had become such vagaries to her that it simply didn't matter to her anymore, much in the way a drunk stops caring how much they've already drunk, only looking forward to the next one and the one after. They died almost ten years ago, and the day of their funeral, after burying them both, listening to the preacher of the only church they had ever attended tell bald-faced lies about the qualities of their character, was the day I met Charlie.
By Anthony Criswell2 years ago in Horror
A Subtle Change
“Before I sit down, sheriff, would you like some coffee and cake?” Norma Winstead said. “Appreciate the offer, Norma, but I’ll just have the coffee if it’s all the same to you. The missus is on me about my blood pressure, and I don’t plan to give her any more ammo in that particular battle.” Bill Henshaw said.
By Anthony Criswell3 years ago in Fiction
Barn Knights
Two blades crossed under scattered beams of sunlight as leaves gently fell. Relentless foes caught in the dance of battle. One parries, one blocks, the other dodges, and reverberating steel rings the ears of those fortunate enough to be near the nimble pair. Leaping onto a nearby rock to gain the upper ground, one warrior gains the upper hand, landing a fatal blow on the other.
By Anthony Criswell3 years ago in Fiction
An Amber Night
Jim Prescott sat alone at the bar, staring into his glass, nearly drained of the rich, amber liquid. He picked it up, swirled it around momentarily, then drained it. He motioned to the bartender for another. He sat waiting, wanting nothing more than to drown out his thoughts and feelings. He wanted to escape. Though the dive was plenty full of other patrons for a Wednesday, Jim felt isolated, alone. This was good, he thought to himself, this was right. He should be alone, cast out to sea, and stranded on an island made of sand whose grains were his mistakes. He chuckled at that, nearly guffawed in fact, thinking about how the island would be boulders instead of the fine sand you’d expect amidst turbulent seas.
By Anthony Criswell3 years ago in Fiction
Footsteps
The sun sat low in the west when Kyle arrived at the house for the first time. The wrap-around gravel drive arced beneath a massive oak that had begun to shed its leaves, and a cool breeze set some dancing down to the shabby lawn. Kyle began to open the side door of the Econoline van when his mom interrupted him.
By Anthony Criswell3 years ago in Fiction
Vernacular
The rain fell unrelenting among a thirsty world, but even the ground could not drink it. The city streets were lit only by the glow of billboards and digital signage covering the windows of the towering buildings. John Kline walked quickly, his head down and eyes on the sidewalk, wary of risking exposure to the toxic downpour even with a treated umbrella and protective poncho, luxuries most were not afforded. Reaching his destination, he scanned his keycard for entry into the lobby of the Vernacular Tower. A large ad above the awning of the door exclaimed, “Vernacular! Communicate YOUR way!”
By Anthony Criswell3 years ago in Fiction