Phil Flannery
Bio
Damn it, I'm 61 now, which means I'm into my fourth year on Vocal, I have an interesting collection of stories. I love the Challenges and enter, when I can, but this has become a lovely hobby.
Stories (65/0)
Surprise Package!
Arturo stepped over the package left on the front step of the share-house, barely noticing it was there. He wasn’t expecting a package, so assumed it was for someone else. Entering the long hallway of the old Victorian, he called out for his housemates to let them know it was there and went to his room. Arturo wasn’t his real name, it was Ron, Ronald McDonald. He had copped a lot of flak for that at school and sports and Art School, most of his life really. His parents denied prior knowledge, but he hated them for it anyway. He preferred his middle name Arthur; this became Arturo when his Italian soccer coach would yell it at him to run faster. It stuck, and since he was now a struggling artist it became his moniker.
By Phil Flannery3 years ago in Fiction
Grandma's Chocolate Cake
Dropping her bag in the doorway, April raced to her roommate and nearly knocked her over with the momentum of her impact. “Oh Alice, thank God you’re here already. My parents were driving me mad. I’m so glad break is over. The two girls dragged April’s luggage inside the door and closed it behind them. “So, tell me everything that happened, even if I already know, I need to get the last two hours of mum and dad bitching at each other out of my head.
By Phil Flannery3 years ago in Fiction
The Back 'o' Bourke
“I’d forgotten how dry and bleak this place looked in drought. I don’t think I have ever seen it at it’s best. You used to go on about how great it was to grow up here,” Sylvie said to her husband as they drove along the old dirt road that would take them to the place of his birth. Dave Barrett was literally born there, in the old barn out the back of the house where he spent his childhood.
By Phil Flannery3 years ago in Fiction
She glows
Holding her daughter’s hand tightly, the mother strained to hear for the sound she was dreading. For eight years now they had lived in their small village, and the people there had been warm and accepting of a husbandless mother and her child. Walking quickly toward the top of the mountain trail, they came to the clearing and the ridge that they had visited many times before, to watch the sun set behind the distant mountains. The mother would tell her child of the place she was from, far beyond the horizon, of a different life, a different world. Sitting down on the edge of the cliff, watching the sun sink below the distant tree line, the mother began to speak. “Olga, I know you are scared, but we have been through everything you need to know. This day was unavoidable, the only thing I could not know was the exact day,” she said. “Mother, I am scared. I don’t want to. Why do they hate us?” the young girl asked.
By Phil Flannery3 years ago in Fiction
What Next?
As dawn approached, the sun, red, struggled to push through the ever-present dust that hung low in the cool morning air. She cautiously pushed at the door of the basement, peering with one eye through the crack for signs of danger, movement of any type. It had been five days since, what? She still wasn’t sure. It felt like the end of the world but not like the movies portrayed it. There was no screaming, no explosions, not even an invasion of the military, peaceful or otherwise, just quiet and this thickening dust.
By Phil Flannery3 years ago in Fiction