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	<title>Pidsl.com - Books, Music, Movies, Reviews &#187; SHORT FICTION</title>
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	<link>http://pidsl.com</link>
	<description>Entertainment News and Reviews of Music, Movies Books and more!</description>
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		<title>Nessdahl Neavis Died Today &#8211; How Inconvenient</title>
		<link>http://pidsl.com/2012/03/nessdahl-neavis-died-today-how-inconvenient/</link>
		<comments>http://pidsl.com/2012/03/nessdahl-neavis-died-today-how-inconvenient/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 22 Mar 2012 16:49:48 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[SHORT FICTION]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://pidsl.com/?p=993</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[By Erik Sean McGiven  -  Nessdahl Neavis died today, how inconvenient. He was supposed to trim Mrs. Stabler&#8217;s hedges and Carla Maursetter was counting on him to weed her garden. Other town folks had trees to prune, fences to mend, and with winter fast approaching, there were all those storm windows to install. The old handyman&#8217;s death created a pesky problem for the folks of this small Midwestern town&#8211;who was going to do all these odd jobs? There were, of course, capable gardeners, painters, and carpenters in town, but who could afford them. Old man Neavis was cheap, reliable, and usually available. A kindly call to his landlady and he would normally be at your front door in the time that it took him to walk there. Thought to be only an accommodating handyman, it would be years before the town&#8217;s people came to know the true measure of this man. He lived in a walk-up at the rear of Sara Baker&#8217;s house, a furnished one-room flat with a hot plate and fridge. It also had a toilet and wash basin, and that&#8217;s where they found him laying on the floor, shaving soap on his face, his straight razor close by. [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
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		<item>
		<title>Morris&#8217;s New Tricycle &#8211; A Short Story</title>
		<link>http://pidsl.com/2012/02/morriss-new-tricycle-a-short-story/</link>
		<comments>http://pidsl.com/2012/02/morriss-new-tricycle-a-short-story/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 27 Feb 2012 09:07:24 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[SHORT FICTION]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://pidsl.com/?p=391</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[By Arthur Smith - The yellow Vauxhall car careered into the compound parking quietly and gently just outside the concrete garage. Morris watched keenly as his father descended from the saloon car. Amadu, the Fula servant, was quick to make himself available. Together with his master, he opened the back boot. &#8220;Take this upstairs. Ah, look out! Handle it carefully,&#8221; Amadu obediently and carefully took the big box out and laid it carefully on the concrete floor. He then rushed back to close the steel gate. &#8220;What is it, Daddy?&#8221; asked Morris, who for some time now had been looking at the box curiously and expectantly. &#8220;Let&#8217;s go upstairs,&#8221; his father said, holding his hand.proudly and lovingly. &#8220;You think I don&#8217;t know? I know what it is. You think I don&#8217;t know.&#8221; &#8220;Come on. Just you wait and see,&#8221; Morris&#8217;s dad was already leading him into the house. &#8220;Daddy, Daddy! Why not show Mummy? She&#8217;ll be happy to see that you&#8217;ve bought it so soon.&#8221; &#8220;Bought what?&#8221; the mother asked. &#8220;Your sewing machine. Daddy&#8217;s just bought it.&#8221; &#8220;Don&#8217;t mind the braggart, Margery. It&#8217;s a tricycle I&#8217;ve bought him and that has &#8230;&#8221; &#8220;Thank you! Thank you Daddy for that! Thanks very [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>3</slash:comments>
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		<item>
		<title>The Eyes Say It All</title>
		<link>http://pidsl.com/2012/02/the-eyes-say-it-all-by-deepak-divakar/</link>
		<comments>http://pidsl.com/2012/02/the-eyes-say-it-all-by-deepak-divakar/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 20 Feb 2012 23:04:15 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[SHORT FICTION]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Deepak Divakar]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[short fiction]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://pidsl.com/?p=94</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[by Deepak Divakar  - Grey sky with vaguely visible clouds, a perfect backdrop for a quiet stroll in a park. His eyes rest on an empty seat nearby away from public glares and irrelevant spectators. The only witness was a jogger who was pretty much taken aback by the grim emotionless look on his face. He quietly walks up, takes a seat and pulls out a thick photo journal out of his briefcase. He opens it up and runs his fingers through now distant memories one by one till he finally lands upon one picture which used to always brighten his face. He sighs and looks around to feel pretty relieved that he is alone now. He reaches out to his briefcase one more time and gets his tools out, a brush, a pad and couple of black paints. He assembles it over the stone slab neatly and gets to work on the photo he had picked out earlier. He takes a look at the kind, beautiful calming face and knows his work isn&#8217;t going to be easy. He dips the brush till 1/3rd of the bristles is wet and he gently starts making repeated strokes at the photo. As he [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
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		<title>The Beggar Would Not Bow</title>
		<link>http://pidsl.com/2012/02/the-beggar-would-not-bow/</link>
		<comments>http://pidsl.com/2012/02/the-beggar-would-not-bow/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 20 Feb 2012 19:17:03 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[SHORT FICTION]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://pidsl.com/?p=193</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[By Leonard Arden  -  The Gathering Tree, it was a large Horse Chestnut, believed to be the largest in the county. In high summer, its leaves afforded shade and was employed as the focal point for the annual fayre. This day, the last day of the fayre was to be one of excitement. Today, the Queen, the beautiful Glenora, officially widowed but a twelvemonth, was to cast off her widow&#8217;s weeds and begin her search for a consort. Her husband, Prince Robert Raith, from the Northland, had been a worthy consort to her, but he had reportedly been slain by the sword of a Saracen, in the Holy Land. Yes, today would be one of high excitement, for not only was Glenora going to be presiding at the last day of the fayre, she would be remaining for a week, in the town, of Eith, a guest of her cousin, the Duke of Eith, and the Duchess at Mallay Castle. This, the last day of July was gloriously warm. Clear blue skies, a gentle, tempering breeze and entertainment provided by birds, singing their joyful songs and caring not for peer or peasant. Away from the gathering tree, the course had been [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
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		<item>
		<title>The Bitter Climb &#8211; Short Fiction</title>
		<link>http://pidsl.com/2012/02/the-bitter-climb-short-fiction/</link>
		<comments>http://pidsl.com/2012/02/the-bitter-climb-short-fiction/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sat, 18 Feb 2012 18:18:28 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[SHORT FICTION]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://pidsl.com/?p=684</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[By Gary Paul Bryant  -   When Mark saw Mount Robson come into view, he knew his troubles would soon be over. It was the Canadian Thanksgiving but just another weekend in mid-October for most of the people he knew back in Oakland. The sky was clear and Robson had a new dusting of snow at the seven thousand foot level. He and his three climbing partners were going to attempt the Kain Face on the north east side of the peak. His sister Caitlin had decided to come on this trip at the last minute. Having climbed together in Europe, it was Caitlin&#8217;s idea to try to &#8216;bond&#8217; with her brother on this trip. The helicopter dropped suddenly and descended into Rearguard Meadow on the north side of the mountain. Their gear was dumped quickly and unceremoniously into a single pile. In a few moments the helicopter was gone, leaving the team in silence. Caitlin could not help but be swept up in the awesome beauty of her new surroundings. &#8220;Will the weather hold?&#8221; she asked, realizing for the first time just how hard their climb was going to be. &#8220;Everything checks out,&#8221; Shim responded. He knew that Caitlin [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>1</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>The Key to the Root Cellar  &#8211; Short Fiction</title>
		<link>http://pidsl.com/2012/02/holly-weiss-the-key-to-the-root-cellar/</link>
		<comments>http://pidsl.com/2012/02/holly-weiss-the-key-to-the-root-cellar/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 15 Feb 2012 06:45:05 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[SHORT FICTION]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://pidsl.com/?p=91</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[by Holly Weiss &#8211;  My childhood farmhouse looked pretty good as old farmhouses go. It stood proud and serene as it had for so many years in my memory. It had been unoccupied for years, but the renovation had paid off. I was proud of all of the work and money I poured into bringing my old friend back to life. The new roof kept out the rain, the windows sparkled in the sun, and the back porch no longer sagged sadly among the weeds. Inside, fresh flowery wallpaper sang springtime through every room. The polished oak floors glowed warmly. My grandmother&#8217;s old furniture fit perfectly in the sunny rooms. Each window provided a different view of the old barn, the creek, the knob. The land around my house breathed peace and beauty. Inside, warmth and security permeated every corner. One lovely spring day, I awaited the arrival of my first visitor. The new pastor was coming to pay a get-acquainted call. I looked forward to his visit with a mixture of anticipation and dread. I&#8217;m not very good at the social graces, especially with people who are new to me. I supposed I would talk mostly about the house, [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
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		<item>
		<title>Gleason Snickell and the Search for Love</title>
		<link>http://pidsl.com/2012/02/gleason-snickell-and-the-search-for-love/</link>
		<comments>http://pidsl.com/2012/02/gleason-snickell-and-the-search-for-love/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 08 Feb 2012 20:06:17 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[SHORT FICTION]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Bryant]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Gleasen Snickell]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://pidsl.com/?p=53</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[by Gary Paul Bryant &#8211; My dad didn&#8217;t have a clue. He was on his cell phone sending a text message to his brother when he crossed the median and hit an oncoming UPS truck.  I was 9. My dad was dead.  I didn&#8217;t cry.  I never really knew my dad. If he wasn&#8217;t on his computer, he was on his cell phone, his smart phone; text messages, phone calls, web surfing, email. He was a busy guy, until he was dead. My mom was next.  She left our dog Mason in the car while she went to get groceries. She met a friend while shopping and they chatted a few minutes; an hour and seven minutes to be exact. When she got back to the car, Mason was dead, it was August. It was the afternoon. It was Texas. It was one hundred and seven degrees. Mom was unaware that it would be hot in the car with the windows closed, after all, it had an air freshener. Pretty soon I&#8217;ll be by myself. I never thought a kid could worry so much about his gene pool. Last Friday, mom was walking across Main Street on her way to [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>2</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>The Elephant of Beginning</title>
		<link>http://pidsl.com/2012/01/the-elephant-of-beginning/</link>
		<comments>http://pidsl.com/2012/01/the-elephant-of-beginning/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 31 Jan 2012 18:21:54 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[SHORT FICTION]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[writers block]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[writing]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://pidsl.com/?p=521</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[By Matthew J Harris -  When I was seven, my bookworm aunty became concerned at my lack of interest in all things literary, and frogmarched me to the local bookstore to choose a book. Not that one I chose did anything to assuage her worries &#8211; it was 1001 Elephant Jokes. As close as she must have been to bashing me over the head with it, her response was something like: oh well, I guess that&#8217;s better than nothing. And she was right &#8211; it was. I&#8217;d never have bothered reading what I used to call a &#8220;chapter book&#8221; anyway &#8211; they were for adults. At least memorizing the book of jokes encouraged me to take a small interest in the written word. One of the elephant jokes has stuck with me too, and it&#8217;s come to sum up what for me is the most challenging and rewarding aspects of writing &#8211; and reading for that matter. The beginning. By that I mean, the most trouble I have is in starting anything. With reading it&#8217;s not just choosing what books I&#8217;m going to tackle (I&#8217;ve been wondering since 2009 whether I should read Hilary Mantel&#8217;s Man-Booker winning Wolf Hall) or in what [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>1</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Flutter &#8211; A Short Story</title>
		<link>http://pidsl.com/2012/01/flutter-a-short-story/</link>
		<comments>http://pidsl.com/2012/01/flutter-a-short-story/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 29 Jan 2012 00:01:23 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[SHORT FICTION]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://pidsl.com/?p=451</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[By Andrea Galinato  &#8211;  Patches of sunlight danced on her feet and on the pavement she stood on as the branches above her swayed with the summer breeze. She looks up and sees a brown butterfly hover closely above her, its paper-like wings glinting with the jagged rays emanating from the tiny spaces between the camachile leaves above them. She holds her hand up and watches it perch momentarily on her rosy little fingers before it flutters off towards the black sedan across the street, towards the man standing by the door of the passenger seat. Slowly, the man turns around and he looks back at her with eyes like her own. He traces his fingers on the ruddy cheeks of the young girl in the photo he was holding. Her long, wavy hair was adorned with a crown of angels breath as she smiled proudly in her white, holy communion dress. Tears filled his eyes as he watched her gaze back with eyes like his own. He looks out the window and sees the playground across the street, scouring the lonely landscape of empty wooden swings and iron see-saws with its chipping orange and yellow paint. He remembers his [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>1</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>The Chalice of Acopalca</title>
		<link>http://pidsl.com/2012/01/the-chalice-of-acopalca/</link>
		<comments>http://pidsl.com/2012/01/the-chalice-of-acopalca/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 17 Jan 2012 19:20:11 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[SHORT FICTION]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://pidsl.com/?p=195</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[By Dennis Siluk Ed.D. He hadn&#8217;t expected to find so many townsfolk&#8217;s in the church-he had turned about and there they were. He knew morning services had already been held, and evening services would not be for hours yet; it was the dry season of this small Andean city of Peru, and early and late were the services, weddings on Saturdays only, and three services on Sundays. For a moment he wondered if he did right. He squeezed into an empty pew not all that far away from the front of the chapel like alter-made out of logs of eucalyptus trees and planks put on top of the logs to even it out, the bag he was carrying, he laid gently down on the pew; the alter was lit up with a conflagration of candles, but the rest of the small chapel, was dimly lighted, and he was surprised to see among the group of several residences, the constable (or peace officer, police, the only police officer in the village)among the townsfolk&#8217;s, he was easily recognized. The priest was among them, grimed faced. They all moved slowly, saw the bag he had placed firmly on the pew-especially the constable. You [...]]]></description>
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