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    Unexpected Short Tales of Surprise
    Unexpected Short Tales of Surprise
    Unexpected Short Tales of Surprise
    Ebook86 pages1 hour

    Unexpected Short Tales of Surprise

    By P. A. Farrell

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    About this ebook

    Flash fiction stories covering a range of subjects, each one intended to provide interest and stimulate thoughts about life and how we live it. The book is written in an easy-to-read format with "show, don't tell" evident in each aspect of it. Whether you're short on time or interested in delving into the human condition, or even a humorous bit or two, this is the book to keep on your phone or computer. Short in form, but never short in ideas you will find stimulating and even promoting creativity on your part. P. A. Farrell has delved into humanity in ways often worthy of O'Henry, but in shorter format, so if you love short stories, you are in for a treat.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDr. Patricia A. Farrell
    Release dateOct 6, 2023
    ISBN9798988654407
    Unexpected Short Tales of Surprise
    Author

    P. A. Farrell

    P. A. Farrell is a psychologist and published author with McGraw-Hill, Springer Publishing, Cafe Lit, Ravens Perch, Humans of the World, Active Muse, Free Spirit Publishing, Scarlet Leaf Review, 100 Word Project, Woodcrest Magazine, Confetti, and LitBreak. She's a top health writer for Medium.com, has published self-help books, and is a board member of Clinics4Life. She lives on the East Coast of the US.

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      Book preview

      Unexpected Short Tales of Surprise - P. A. Farrell

      Unexpected Short Tales of Surprise

      P. A. Farrell

      Copyright

      Copyright ©2023 by P. A. Farrell. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Making copies of any part of this book for any purpose other than your own personal use is a violation of United States copyright laws. The author does not recognize fair use distribution to classes, seminars or any other form of training or information provided to other individuals, institutions, or other potential users of this information. For information on rights and permissions requests, address them to Dr. Patricia A. Farrell, PO Box 761, Tenafly, NJ 07670. 

      This book is sold as is, without warranty of any kind, either express or implied, respecting the contents of this book, including but not limited to implied warranties for the book’s quality, performance, merchantability, or fitness for any purpose. Neither the author nor dealers or distributors shall be liable to the purchaser or any other person or entity with respect to any liability, loss, or damage caused or alleged to have been caused directly or indirectly by this book.

      Cover photo copyright: P. A. Farrell

      ISBN: 979-8-9886544-2-1

      A MOTHER'S PRAYER

      A piercing morning sun promised no relief but only more heat as the carefully tanned woman stood waiting with the little girl in her overly heavy dress and orthopedic shoes. The woman was sporting faux haute couture in crisp white shorts and a mind-blowing bright blue halter, her blonde hair carefully arranged in a silky ponytail. Delicate leather sandals with a troublesome strap were a bit loose, but she loved the look.

      Sunglasses, not Bentley Platinum but knockoffs, shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare. The little girl, refusing to hold the woman’s hand, squinted in the painful light and squirmed, scraping the bottom of her brace on the cement. No attention was paid to her discomfort.

      The doorman’s heel crunched on tiny pebbles as he twisted to turn away, seeming not to notice the activity at the curb. He had done his duty. Now it was up to the new mother.

      A bus would arrive within minutes, but to the woman at the curb, it seemed an eternity. Looking down at the little girl, she flashed her carefully practiced non-Duchenne smile, which had always so usefully connoted her feigned joy in the past. Mirrors had helped a lot. The smile was the key to her most recent success.

      A short yellow bus slid up to the curb. The bus stopped, a large stop sign flipped out, and two young women jumped to the sidewalk. The bus was unmarked, but the yellow t-shirts the women wore had an emblem of a day camp.

      Now the yellow-shirted women greeted the woman and the child and with great enthusiasm, began bending over and smiling, clapping their hands in unison in an excessive display of joy; frantic rather than heartfelt. The little girl looked at the three of them and kept her hands at her sides.

      The blue-halter-garbed woman became more animated as the little girl jumped up and down with effort in a show of dissatisfaction, her face distorted and now dappled with tears.

      No, no, no! I don’t want to go! The pleading would gain her nothing. Her fate was sealed. The fees were paid, she was registered, and she’d get on the bus, eventually. The woman had no doubt of it.

      Florence, honey, it’s going to be fun. You’ll meet other children who will play with you, and you’ll get to make friends. You want friends, don’t you?

      Forcing herself not to grit her teeth, the woman was wondering if she might order the camp workers to lift the little girl up onto the bus. No, her husband wouldn’t like that. It’s too soon to upset him.

      Concerned that she would be late for her Pilates class, the woman initiated a vigorous few minutes of coaxing in an effort to thaw the reluctance. Photos, photos were needed to memorialize the special occasion, and the woman began taking them with her phone.

      One, two, ten photos taken next to the bus, several with the young women, and the little girl leaning against the bus. Excessive waving of goodbyes began now as the girl mounted the bus stairs with some assistance.

      The stop sign retracts. The woman’s frantic waving continues as the bus wends its way from the curb. More smiles and waving from the curb. The bus enters traffic and slides slowly away, disappearing like a yellow bug in the crush of morning traffic.

      The woman crosses the street, fingers her phone and begins talking as she views herself on the video display. Her hair, eyebrows, and make-up all look good to her.

      The traffic light turns red. She never looks up, as is her usual carefree way of crossing streets, busy or otherwise.

      Traffic was supposed to stop for her, wasn’t it? Talking on her phone, she crossed the next corner as the traffic light turned red. The leather sandal strap slips. She slows down to wiggle her foot.

      The doorman had to help me, she fairly moans, because she didn’t want to leave the building, and she was grabbing onto the door and everything she could find. Why, God, oh, God, why me? Oh, God, I’m so sick of her. Thank God she got on the bus! The pesky sandal strap slips again, but a quick hop will re-secure it.

      You have no idea what I had to do with that kid. It was his week with her. He’s at work so I had to take her to the bus today. Can you beat that? Oh, my God, I ...

      Hanging in mid-air, the sentence would never be completed as a screech of tire on asphalt ripped the muggy morning air. Blue collided with blue.

      Johanna? Johanna? The voice fades as the phone begins an acrobatic swan dive in the air before it crashes into the roadway, shattering as it does.

      The faux Bentley glasses follow the phone in short order.

      Yes, the traffic had stopped for her.

      COURTESY NEVER DIES

      No one told me I would use a

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