Imagine That (Short Stories) by Leon Rice (essential reading .txt) 📖

still had the love of his relatives to see him through. This year was no exception.

Billy ripped and tore his was through all the presents. He was right. There were new clothes, and books, and a new fishing rod, and video games that he had ask for, but all of it was nothing compared to Tinker. “Marvelous Tinker,” he thought, “Marvelous, wonderful Tinker!”

Christmas was good for Uncle Tommy and Aunt Susie as well. They exchanged presents quietly, while Billy ran back up stairs to get dressed.

Aunt Angie busied herself preparing Christmas dinner. They usually ate around two in the afternoon on Christmas. The relatives usually arrived around noon and they exchanged gifts before dinner.

Billy ran full speed through the kitchen toward the back door, putting on his coat as he went. “Goin’ to the barn,” he yelled as the screen door slammed shut. “Put your hat on,” Aunt Susie yelled to the back of his head as he left.

“Ah, to be young again,“ Susie thought, “If only I were young again.”

The day went as usual, except for the fact that Billy ’s parents weren’t there. Billy spent the day petting and talking to his little horse. Dinner was exceptional. Aunt Susie outdid herself. They sang Christmas carols and drank fruit punch and everyone nibbled on pumpkin pie and Cherries Jubilee.

Uncle Will and Aunt Edna were the last to leave late that afternoon. Everything had calmed down. It had been a marvelous Christmas. The three of them sat quietly in the living room, in front of the fire, contemplating the awesome day they had all had.

“So, did you like your presents, Billy ,” asked Uncle Tommy , as he gave Aunt Susie a telling glance.

“Everything was great,” said Billy .

“Well, we have one more gift to give you, Billy ,” said Uncle Tommy , as he handed an envelope to Billy . He opened it and said, “What’s this?

“It’s the adoption papers,” said Aunt Susie . “This makes it final. You can stay here and live with us permanently.”

“We love you very much, Billy ,” said Uncle Tommy , “and we hope you’ll continue to be happy here. So you have a new beginning here with us.”

“Life couldn’t be better,” thought Billy , “I must be the luckiest little boy who ever lived. Thank you God for ’A Brand new life on the farm.’”


Disdainful Fruit
A Short Story by Leon Rice


“Now you be puttin’ them drawin’s in the trash Evan, and get back to your school work. I‘ve told ya before, what ya need to be workin‘ on is your school work. There aint no way you’re goin’ to be an artist. Nothin’ will ever come it. Do ya hear me? Nothin’! I won’t stand for it! Artists is low life degenerates and most of ’em can’t even support themselves.”

“But I,” Evan started to say, when his father hit him in the face with a backhand and left him sprawled on the floor of his room. His father removed his belt and Evan knew what was coming. The swish of the belt as it split the air was followed by the slap of leather to skin when it hit him. Humiliation filled his being as the physical pain coursed through his limbs with each hate filled strike.

Evan was stoic and as usual, there’d be no response from him. There’d be no tears, no pleading for his father to stop - at least not out loud that is: “No, No, No, daddy! Please stop daddy! Please stop,” echoed in his thoughts but Evan would not allow him the satisfaction of hearing him beg. His degradation was complete as he lay limp as a rag doll and took the beating. There was no love lost, that’d been lost years ago.

“I’ll not be havin’ any backtalk from ya! Do ya hear me ya little heathen? Do what I say, and clean up this room too ya little bastard. It looks like the swine is livin’ here! I’m goin’ down to Shanties to have me self a pint or two. Mind what I say now: School work! It’s your school work you’ll be doin’, or I’ll blister your damnable hide again!”

Evan looked up into his father’s steely eyes and saw the evil that lived unrestrained in his mind. He saw the pain, sorrow, and hatred as it festered inside. Silent screams echoed in Evan’s mind but were not brought to fruition.

“Mark my words and take heed,” said Patrick as he put his belt back on, went down the stairs, and slipped outside. He closed the door behind him. Silence hung suspended in the moment without a clue as to what had transpired.

Evan went to the window, looking out on his street, and watched as his father made his way through the children playing in the street down the block. As he watched, the rage that had been contained built to the point of explosion. He watched and waited till he was sure Patrick was far enough away from the house that he couldn’t hear him, and his anger burst from him in a rant of verbal slurs and cursing. He screamed at the top of his voice and called his father every name he could think of. His fists were clenched and he pounded them mercilessly in the couch cushions, picturing his father’s face with every blow.

“The devil is in ya Patrick Doyle! I hate ya, I loathe ya! May ya burn in hell Patrick Doyle!,” screamed Evan. He let out a screech, the screech of a tortured banshee, and it seemed as though it would never end as the air escaped from his lungs. He beat the cushions till the feathers from them flew in a wisp into the air; he beat them till he could no longer lift his arms and lay in an exhausted heap of spent frustration on the floor.

Tears rolled down his cheeks in unending streams of glistening, crystalline liquid, as his body shuddered with uncontrollable sobs. Insignificant, tiny, helpless, tormented, tortured, devastated, were his thoughts and feelings.

The late afternoon sun dimmed with a crimson melancholy sky at the horizon and the day softly, tenderly, turned to darkness while he cried. He lay curled in a tiny forlorn heap on the floor of the living room of the small flat. Alone, he was all alone, with no one to love him and no one who cared about him. “Could this be hell,” was his final thought as he slipped form consciousness into dreamland. Relief from the torment was at hand: Peaceful sleep.

* * * *

It could have been hours. It could have been days. Evan had no sense of how long he had been asleep. He was awake now, but his eyes were still closed; he listened. There was no sound. He opened his eyes, but the darkness was consistent with what he had seen when his eyes were closed. He couldn’t see his hand before him. Patrick wasn‘t home yet, or was he?

“Poppa,” said Evan gingerly, tentatively, with trepidation, hoping there would be no response.


Things were always awful when Patrick spent time at Shanties pub. Fear struck him as though an icy wind suddenly came over him and he shivered as it crept up his spine and nestled itself in his brain. He felt fear of a man that he had long ago learned to hate and despise. How had things gotten to this point, he wondered out loud. How could God have allowed this to happen to me?

“You’re a despicable loutish cretin, Patrick Doyle,” Evan muttered under his breath. “You’re as mean as a wounded serpent and as cruel as the widow Brennan, he lamented. Sure if you’re not the devils’ only friend. I’ll have me day, Patrick Doyle, There’s a day comin’, Patrick Doyle, when I’ll have me revenge and it‘s mercy you‘ll be beggin for; Nary a bit there‘ll be!”

Evan sat quietly in the darkness for some time and then said in a faltering little voice, “God . . . God . . . are you there God? I‘m approachin’ ya with reverence dear God. Why did you do this to me God? Did I do something to make you do this to me? What could I have possibly done to deserve such a life? Please answer me God . . .Please make my father stop hurting me. Please change my life back to the way it was before my mother died. Please change my father back to the way he used to be. . . “ The silence echoed in his ears and after a bit he simply said, “Please take care of my mother God . . . Please answer me.” God did not answer Evan. There was only silence and the beating of his hopeless heart.

* * * *

The tumblers in the lock on the front door clicked, clickity clack, and it creaked open slowly. Panic struck Evan in a white hot flash. It was Patrick home from a night of drinking a carousing. He made one last plea to God, “Dear sweet God, please help me.” Patrick started up the stairs slowly, with Evan‘s angst growing stronger with every step. He knew by the way Patrick climbed the stairs that he was drunk. Evan checked the clock; it was almost midnight. He must have been at Shanties all evening, thought Evan. He scrambled with the nimbleness of a cat to his bedroom in the cover of darkness and slipped under the bed and lay perfectly still.

A blinding burst of phosphorescent light filled the living room as Patrick hit the light switch, the remnants of which illuminated the floor of Evan’s room.