You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘Guilt’ tag.

We boys had a club in the attic of Mitchell’s garage, the whole time I knew him and until he disappeared. We had handshakes and irrelevant passwords to guard against infiltration attempts that sadly never occurred. Read the rest of this entry »

I stole a brick from my neighbor’s house. With ease he had me convicted of stealing the whole thing, all three stories and the land it gouged, and rightly. We understand there is no difference. Read the rest of this entry »

The kid who glared across my desk at me had stolen our petty cash. We’d trusted him with a job and with proximity and access or acted as if we had. Read the rest of this entry »

I spend the week wondering what I can do for him, not just unload but bestow on him to brighten his prospects without, I admit, ever wanting his hopes to glow more brightly than mine and yet, I want him to be happier to receive than I am to relinquish whatever item I halfway hide in the piles of trash by the curb. Read the rest of this entry »

If tomorrow they locked us all in jail, how many of us could testify our way out? I’ve been looking at mug shot books all morning and nobody in this whole jury of peers collection looks not guilty. I wonder, if they gave me the book of women, would I find innocence there? Read the rest of this entry »

All these years later, I still find Barney’s logic compelling. We needed mitts before the start of the season. We couldn’t squeeze the money from the pittance they called our allowances. After expenses, and what the church extorted in those little envelopes, nothing was left for new equipment, Read the rest of this entry »

Summer camp for boys had been a nightmare of fellowship and other itchy rashes. For weeks, he had tried to find somebody he could like or a hiding place, but they had pestered him with bows and arrows, canoes and climbing ropes. The ropes he liked. Read the rest of this entry »

He should only hang. He only survived his youth because he had his parents overmatched and lived by their protection. Their idea of punishing Butchie was to limit him to slightly less of something the rest of us couldn’t afford even a little of. Read the rest of this entry »

The secret I felt thrust upon me is nothing I wish to claim; a syllable it was that earned me this room and in itself the syllable was true. From my small town near Pisa where bread was scarce I’ve journeyed here to a room of my own, Read the rest of this entry »

First of all, I’m not saying whether I saw anything or not unless I already know you, be that as it may, but on top of that, why you’re asking me is what I want to know, with those fake-looking credentials. Read the rest of this entry »

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299-WORD NOVELS

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The pen name David B Dale honors my parents Beatrice and Dale. David+B+Dale = davidbdale

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