Short Stories

As the author of the book, I wanted to write a little about just what the story means to me. The lead character is of course, not the kind of person you'd want to know - at least, not for very long. He is a combination of killers that I read about before I began the work and some of his murderous habits would be repellent to any normal person, but as I began to write the story out, several questions in my mind took hold... will Raymond (the killers first name), pay for his hideous crimes here, in this life? Will he pay in the next? Perhaps he falls through the cracks of justice - manmade or otherwise - and never pays at all, while some of the lives he touches through his deeds become wrecked - as I tried to show in a passage when Raymond meets the only surviving member of a once happy family whose burden it becomes to spend each day in living hell, a hell provided by Raymond, who meets this man coincidentally on an elevated train and thinks nothing of the result of his vile actions. This irony I faced myself with became part of the momentum for writing the story and although I've raised these questions I cannot, in all truth to myself and to the public at large, say that I can answer them as well. I hope that many of you have more luck with these resolutions than I have had, and I invite you to read the work and to arrive at your own personal conclusions. You can visit my web site if you like at: www.reidlaurence.piczo.com. Thank you, Reid Laurence.

Many different tales of shrot stories by said author.

"Destinies don?t make themselves.?" Those were the words spoken by my father to my mother when she asked why he?d abducted her.

I ground my teeth and kicked at the too-clean tiled floor. One of my hands was clenched tight around the arm of the chair Dr. Sira had offered me when I entered her office.

The old legends say a lake that does not render its dead is a lake in which monsters live. It was one of the nice little bits of lore Roy Angel and the rest of the charter boat captains used to entertain their customers when the fishing was slow.

I met Tzila Biran, a young woman from one a large northern kibbutz, at one of Professor Rosenfeld's lectures. I was late because the lecture was not in its usual place. Professor Rosenfeld drew such a large crowd of young people that the small classrooms in the liberal arts building could not hold them all, so the professor moved from one large, vacant hall to another.

Savan's long white hair curved over his shoulders. His lips were parted--barely--in what would become a mysterious grin, and his all-too-green eyes stared ahead with their confident light.

The book; My Shorts is a combination of short stories written especially for the internet and offers readers the opportunity to sit at their computers and read a humorous piece of fiction that won't take all day to get through!

The evening was quiet enough. It was 11 already gone. Arthur McCollins was putting the tea cups down on the table and Stuart was making himself comfortable.

The rural areas of central New Jersey are dotted with small towns and villages that have in their own way contributed greatly to early American history. Perhaps the most important from this historic point of view and yet least known and talked about is the small town of Doltzville.

In their pathetic efforts to pander to the morbid tastes of a sensation-avid public, most fiction writers persist in maligning prosecuting attorneys as being cruel ruthless men willing to stop at nothing - even sending innocent men and women to their death in order to further their own greedy ambitions.

I'll tell you the truth---even with my wife staring down at me in bed---marriage ain't easy. Nope. But now I knew, as she grasped my hand and I remembered my vows.