TimTibbitts | Short Stories
3
archive,category,category-short-stories,category-3,ajax_updown_fade,page_not_loaded,

Short Stories

“Freedom Fighter” Lyrics

29 Aug 2013, Posted by Tim Tibbitts in Short Stories

  FREEDOM FIGHTER (Independence Day, 2012)   At first the uniform made you feel taller But as the wars grind on you can’t see the valor Watching brothers-in-arms continue to fall where Villagers you’re helping hide bombs in their squalor How did it come to this?   You signed up to be a fighter for freedom Justice is you call You fight to defend our sweet liberty And justice for all, and justice for all.   When they pissed on the terrorist’s corpse you withdrew Convinced yourself there was nothing [you needed]to do If you got in the way, your…

Joshua Richmond–or Redmond–or Something

07 Aug 2013, Posted by Tim Tibbitts in Short Stories

LEXI-BELLE WAS GOING TO LOSE HER VIRGINITY by the end of the night.  Now that Gina Anderson had done it with Johnny DiMacchio’s on the Fourth of July, Lexi-Belle was the last of the sophomores to still be a virgin.  She hadn’t figured out all the pa’ticulars, but sometime between the opening kickoff and the last dying ember of the post-game bonfire, one of those big, dumb sons-a-bitches was gonna get lucky.  Of that she was sure.  Or at least she had been sure by the time she and Mary Ann—already drunk enough to be a bit unsteady in their…

Mini-Original #2: “New Kid”

18 Jun 2013, Posted by Tim Tibbitts in Short Stories

All alone in the fenced-in backyard, Rusty hurled the baseball as hard as he could into the air.  When a gust of wind caught the ball, Rusty gave chase. Just over the fence he could see the kite the neighbor kids had been trying all morning to keep aloft.  Back home, if somebody had a kite, everybody had a kite.  And the new kid wouldn’t be left playing catch by himself for a whole week without somebody comin’ over to say “Hey.” Suddenly, the wind slammed the kite right into a tree on along the fence. The neighbor kid, a…

Robert stood on what looked like a narrow stone path, only the path didn’t go anywhere.  Instead, it made a hexagon on the ground. Robert re-read the directions Grandpa had scrawled from memory. Follow picket fence out back to white gazebo with wrought iron trim. “Gazebo.”  That was a word he’d had to look up.  “A free-standing, roofed, usually open-sided structure providing a shady resting place.” Where was that gazebo?  Except for the abandoned farmhouse and the rickety picket fence, Robert didn’t see any structure of any sort. Not being certain where he was made Robert uneasy.  How much more…