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Shadow Brother
August 5, 2010 in 299 Words, Adoption, Childhood, Culture, Danger, Family, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Fugitive, Immigrant, Literature, novels, Orphans, Parent, Refugee, Runaway, Short stories, Society, Very Short Novels, Violence, writers, Writing | by davidbdale | 25 comments
He’s not always easy to see. I can be talking to him in my room on a rainy afternoon with the radio playing and sharing a blueberry pie, and my dad will open the bedroom door and Deuce’ll be gone and it looks like I’m eating a pie by myself and talking to the radio. Read the rest of this entry »
First Will and Testament
July 15, 2010 in 299 Words, Adoption, Child, Childhood, Death, Destiny, Family, Fiction, Haunting, Health, Life, Love, Medicine, Nuclear Family, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Bequest, inheritance, medicine, will | by davidbdale | 27 comments
Some of my stuff I want to keep after I’m dead, but Ariel can pick out three things from my toy-box, not three of the same things, like not three ponies, or not even two insects, but a pony and an insect and a piece of furniture would be good, and she can ride my bike when she’s big enough. Read the rest of this entry »
My Black Baby
July 29, 2008 in 299 Words, Adoption, Baby, Birth, Family, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, novels, Politics, Race, Short stories, Society, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | by davidbdale | 3 comments
People assume we adopted her. (I would assume so too, except that I witnessed her unlikely birth to my very white wife by way of a nearly transparent, very white, me. I don’t object to the riddle of our mismatched hues Read the rest of this entry »
Strays
March 29, 2008 in 299 Words, Adoption, Business, Crime, Entertainment, Family, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Life, Literature, Orphans, Politics, Short stories, Society, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Escape, Missing, Mystery, Runaway | by davidbdale | 3 comments
I saw him surfing traffic in the city and knew nobody was looking out for him. The boulevard at rush hour was impassible. Nobody who wasn’t being chased by a maniac with a chainsaw would have tried to cross it on foot, yet he was running with the cars, Read the rest of this entry »
Very Short Novels 
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