Other Writing

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

From Volume 35: A story by Frank Scozzari
Frank Scozzari

Two Men and a Gun


It’s hard to say exactly how I ended up in this dreadful situation, although I could easily put all the blame on the Thomas-Cook train schedule. If they had made their timetables a little easier to read, and their columns more evenly aligned, I may have never ended up on this midnight train to Athens. Yet there I was, sandwiched in among all the dissolute of Southern Europe in a third-class...

FICTION: “The Yosemite Bear Bandits” by Frank Scozzari

The silence of the midnight valley was broken by the patter of running feet.

Then came the cry—“Bear!”

And again, a different voice, “Bear! Bear!”

And then a chorus of “Bears!”

Lantern lights came on, flashlight beams cut through the darkness, and my two buddies came shuffling past me, grinning.

“Tea time,” Rob said.

He was on one end of an ice-chest and George on the other, each holding a handle, moving awkwardly. I turned and watched them...

The Cowboy and The Ballerina

By Frank Scozzari

The door swung open and the silhouette that appeared was undoubtedly that of a ballerina. The figure was sublime and had the fanning outline of a tutu about the waist.

“Can I use your phone?” the silhouette cried out.

Marge, the fifty-something waitress-proprietor looked over at the lone cowboy seated at a table. He tilted his big Stetson hat back so he could see the figure more clearly.

“My car died and I need to call a cab,” the silhouette said.

“...

The Triumph
by Frank Scozzari | Mar 13, 2012 | Flash Fiction | 0

Mowambi was breathing hard, panting like a wild animal, his leathery face wincing in the hot African sun. He had been hit cleanly through the side, the wound causing a great numbness in his abdomen. His left leg lay limp like a dead thing, the life in it taken by the bullet. But the maumivu, the pain that it made, wasn’t bad. Except when he tried to move or when he breathed too deeply. He concentrated on his breathing, short and...

Frank Scozzari
January 1, 2014 by utpress Leave a Comment

TOO OLD FOR WAR
by Frank Scozzari
Old Makatiku looked wearily upon the young Kantaku. A pillar of youth he was, standing more than two meters in height with broad shoulders, a head full of shiny black hair, skin that was taut and clear, and muscles that rippled like the palms in a tree. His shadow stretched out over the African earth like that of a giraffe. And from his seated position in his thatched throne, Makatiku knew he looked old...