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Sam Gangi's picture

Mommy

She demonically slithered into the vacant room pausing in front of a lone leather chair. It stood solitary against the drab gray wall, a black-hole of comfort, taunt and slick to the touch- it summoned her to sit. She sat with an irregular twist to her back, a hideous posture contrary to her cerebral beauty. Her foggy perspiration sticking to the pelt with vulgar rhythmic gurgles as she shifted from a parasitic stupor to a milky coherence. Ghoulish voices sprung from the forgotten passages of her mind until a lone voice beckoned her to sanity once again. “Mommy, can we go home now?” The hotel lobby still blurred by the distant sounds of muted conversation and overpriced cocktails came back into focus as she searched her purse for the keys to the minivan and slurred out her response. “Let me finish my drink and then we’ll go dear.”

Previous Writing

Shot Glass

Feb
05

The table was set. Just as it had been every night since she lost her job at the brokerage firm two years ago. The oval shaped coffee table had been a gift from her now deceased father in-law. A memento from one of the many hobbies he had embarked upon before cancer took him just shy of his seventy-fifth birthday. It’s hand crafted walnut finish sat in contrast between her and a high-end entertainment center that once stood as a status symbol for their affluence and success; right in front of her husband’s favorite easy-chair. For this was his spot not hers. She was merely setting the stage for the rude awakening that was about to take place.

It was after all, her education and labors that had bestowed the comfortable life for the three of them. She was the bread winner of the family; she welcomed his father into their home and cared for him in his aging years, she pacified and supported her husband’s artistic passions, regardless of his lack of talent. Now, times were tough. She was one of the many highly educated financial advisor casualties this economic meltdown left in its wake; and the odds of rekindling her career at this stage of her life were slim to none, "And slim just left town" (The voice in her head clichéd.) What was his contribution anyways? Lately… not much more than night after night of sour mash and coke, micro waved pot-pie, and water-colored trails. -TO BE CONTINUED

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Celebrate

Feb
05

She tore open the envelope, her hands shaking. The contents would no doubt change her life forever. How, she had no clue and even though she had been searching for over a year and a half, she wasn’t prepared for the answer. She held in her hands a lifetime, her life time. Who was she? Was she really married, were there children? Did she work, how old was she? She knew none of these things. For the past eighteen months, she was just another Jane Doe, an unknown person with no identity, homeless and alone, running from cat calls like bag lady, tramp, and whore.-TO BE CONTINUED

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The Christmas Waltz

Feb
05

By Samuel J. Gangi

Chapter one

Lying in her bed gravely ill and barely able to move Jacks grandmother dreamed of better days. Just barely eight years old Jack spent countless hours lying there with her, running his fingers through her hair eyes closed imagining all the wonderful things they would do together if she could only walk again. He had never know her to walk. She had become bedridden years before he was born, crippled by rheumatoid arthritis. TO BE CONTINUED...

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