Anton Halifax
Bio
Stories (10)
Filter by community
The Innocent Ignorance of ‘44
Meredith poked around the living room for the last time, dusting and squaring her knick-knacks before she settled in her chair like a hen on a clutch of eggs. Bill, who was reading the Daily Tribune in his lounger, breathed a sigh of relief because she had found the house in order. Her constant nitpicking and rearranging annoyed him to no end. Images of her mother, who had done the same thing when he had come to court her, hurled themselves at his mind. From behind his paper he could hear her searching through her blonde wicker basket in front of her leather ottoman where she would soon prop her feet. Next would come the tic-tic-tic of her knitting needles and the muffled crunches of almonds.
By Anton Halifaxabout 7 hours ago in Fiction
Black Onions
All her sisters hid from me, the Mandingo, and they veiled themselves in their green bivouacs, yet I knew the forbidden fruit of white flesh. She revealed herself to me, unclasped her flakey brown chemise, teased me with smooth pearly shoulders and I know I must push her away. What would Master do if he caught me in the garden with her naked, crying because I will never know who she really is? There are too many faces she has shown me and her pungent fakeness stings my eyes.
By Anton Halifaxabout 7 hours ago in Fiction
Stripped Manhood
When I saw the broken window, I knew I’d earned a beatin’, but none of that matter now. As long as no one heard that tink sound the window made when the little silver man jumped his butt through it, I’m scot-free. I’m headed to Chuck’s party, the defensive captain of our football team. It was the biggest event of the summer, a party so hot everyone was sure to be talkin’ about it for months. The coaches had been kept in the dark about the location so none of them could show up and spoil our fun, keep us from enjoyin’ the way we suppose to. Now, if I can just get out this house the back way without messin’ up my gear ‘cause I’m too clean to be touched – way too clean. I have on my white kangol, a black silk button down that was snug around the arms to show off my guns, a white tee, my so-creased- you-can-slice-bread-them Girbaud jeans that folks don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout up here, my A.T. Money platinum chain with emeralds, and the new Jordan’s my agent hooked me up with that wasn’t even bein’ sold yet. I checked them for scuffs. That half-story leap from my bedroom window wasn’t no joke. Wind was whistlin’ past my ears forever, thought I was gonna snap my ankle when I landed or worse, scuff my shoes. Coach would have been pissed ‘bout my ankle, but these babies here ain’t hittin’ the store shelves for another six months. I mean I can’t be showin’ up with no scuffed up shoes, I’m Amistad Thompson, All-Star runnin’ back for Denver’s favorite football team.
By Anton Halifax4 years ago in Fiction
If They Knew Would They Tell Us?
Greg sat at his memento-covered desk sipping orange juice to settle his gastric upheavals, while working out equations for N.A.S.A.’s Paganini launch scheduled for later this summer. His gut rumbled as the Taco Bell burrito entered his upper intestine. Being alone in the command center, he didn’t mind relieving himself or talking to himself aloud. He leaned back in his ergonomic chair and let loose a long, hot belch. His wife Jennifer’s picture seemed to say ‘I told you so’. His twin boys played on the opposite walls. He could enjoy their gaiety if only the burning would stop.
By Anton Halifax4 years ago in Fiction
The Crack-Head Professor
I use to teach quantum physics at Harvard, that is, until the other professors with their pompous windbaggery, proposed to the dean that I be removed from the institution. Their ambitions – as obvious as a cap and tassel on a Mastiff bitch; their jealousy – a deep and icy Atlantic fissure, they injected their insidious concoction of concern into the student body and watched it course through every minute capillary, permeate each corpuscle. Only the most devout of my students stood by until the end when the Dean’s hand was force against me.
By Anton Halifax4 years ago in Fiction
The Mysterious Red Egg
Chris opened his eyes. Brenda’s small, oval face appeared smooth, languorous everywhere but under her eyes, were darkened folds of olive skin supported thickets of lashes. A spray of light came through the window above their heads and illuminated an opening in their tented blankets, Brenda’s hiding spot for them. She watched Chris; her chestnut eyes emblazoned with fear. He knew she had been studying him for some time from the lack of drowsiness in her face, apparent though the dour, tepid color of sleeplessness.
By Anton Halifax4 years ago in Fiction
Writing with Lightening
Regina Scapegrace was left-handed, which is why she came home with frazzled hair and sore knuckles. It was just one of the asinine things the boys picked on her for, until three of her sliders locked up her brother’s friends at the plate. They no longer looked at her as a girl. After she had gained their respect, she did not want to do anything like a girl anymore. R.O.T.C. would aid her quest to no longer be “girly” and she rose to the top of her class out shooting, out drilling, and out marching everyone. There was no doubt of her capabilities; she wanted no trace of femininity, but her body betrayed her in her sophomore year and her mother’s curves desperately clung to her frame, amplified by her vigorous training and brown R.O.T.C. pants. This angered her not because of what she had become, but because she did not see it coming. All she remembered of her mother was her blueberry muffins. Womanhood is the furthest thing from a five-year-old’s mind, and she did not think to ask her mother before a train wreck took her. Now she walked like her, though she did not know it, and garnered unwanted attention from co-eds drilling behind her.
By Anton Halifax4 years ago in Fiction
Rock Salt Mountain
Karma had brained his good intentions five long years ago and he was sober. Jamie’s luck had changed, maybe. He and Rex sat silently watching the snow-covered scenery. No matter how lucky, quietly one survives the winters of the far north. After witnessing his only sibling engulfed by an avalanche, the retired axe man appreciated snow’s power turned terror.
By Anton Halifax4 years ago in Fiction
