Tue, 31 Mar 2026 18:25:31 -0700WeeblyFri, 24 Apr 2009 19:14:38 GMThttps://www.nathankey.com/short-stories/the-race Blake rounded the final bend and glanced backward, noticing Eugene was gaining on him.

 “Come on, Blake.” shouted a man in the crowd.

As the voice called out he slowed.

“What are you doing?” cried Eugene, dodging left.

Blake sat right down in the middle of the track and the other runners passed by, one by one. When the race had finished, a shadowy figure wandered over and offered Blake a hand.

“There’s always next year, I suppose,” said his father.

“Yes sir,” replied Blake as frozen eyes blazed two holes in the concrete beneath him. “I suppose there is.”

Word Count: 100

]]>Mon, 09 Feb 2009 15:44:25 GMThttps://www.nathankey.com/short-stories/brains-in-your-head-feet-on-the-ground“Sometimes I wish we had more...”

“Brains?” muttered my companion.

“Exactly.” I said. “It seems like we’re mere beasts bent on consumption. There’s gotta be something better than pillaging the world for our own benefit. I mean, how did we become these monsters who take, take, take without regard for anyone and anything? Why don’t we give as much as we get?”

“--Braaains--” muttered the figure beside me.

“Maybe you’re right. I should probably just quit thinking about it and enjoy what I’ve got.”

Reaching into the squishy cavity before me, I scooped out the prefrontal cortex and began drooling.

Word Count: 100

]]>Sat, 24 Jan 2009 16:36:29 GMThttps://www.nathankey.com/short-stories/learning-to-love In my youth, I thought that love was a tightening in my chest as timid fingers brushed the hand of a girl. I thought love was the shortness of breath, the hurt, as my grandfather’s ashes were buried in the garden. I thought love was my bride, beaming, as she walked through the church to recite her vows. But today, as my son’s little knees bend in time with Good Vibrations and his laughter invites me to dance; I realize that I’ve held a narrow view of love thus far. So, I’m finally open to learning what love truly means.

Word Count: 100

]]>Wed, 05 Nov 2008 03:24:29 GMThttps://www.nathankey.com/short-stories/rubber-chickenIt was a thing of beauty. The rubber chicken swung back and forth, back and forth, back and forth in a hangman’s noose. This was moment middle school boys dream of, the reason we skipped our after school activities, snuck into the school’s theater, made dirty jokes about “choking it,” and ascended to the heights of the catwalk. The fowl dangled there in center stage, just behind the curtain, swinging, swinging. The following morning, the intercom crackled and a livid voice demanded that anyone with information should come forward immediately. We gave each other subtle glances, never saying a word.

Word Count: 100

]]>Fri, 31 Oct 2008 06:15:06 GMThttps://www.nathankey.com/short-stories/blue-ridge-nightmaresI don’t know how many accidents happen here each year, but I’ve died forty-three times tonight: one death for each curve in the road. My dad is driving. Usually, he’s the least dangerous person in the world. He’s the guy who brakes hard on yellow and then sticks it in reverse, returning to the white line before the light turns red. Seriously, I've been there when it's happened. But on this road, late at night with headlights coming from all angles, the only thing to do is bury my head in a pillow and wonder if he’s going too fast.

Word Count: 100

]]>Thu, 23 Oct 2008 23:57:55 GMThttps://www.nathankey.com/short-stories/the-fallAs my boy played next to me on the bed, I dozed off for a moment, only to jolt awake with an overwhelming sense of gravity. I leapt from the mattress even before the THUD- even before his tiny voice screamed out in surprise, pain, and betrayal. Beth came running in, demanding to know what happened as I scooped him up off the floor, burbling, "oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh, please, no, I'm so sorry little boy, I'm so sorry little boy, so sorry..." Later, four firemen reminded me to be more careful in the future.

Word Count: 100

]]>Thu, 23 Oct 2008 23:57:33 GMThttps://www.nathankey.com/short-stories/sophomoric-instinctsShe warned us that if we waited until the last minute to work on our midterm papers we’d receive no better than a D. I should have taken her words to heart, but instead, I procrastinated until three days before it was due and wrote all night, handing it in half-drunk on lack of sleep. When the essay came back, graded, I dropped the class. It was the sloppiest thing I’d ever composed and the highest grade she’d ever given anyone. I couldn’t continue listening to her tell us not to drag our feet, when it apparently worked out fine.

Word Count: 100

]]>Thu, 23 Oct 2008 23:56:56 GMThttps://www.nathankey.com/short-stories/blood-red-summerThe only time I ever took a beating was during the first year I went to summer camp. A bunch of us were waiting in line for the snack shack and I made a snide remark about this huge kid who was teasing me. Moments later, I had my back up against the side of a wooden barn and I took blow after blow my to face until my nose exploded. My shirt was ruined.

A camp counselor rushed in and forced an apology out of him. Then he told me I had to forgive the boy, too. After all, forgiveness is what we Christians do, right? Later that night I asked Jesus into my heart one more time, just to make sure, and sang Kumbaya at the top of my lungs.

Word Count: 132
This story was featured at Six Sentences on September 24th, 2008

]]>Thu, 23 Oct 2008 23:56:21 GMThttps://www.nathankey.com/short-stories/farm-wars Ever since Mr. Brown’s prized milk cow, Bernice, jumped over the moon there was an all out war for his attention. The chickens were determined to peck out the world’s largest hole, the pigs planned world domination, and the horses soon embarked on expedition to the bottom of the sea.

Mr. Brown put an end to the whole affair when the old goat broke his neck in a skydiving accident. With tears in his eyes, the farmer buried Fredrick’s body beside a physics lab that the mice had been constructing and considered the matter settled.

Word Count: 95

]]>Thu, 23 Oct 2008 23:55:34 GMThttps://www.nathankey.com/short-stories/death-by-meatballHarold's body had been there for at least a month by the time Bradshaw's team found him. He lay dead in a pool of his own vomit, hair still combed in a greasy part and eyes glazed over. He was dressed in his favorite t-shirt. The stench of rotting flesh was overwhelming. Hardened policemen turned away to keep from becoming sick.

A local ganster had been bragging for weeks that it was his own cooking had done in the undercover cop. No one had really believed it until now. Bradshaw shook his head. It was a real shame to lose good man like Harold. There weren't many people who could operate so deep inside the mob’s network without betraying their ethics. Unfortunately, those like Harold who didn’t turn on the law usually ended up like this.

"Interesting way to go, though." he thought. "Now that's one spicy meatball-a!"

Word Count: 148

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