Dan McKeon

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jul, 2020

Stories (4)

4 Stories

76 karma pts

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“A Little Oasis” by Dan McKeon

Submitted to Contest #52

The chipped wooden door swung open with such gusto that the rusted hinges barely had a chance to squeal. Mel hurriedly stomped the caked-on snow from his work boots and ripped the plaid flannel coat from his shoulders, leaving a dusting of white powder all around him. He was too excited to even notice.“Kitty Kat!” he screamed from the entranceway as he tore his boots off of his feet and tossed them onto the black rubber floor mat. “Kitty Kat, where are you, baby?”“Kitchen,” Kat shouted over the running sink water.“Kitty Kat, oh baby, I got t...

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“Stone Roses” by Dan McKeon

Submitted to Contest #51

I remember very little from that time. Perhaps the years that have passed placed a fog over my earlier life, or maybe forgetting is my own way of granting myself some semblance of protection. I close my eyes and I think of the rose carved in stone. Victoria, my wife, doesn’t know much about my younger years. Our ten-year-old son, Donovan, knows even less. I stare at the thin plastic cup in my hand, mindlessly swirling around the half-melted ice cubes before placing it on the tray table attached to the seat in front of me. I’m still unsure ...

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“Kings of Liberty” by Dan McKeon

Submitted to Contest #50

It had been a brutally hot summer, even for Kentucky, so the afternoon shower was certainly welcome. It was the ominous, silvery-gray sky that gave Hank pause. It was a three-mile trek on the dirt road back to his family’s livestock farm, or a half-mile saunter across MacGillan’s field. At the rate the storm clouds were traveling from the West, Hank opted for a jaunt through the buckwheat. MacGillan only planted it for cover anyway; he had no intention of harvesting it. He’d just till it over once it blossomed to ready the soil for the next ...

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“A Place like This” by Dan McKeon

Submitted to Contest #49

I try not to tinker with it, but my finger is almost magnetically drawn there. I pull my hand away and just stare. The cumulous puff of white teases me. I can nearly hear it screaming my name. I want to resist, but my index finger reaches beyond my conscious thought and begins to stroke the stray batting poking through the cracked vinyl of the armrest. The chair that supports my slumping weight is a gray, powder-coated aluminum and I can feel its bitter chill press against the calf of my leg through a hole in my jeans. The armrests are cover...

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