Jon Blackstock

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Mar, 2020

Stories (9)

9 Stories

236 karma pts

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“That Which Nourishes Me… (A Psychobilly Romance)” by Jon Blackstock

NOTE: This story contains a scene where a body literally hits a floor.PsychoBillieJean was a real rock-n-roller with a chip, a good head, and a tattoo on her shoulder. The tattoo read, "Quod me nutrit, me destruit." Whatever made her feel good--or just feel--she'd do it. She put a lid on her past because she couldn't unscrew it. When she found a good fit, she immediately threw it, and when she wanted to fight, everybody knew it. He...

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“Good Will at the Corner of Fifth and Broad” by Jon Blackstock

People who say ten thousand bucks isn’t life-changing money don’t know Diedre Morgan. In a time when pro ball players pay fifty to a hundred large for missing a practice or a media day, and celebs pay that much or more for a week of rehab, ten grand ain’t a Hell of a lot. But when you work two jobs not only for the money to support a drunken, shiftless, louse of a husband and a hypochondriac mother but also for the peace of mind that comes with getting out of the house, finding ten-thousand dollars in a sports coat is a life-changing mayb...

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“"'Every day' is Two Words"” by Jon Blackstock

A thick layer of pitch-black oil shot out from the top of Nat Taylor's world and engulfed everything in sight and in mind. It oozed quickly down his peripheral and then hid everything before draining down the bottom. His world, that once held a vast array of colors from a high-speed car wreck, now contained only egregiously bright lights that blinded more efficiently than the oil itself.As the light washed away the oily remnants, Nat's ass poked out of a hospital gown, and he could tell that decisions about him were bein...

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“110 Penitent Ghosts” by Jon Blackstock

Stepping onto his mother’s covered porch, I stiff-armed the purgatorial ghosts of pointless memories. Vague reflections looked up from a murky pond of rippling time, and even the ghosts that resembled me laughed with blame. Especially the ones that looked like me. Those familiars mocked attentively, the rest in spurts and fits.They came up from the ground like watery smoke and wafted through the rails. Sitting, standing, running, lying—they fought, they laughed, they hoped. They also huffed, sniffed, and puffed—rolling t...

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“Rufus Leaves Legacies” by Jon Blackstock

One day, Rufus simply stopped killing mice.He’d once taken great pride in his work, sitting for days in front of the oven, waiting patiently—stealthily still—for a mouse to venture out from under the warmer-drawer or in the recess between the oven and cabinets. The target would poke its head out several times before running out and back in. This is where most cats would lose patience and, consequently, their quarry. But not Rufus. He waited—statuesque and frozen—until the mouse walked out and felt comfortable enough to s...

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“A Memory that Counts” by Jon Blackstock

The Crowe family farmhouse stood two stories high in a flat field of windswept broom grass. Ivy climbed the barbed wire fences that designated pastures for the six head o’ cattle that lowed, often, in the lower field—the one down by the creek and the parallel rows of pulp pine. A huge, largely unused barn opposed the house roughly two acres away. A single silo leaned slightly to the left—too tired to stand upright, too proud to downright lie. The farmhouse, especially after the trauma from recent events, protruded like an exposed beating ...

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“A Trust You Can Bank On” by Jon Blackstock

Maurice Stevens appeared to walk straight out of the nineteen-seventies and into the South Texas Bank and Trust. He wore a wide collar, a full mustache, and some half boots tucked into some flares. The older teller at the counter thought Maurice resembled her late husband. He carried himself with a strong sense of class that the younger teller wouldn’t understand. The recently hired young black teller seemed to be shaking her head in a badly hidden sense of disbelief.The bank president’s wife stood at the loan officer’s...

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“A Witness with One Red Shoe” by Jon Blackstock

Carol Lyndon found the man who called himself Miles to be a charming gentleman. She’d enjoyed a dark stroll at Waterfront Park after a negroni and a plural of pink ladies before she realized his marital status. She hadn’t asked outright, and he hadn’t admitted anything, per se. This was Charleston after all, modern or not, and she wouldn’t be any man’s low-hanging fruit. Besides, it had started to rain. “...

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“Deus Ex Machina: My Afterlife in Art” by Jon Blackstock

   I was enjoying my usual nightmare until I realized that I was the nightmare. I had become someone else’s nightmare. It's the default actor's nightmare: I’m standing offstage in the wings. The play has already started. Lights rise to a blinding intensity, and an actor I don’t recognize anymore allows the first lines to fall from his or her androgynous mouth into a lapel mic. The wall-mounted speakers expectorate that line into the seat-planted audience, composed mainly of the actors’ obliging relatives and tho...

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Author bio

Writer, teacher, editor, rider. Old School, New Passion. Bad whistler, good listener.

Shortlisted 1 story ⭐️

Contest #143
Rufus Leaves Legacies – read story