Stories by
Pat Tompkins

When she couldn’t walk anymore, I sat on her lap and she stroked my ears. She never hit me. Her son thinks he owns me now. He smells bad.

Pat Tompkins writes from California.

No one wants this role. When you see me on the street, no matter how self-absorbed you are, you give thanks you’re not me. Move along.

Pat Tompkins writes from California.

This story won second place in the 2011 Nanofiction Contest.

Between regrets of the night before and dread of Monday morning, he went to First Baptist and prayed the team he’d bet on would win.

Pat Tompkins writes from California.

The venture was risky and they had a history of screwups, but the Chance brothers—Fat, Slim, and No—decided they had nothing to lose.

Pat Tompkins writes from California.

He meant it when he said it. But that was last night. Things were different in daylight. Now he was pretty sure he didn’t love her anymore.

Pat Tompkins writes from Northern California.

Tea with milk was all she could keep down. Later, champagne settled her stomach. She could hardly wait to take off the tight white dress.

Pat Tompkins writes from California.