Robert Ellison

@robert-ellison.bsky.social

112 Followers 333 Following

Writer in the Deep South. Loves stories about plausibly real people dealing with plausibly real life situations with plausibly real emotions. Superheroes and robots need not apply. Monsters, unfortunately, still abound.

WIPSnips - Coach "What can I get you, boss," asked the kid behind the counter. He put too many pickles on the sandwich and acted like the mayo was made of gold. At the pharmacy I was sir. At the car wash, the air still humid and the sky greasy with color after the afternoon rain, the guy washing my windows asked about my choice in scents. "Cherry or Newcar, Captain?" I picked the latter and hoped the KFC wouldn't kill the smell before I got home. Halfway home my boss texted. Thanks, Coach. When I walked through the door, my wife said, "The lasagna is cold. You can warm it." She'd never once called me anything but my name. That's why I'm on this stool. What about you? by Robert Ellison
The dealer finally starts tossing cards. I look at his stack. He won't be here much longer. He clearly entered out of desperation. Guessing he's one of the host's friends, not feeling good about being here but one of the people - what's his name, Bryce? - was counting on. He needed all fifty seats. "Guy's got a gambling problem," Emil had told me. "Now he's got a mortgage problem." We'd been at lunch. Subway. 12-inch Italian with oil and extra salt and mayo. "So he's hoping to save his house by winning a poker tournament?" I shook my head. "I don't like his odds." Emil had wiped his mouth with a dull brown napkin, shaking his head. "It's not like that. He can't lose," he said. From the as-yet unpublished "House Game" by Robert Ellison