Bruce Krug

Bruce Krug is a Delaware native and has been writing for fun, and sometimes profit, ever since his eleventh grade English teacher insisted he read his short story assignment in front of the entire class.  More recently, Bruce’s short stories have taken prizes in writing competitions. Currently releasing a collection of short stories as an e-book, Bruce is also working on a series of novels about the paranormal.

With over twenty years in private and public procurement, Bruce currently spends his nine-to-five hours managing contracts for a government agency. When the whistle sounds he escapes to the fictional worlds of his creation as a means of retaining sanity.

Husband, father, and grandfather, Bruce weaves the importance of family into his writing. Some of his stories tell of the joys to be found in life’s subtle magic while other tales lead readers into places they would normally seek to keep at bay with the help of a hundred watt bulb.

 

Exposing My Shorts (excerpt)

Sandra Sweigart loved the quiet porch, the quiet street, and the quiet town; even if the town didn’t love her back. Fourth of July celebrations always stole it away – the quiet that is- and she hated the holiday for it.

Soon the fire trucks would come down the potholed street followed by the town’s one ambulance. The ambulance, auctioned off by the hospital in Scranton back in nineteen sixty nine, was long overdue for retirement. The sirens on all of those emergency vehicles would emit half whoops announcing the arrival of the twelve member high school marching band. Behind the band with their tarnished instruments would be the antique cars occupied by local officials who actually believed they understood how the twice damned world worked.

Sandra knew how it worked. You grew up, got married, and watched your husband go off to war while you carried his twin boys in your stomach. You greeted the well dressed officer who told you your husband was dead and waited for him to leave before puking over the porch railing. Then year after year you watched the whole damn town parade down the street to remind you your husband had died protecting their freedom and you had lost your life before it even started.

Propping her blue and white no-name sneakers on the top of the porch railing Sandra watched the one quarter of the town population that wasn’t in the parade reserve their roadside real estate with faded bedspreads and folding chairs. Most of the chairs were missing at least one of the two inch wide nylon strips that made up the woven seat and back.

A whole section of curb emptied as onlookers surged into the middle of the street, a sure sign that someone had spotted something. Of course that something might be only Sam Jenkins who played at being the town drunk. Sam’s claim to fame was being able to empty a pint of Bacardi Silver without taking a breath.  Sandra could drink him under the table, but let Sam enjoy his notoriety.

A quiet sigh flowed down the street and the crowd deflated back onto the uneven walk. Thinking it must have been Sam they had seen after all, Sandra nearly dropped the bottle of vermouth when the first fire truck sounded off just two houses up from hers.

Son o a bits, Sandra growled drunkenly, wiping at the puddle of alcohol that dribbled from the top of her tan and bony thigh. Th’ kinda’ crap coul gibe sumon a heart atta’

If her crystal ball had been working, Sandra would have known then and there that a heart attack would have been a blessing.

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