Stan Moroncini
Bio
I was born and raised in Los Angeles, the son of immigrants from Latin America. I served in the army for 15 years, completed two tours of duty to Iraq and Afghanistan and have loved writing since I can remember.
Stories (2)
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The Good Memory Book
In the evenings he would hear their voices, coarse, full of regrets and memories that were stronger than his own. In the mornings he could hear birds outside his hospital window, singing a song, mysterious to man. In the twinkling light of dusk, the nurse would come in and change his bedding. She would check his vital signs, humming the same droll hum each time. She was Filipina, or so he thought, and her body was small and round, and her smile was warm but lacking character, as if she practiced it in a mirror until she got it right, a pre-packaged smile for the sad sack vets she cared for in the grey hospital that so many souls were chained too. The nurse rarely spoke of anything beside the weather and the barely held together man that was her charge wondered if she were part of the doctors’ experiment to revive what he used to be. What the brown leather-bound book sitting at the end of his bed like an attentive dog was supposed to help cure.
By Stan Moroncini5 years ago in Fiction
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In the distance Miguel could see a herd of them, moving quietly against the dark landscape, keeping low, hunting like they always did. Blunt objects in hand they used to bludgeon their prey, be it man or beast. Baseball bats, dented axes, a metal pipe. They wore long, filthy coats, patch worked with whatever material was at hand. Their faces were wrapped in garments under long brimmed hats their clan were known for.
By Stan Moroncini5 years ago in Fiction
