• Grey Facebook Icon
  • Grey Twitter Icon
  • Grey Instagram Icon
  • Grey Pinterest Icon
©2017 markpannebecker.com
contact@markpannebecker.com
 
created by zoaDesign  
 

Godsfood

This collection of short stories is a tasty morsel that rests softly on the palate and is an important part of every meal. Sometimes the stories leave a lump in the throat and other times a smile on the lips. From the haunted past of Sylvia in The Isle of Shoals to the lovable bear living The Big City in The Adventures of Sparky the Bear, Godsfood delivers a cornucopia of diverse writing and unique characters.

About Godsfood
Table of Contents
The Isle of Shoals

A woman recalls a tragic past event.

 

Maribella of the Moors

A love story.

 

Godsfood

What to expect at the afterlife buffet.

 

The Unhealing Wound

A story about racism in America and that apathy offers no neutral ground.

The Curman Brothers

“Never start a fight, but always finish it.”  A midwest family's honor is tested.

The Hip O’ Cat

A father tells his precocious son a bedtime story.

My Brother’s Garden

A young man finds happiness in a secluded garden.

Salmon King

A feminist fantasy folktale where mysticism meets reality in a newly formed lake in Alaska.

The Adventures of Sparky the Bear

A humorous personification tale about a unique bear named Sparky living in the big city.

 
 
 
 

Buy it now at:

Also available at Amazon
Barnes & NobleKobo,
Books-a-million 

and iTunes. ​

Godsfood

By MARK PANNEBECKER

a collection of short stories

Book cover by Phil Jarvis

My office overlooks the Atlantic Ocean and Sylvia would often begin and end her sessions staring out the window, staring out to sea. Then one day, while gazing out the window, she began talking about her father in a way she never talked about him before. Her entire demeanor had changed; she became… younger, even in her voice.

  “He always had something for me. Always. When I’d come home from school, he would stop whatever he was doing and hug me in a full body wrap that one would expect from someone like a lover. If he was working on his car, he’d stop and hug me and I would walk into the house with grease stains on my clothes. When he’d come home from work, when he had work—no, wait, that’s Mama talking—when he would come home from work or when he’d been gone for the weekend, he’d have a little present for me: candy, a new dress, sometimes he’d give me one of the flowers he brought for Mama.

  “I could always feel a sort of change in the air on the day Daddy returned, I knew before Mama did, I sensed he was home before I saw his car in the driveway. He always had something for me, even if it was only a hug and a kiss. I was picked up and twirled around and his face was always smiling. He laughed a great deal, I remember. Mama would tell us to stop carrying on. She would stand there just looking at him. Not smiling… not frowning… just, watching… then walking away…. And Daddy would start singing a song. He had a beautiful voice, especially when he sang to me in Italian. He’d sing to me and Mama… on our yacht… in the water… and the music….”

  Sylvia turned away from the window earlier but now she turned back, and stared at the ocean horizon. “Did you know,” she began, “that the Atlantic Ocean covers 20 percent of the earth? That at its deepest, it’s over 27,000 feet? And that it’s considered the youngest of the world’s oceans; a baby, only 100 million years old?”

  “Did you spend a lot of time on the Atlantic, with your parents?”

  “Oh, yes.  Every summer we’d all go out on this ramshackle of a yacht Daddy had. I found out later that that was the only thing he got from his father. His father—my grandpa—he could’ve given Daddy half a million, his inheritance, but instead gave it to Uncle Ed. He thought my dad would waste it. He never had any faith. My dad could’ve made it work. He had plans, my dad. Grandpa was a selfish old man, concerned more with his petty legacy than he was with his family. My grandpa and Uncle Ed, they—“

  “Sylvia,” I interrupted, “tell me about one of your trips together on your father’s yacht in the Atlantic.”

 

From the Isle of Shoals