Broken by Design: A Short Story Collection

By Kendal Lou Dickson

Broken by Design is a short story collection that features ten different fiction stories of multiple genres: Freak Accident, Ghosted, The Wild, Toxic, Curiosity, Killer Date, Nine Lives, His One Mistake, Two of the Same, and Miracle.

Freak Accident: A single father takes justice into his own hands after struggling with the loss of his young son.

Ghosted: A woman's budding relationship with a guy she met on a dating app is full of promise, but she's worried it's too good to be true.

The Wild: A man stranded on a deserted island realizes that he's not alone, and must fight to survive.

Toxic: A college student struggles to find the courage to end her abusive relationship and move on with her life.

Curiosity: A woman suspects her boyfriend is cheating on her with her roommate, and decides to play detective before heading home for Christmas break.

Killer Date: Taking a break from researching her thesis topic, a college student goes on a double date that may be her last.

Nine Lives: A woman feels hopeless and struggles to find reason to continue on with life, until a fateful encounter changes everything.

His One Mistake: A man blinded by obsession and jealousy, acts out his darkest fantasy.

Two of the Same: A man has been keeping a secret from his roommate for years, until he learns his roommate has a secret of his own.

Miracle: A woman is awoken by an impossible miracle, but her husband sees it in a different way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kendal Lou Dickson
• Release date: Jul 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201519933

Kendal Lou Dickson

Kendal is currently living in Texas. She graduated from the University of North Texas in 2017 with a BA in Creative Writing. She enjoys spending time with her dog and three cats, riding her horses, attending comic cons, and competing in barrel races.

Book preview

There is no perfection, only beautiful versions of brokenness.

― Shannon L. Alder

Freak Accident

The interrogation room is cramped. A bulb in one of the light fixtures is flickering. The room, already cold, hums as the air conditioning switches on. There’s barely enough room for the table and two chairs. On top of the table sits a manila folder, next to it is a small notepad, riddled with ineligible scribbles, and an audio recording device. Two men sit on either side of the plastic table. One, Herald Tripp, is a detective. He’s older, probably in his mid-forties. His short brown hair is thinning. His mustache is peppered with grey hairs. The other, Noel Jenkins, is the accused. He’s barely thirty. Dirty blond curls frame his boyish face. His appearance is too clean-cut, too mild to be sitting at that table. Handcuffs hang heavily on his thin wrists.

You murdered a kid...

Noel slams his fists onto the table, rattling the cuffs. No, he murdered mine!

The detective shakes his head solemnly. He opens the manila folder and slides a picture towards Noel. It’s of a teenage boy, no older than seventeen. He has fiery red hair and a crooked smile. His round face is pimpled.

Look at him.

His eyes, grey like the ocean, refuse to break contact with the detective’s.

Herald grabs a fistful of Noel’s hair. He shoves his face towards the picture. I SAID LOOK AT HIM, DAMMIT.

Noel’s breaths are quick and frequent. His eyes are tightly shut. There is an intense heat burning in the back of his head. The actions of the detective do not bring guilt or remorse, only despair. The soul sucking type of despair that one only feels after losing a loved one.

IT WAS A WARM OCTOBER evening, the first day of opening weekend of the annual Pumpkin Festival Fair. The county fairground was overcrowded with vendors, rides, and patrons. Fumes of freshly popped popcorn, fried pies and corndogs, cotton candy, and the less appealing sweat odor produced by the crowd, were carried through the fair by a faint breeze.

Fashioned in a red flannel shirt and faded blue jeans, Noel walked through the crowds. In one hand he held a half-eaten corndog, drizzled with mustard and ketchup, in the other, his son’s small hand. It’s a day shy of his son’s eighth birthday. His eyes, grey like his father’s, were wide and excited.

Can we go on some of the rides next? Please? he asked.

Noel smiled down at him. Of course, Arthur.

Nearby there were ponies fitted in small saddles positioned under a tent, a kiddie pool filled with rubber ducks, a house of mirrors, a ring-toss tent, and a swing carousel.

Arthur pulled his father toward the swing carousel.

This one? he asked, wide-eyed and hopeful.

Noel bit his lip. The carousal was large, fitted with twelve swings. Patrons were shrieking and laughing as it rose and spun, the highest point reaching almost forty feet in the air. It screeched as the ride lowered and came to a halt. Those in line eagerly walked past the turnstile as the swings released their previous occupants.

Maybe we should start with something else, how about a ride on one of those fine steeds? I think I saw bumper cars by the entrance too.

Arthur stomped his foot in the ground and crossed his tiny arms. "But I want to ride this one."

I don’t even think you are tall enough to ride this one buddy-

Actually, the height requirement is only four feet, a voice interrupted.

Noel turned to a teenage boy, who was manning the booth. The teenager wore a plain oversized purple shirt with a nametag that read, Jerry. A matching purple cap covered most of his curly brown hair. His thin, pale arm pointed to the cardboard poster with a cartoon child and measurements painted on it.

Why don’t you come here, and we can see where you’re at? he asked.

Arthur ran to the sign, placing his heels against it. His head was barely two inches shy of the minimum. Noel took a deep breath and Arthur’s excitement morphed into disappointment.

Sorry son, looks like you’re too short.

But-but tomorrow is my birthday, and I-I... tears welled up in his eyes. 

Nonsense. This thing is just for show, he can ride.

What? Noel and Arthur asked in unison.

Jerry smiled, his mouth full of braces. Yeah. Come up here buddy.

Before Noel could protest, Arthur ducked under the turnstile and ran to a vacant swing. Jerry went over and helped strap him in. Noel walked to the metal fencing and grabbed Jerry by his arm.

What do you think you’re doing? I want him off this ride, Noel said.

Hey, relax man, it’s just a ride. He’ll be fine.

Noel’s grip tightened.

Easy, that hurts, the teenager shuffled back. Seriously dude, I’ve been working this ride every year since I was thirteen. I swear on my life, it’s safe.

Come on Dad! Please! I promise if you let me, I won’t ask for anything else, a lone tear slipped down his puffy cheek. You can even take back all my presents. Please? Pretty pretty please?

Noel sighed and let go of teenager’s arm. Fine.

He relinquished two tickets to Jerry, but his disapproving expression remained. The teenager rubbed his arm before flipping the ride on. The ride screeched again as it rose and began spinning, slowly and then with speed. The