An Anthology of Short Stories and Moods in Prose

By Lesley Templeton for her father Leslie B. Kovacs

Leslie Beller Kovacs was born in New York City in 1910 just days after his parents arrived by ship from Hungary. When he was fourteen, they returned to Hungary where he remained until he was close to turning twenty-one. It was then he made the decision to return to the United States so he would not lose his citizenship. The stories and poems in this book were written by him in the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s. To a young person of today reading, these might seem strange and otherworldly. But these were written from the experiences of a man who lived in that age. The poignancy of these writings is evident as they are read, and somehow, they carry the reader back to a time and place very different from ours. The writings-poetic and true-touch the reader with a sense of longing to know more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: May 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644713532

Book preview

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An Anthology of

Short Stories and Moods in Prose

Leslie B. Kovacs

by

His daughter

Lesley Templeton

ISBN 978-1-64471-352-5 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64471-353-2 (Digital)

Copyright © 2019 Lesley Templeton

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Table of Contents

Seven Dollars

Andreé’

Doomed Soobmarine

The Old Man in the Desert

Moods in Prose

Carola

Winter Smoke

Broken Promise

Rendezvous

Peace

Contentment

Toll Bridge

Man and Wife

Accident

Misplaced Charity

Air Raid

River Silhouette

About the Author

Dedication

Leslie Beller Kovacs passed away on July 1, 1969, leaving behind his wife and precious daughter Lesley Kovacs Templeton. He also left several writings which he composed between the years of 1930s-1950s.

Since he and his daughter Lesley are so much alike, I know that he would want all his writings dedicated to her. She inherited a love of reading as well as a love of writing from her father. In appearance and personal traits there is no doubt that she is her father’s daughter.

Seven Dollars

Guilty!

The word brushed at his brain with the harshness of bristles while an uneasy desolation spread through him, localizing in the pit of his stomach. The faint light in his cell seemed suffused with the deep violet of evening twilight, teasing into his sight the vague outlines of the bars on the long narrow window of his cell. Somewhere, down the corridor and around a turn, a weak bulb burned so dim that by the time its light reached his cell, it had dissipated to a faint glimmer. The silence around him implied suspension, out in the darkness of space. John Bartow felt terribly alone and oddly frightened. Although the darkness was cool, he could feel the moisture of perspiration on his brows and while a drop of it rolled from his armpit to the belted trouser at this waist.

He sat now on his bunk, his back humped against the cool hardness of the room’s angle and contemplated with repugnance that which had occurred and had placed him here in confinement, subject to a court martial.

He had stolen his buddy’s wallet containing seven stinkin’ dollars. It seemed extremely vague to him now just exactly how it all had happened; he could not remember. It was as though he had been dead drunk. Then, unexpectedly, he was confronted with the theft and the next thing he knew he had been deposited here by a pair of military police.

He contemplated his predicament, his eyes fixed on the velvet lack of light outside the barred window. What would be his wife’s reaction when she heard? As he thought of her, the tenseness of his muscles relaxed, and his mind brought her close to him as a soft, warm, fragrant vision. Oh, Johnny. This could be what she would say, very little, but the way she would say it, and the way she would tighten her arms about his neck and press her tear-moistened face