This is a very short story I wrote years and years ago for an assignment in University. I think it was supposed to be a study on crafting a story through dialogue. It’s nothing special and relatively cliché, but I enjoyed toying with the crime/quasi-hardboiled genre.
Smoke encircled his head, a drunken thought balloon from a comic book, as he dabbed away the last surviving ash of his cigarette. Reemus was worn out and lethargic, but obviously that didn’t account for his superiors. Sitting in the precinct office, it had just skimmed past nine o’clock in the evening and he was staring at the phone. He was hoping for a ring to interrupt his Lieutenant who stood over his desk, howling in raspy anger.
“You’d better get your act together quick, detective. Any more of this shit and it’ll make the papers. Headlines make me look bad and when I look bad, the city does too. And when that happens, I’ll be out of a job…then who knows what the commissioner will do to your sorry ass!”
Reemus smirked sharply. “Uh huh,” he acknowledged, leaning back in his chair to take one long drag from a newly lit cigarette.
“Uh huh is right. Now get down to the west end, there’s another mess to check out.” The lieutenant walked away in a flurry. Continue reading
This is a tale I began in 2009, writing half of it then and leaving it until February of 2013 to finish the other half. I started out wanting to write a horror story and ended up writing a ghost story.
In the dank, cobble-stoned basement of the Richmond’s summer cottage there sat many stacks of boxes filled with all sorts of old, discolored papers. Across some were printed faded headlines, being newspapers from decades ago; there were old tax forms; report cards; stories and love letters; simple letters, birthday letters, letters of greeting or Christmas letters. Avery wondered why his parents kept all that junk down there.
“Well,” his Father sighed, “You never know when it might come in good use.”
“Dirty old newspapers?”
“Some of those are historic,” his father retorted. “Like the day you were born!”
Avery looked uninterested.
“Besides, there’s much more than that down there.”
Mrs. Harriet Turtlebridge did not particularly enjoy killing. In fact, she would avoid it altogether if at all possible. Even still, her dislike of the act didn’t prevent her from doing it once a week, usually on a Tuesday morning, just after finishing her daily biscuit. The roses felt no pain when she killed them, she liked to think as much, as she snipped two from the vine in her glasshouse. Always two, one for her and the other for her husband. She tucked the first into a fold at the front of her tea-gown and the other she held in her hand as she exited to the yard.
Her floral haven was immense. The glasshouse was twice, perhaps thrice the size of her tiny cottage, standing in the very back of the yard just on Continue reading
This story is my attempt at a ‘fable’ of sorts. I kept it short for just that reason, but tried to add as much detail as I could in the space I provided. It’s a few years old, let me know if you enjoy it.
Many hundreds of years ago, while civilizations were young, there was no land bereft of war. All manner of men were either conquering or fleeing from those who would conquer. Certain men attempted to take advantage of this situation and annex the weakness and flurry of the land, capturing for themselves the wealth these areas had to offer. During this time it happened that two countries lead by two young Princes, each on separate campaigns, finally came to an ultimate front. And this is where our tale begins. Continue reading
I wrote both this story and the poem Cupid last night in the span of about twenty minutes. It’s odd how the dichotomy of love works, changing inside one’s mind and heart so quickly.
This is not a typical love story–because what, if anything, is typical about love? Nobody feels love the same as another, especially in this next instance.
He stood overlooking the lake for as long as he could remember–through night and day and the changing seasons. He’d seen families of ducks grow, mature and fly away; he’d seen the swimmers come to Continue reading
I started writing this as an attempt at the ‘buddy’ genre and meant it to be a standalone story, but I had a lot of fun trying to drive the plot almost exclusively with dialogue, so I decided to make these guys part of an ongoing anthology. Expect more from these ambiguous action brothers in the future.
Art by James Jean
The busy roar of the bus lanes and thoroughfares dominated the city asphalt as the tired Buick thundered its way between traffic and towards the airport. Ace reached down from the wheel and flicked on the FM. More noise.
He let his foot get heavier.
His father always provided him with one of the antique cars for business work. This time is was the 1954 Buick Skylark, all-white, two-door, with a Nailhead V8. Fancy piece of work for sure, but Ace would’ve preferred the Peugeot or Maserati–something that really Continue reading
This short story is a few years old now. While far from my first ever, it was the first I enjoyed enough to submit to the Writer’s Digest Short Fiction competition. I think it placed in the top 10,000 hah. It is part of my collection of stories about fallen angels I’ve been working on. I am quite proud of it and I hope you enjoy reading it.
Art by Christopher Moeller
M o r n i n g s t a r
Sunlight careened over the buildings surrounding the town square. There was little shadow inside, but enough to give a shred of shelter as the merchants began to arrive. The bazaar accepted traveling folk throughout the month and they came as sporadically as the wind might change. Vendors would cart their wares into the square and Continue reading