C. H. Richard
Bio
My passion is and has always been writing. I am particularly drawn to writing fiction that has relatable storylines which hopefully keep readers engaged
Stories (115/0)
Color Of Water
Checking my watch for the third time in ten minutes, I waited for my husband Tim. “Where the hell is he? Why am I still waiting for this man?” I could hear myself mumble as I turned to see my six-year-old twin boys eyes widen as they looked through the glass enclosure where giant sea turtles roamed.
By C. H. Richard2 years ago in Fiction
- Top Story - November 2022
Becoming a Stone SkipperTop Story - November 2022
Ringlets formed and reflected one after the other as the sunlight beamed across the lake on my grandparent’s property. My grandfather had just cast his first stone. We both watched intensely as the smooth flat granite moved across the water lightly touching down before it bounced to another surface and formed more mirrored rings. The autumn leaves covered much of the water and rocks. Even though it was only just after six in the evening the sun was already setting, as November was bringing its shorter days. The brisk air spoke of change, and light caressed each rock that skipped to a final landing.
By C. H. Richard2 years ago in Fiction
Renaissance Man Rides Daily
Sunlight sprung across the window where my head had been leaning which burned my eyelids before I could open them. The hum of the engine had forced me to waken. My hair was matted and sweat poured down the side of my face as I moved my head from the pane that held it. I looked around at the seats which were a print pattern of black and green. The material was worn and ripped. The floor was dark and as I moved my feet, I could tell it was sticky in places. I looked again at the window which also needed a cleaning. I used to ride a train like this every day. I traced my figure in the caked-on dirt and drew the outline of a peace dove. When finished a smile crossed my face as I remembered how I was called somewhat of an artist by friends and coworkers in my younger years. I used to work a 9-5 job and rush home so I could paint or draw. I shook my head as I thought of the dream that I was going to be somebody.
By C. H. Richard2 years ago in Fiction
Quietly Calling Jane
My head bounced back forcing me to open my eyes. I heard the hum of the engine and felt the pain from deep within take hold. I squinted to see bright lights glowing back and forth in the darkness. My hands moved to guide me as I tried to stand and understand my surroundings. A whistle blew and the movement of the car sped up pushing me back into red cushioned seat. At that moment I felt nauseated, and my head hurt which was nothing new in the last few weeks ever since I found out about “my condition.”
By C. H. Richard2 years ago in Fiction
Girl Left In Maine
***Content warning. This story does reference violence and may not be suitable for all readers.*** “The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.” I could hear Aunt Alice as she slowly whispered these words to the eager ears of three eight-year-olds who already looked petrified around the campfire.
By C. H. Richard2 years ago in Horror
S'mores Memories
The trick was always how to get the marshmallow off the stick and onto the graham cracker minus burning your hands. I’m talking of course about the fine art of making s'mores. Traditionally a great s'more would be concocted while sitting around campfire holding marshmallows over an open flame while chasing off mosquitos and telling horror stories.
By C. H. Richard2 years ago in Feast