A.T. Baines
Bio
I'm a small town author who hopes to bring hope. Inspired by the kindness of others, and fascinated with wonder, my fiction spans thousands of years and many interconnected stories. My non-fiction details my own life and hopes to inspire.
Stories (14/0)
Portmanteaux
1- Expressionisthmus: Life on a Thin Bridge I’m turning 30. In the grand scheme of things, thirty is young. But I’m also dramatic, much to my wife’s chagrin. So bear with me while I write about the end of my life coming at the end of this month, and if you feel so inclined, entertain my drama as I recount the path I’ve taken to get here in a few short passages while I mourn the death of my first youth.
By A.T. Bainesabout a year ago in Psyche
Sisters of Westwinter: Chapter Two
Blood on the Ridge The fresh recruits marched lockstep with the wagon and carried with them an air of silence. Some of them buzzed with adrenaline as Klauven led them, but others, Kerrick included, marched through the snow with an uneasiness he couldn't define. Their six hour timer was running low, and they hadn't made it to the river. What little time they had left would need to be spent wisely. General Vandruss likely wasn't lying about leaving them to be dragon scrap if they weren't back by nightfall.
By A.T. Bainesabout a year ago in Fiction
Sisters of Westwinter: Chapter One
Piecemeal "Wake up boys, it's cold as Maltha's Claws and you have the distinct honor of fishing gore from our distributary." General Vandruss' voice clawed into the dorm. His sudden shouting rocked the soldiers from their beds, one of whom, Pikeman Squire Kerrick Snow stood at attention. The chill of the morning air crept over his bony feet as the General passed through the room. Kerrick's eyelids hung thick with sleep. He fought the urge to reach up and pull the crusted goop from his eyes as the General passed by him.
By A.T. Bainesabout a year ago in Fiction
The Daughter of Time
“Moeteria, the Eternal Law must remain unfrayed" — The dragon crashed through the woods, her translucent scales carved grooves into the trees that weren’t knocked down by her tremendous size. Despite her large frame, compared to the other dragons that resided in these woods, she was a dwarf.
By A.T. Bainesabout a year ago in Fiction
Sisters of Westwinter: Prologue
Dragons had not always lived in the valley, long before they'd arrived it instead was the home to a winding channel. Knee deep and filled with flitting wildlife and round pebbles. The banks overgrown with bitter Fickleleaf flower which only blossomed in the winter. Swathes of shrubs and trees guarded the rapids from the clawed feet of the mountains, and provided a shelter for the animals that made the river their home. From where the water burst forth to create such a violent spectacle, few had ever seen. Atop a ridge deep within the mountains held the hushed rumor told by villagers and merchant. Supposedly, there lived a secret society upon the mountainside. If one were to climb into the ridge, they would find a great sparkling lake filled with water blessed by spirits and gods. All who knew of the channel had heard the rumors, but one child who called the valley her home cherished it especially...
By A.T. Baines2 years ago in Fiction
The Curve of the Earth
Last year I attended a funeral. One which I had never hoped to be a part of. In the same way we all hope that we will never need to go to funerals, I gathered myself and made the trip back home to be strong for a friend whose father passed. Gathered together in a morgue in the hometown most of us tried to escape we stood in lines and watched their family and friends enter. Other parents and other friends stepped through the doors and gave an encouraging word to the family who lost something that day. Then when it was time, we took our seats in dingy well worn pews likely robbed from the nearby Presbyterian church and listened to the reverend stand and begin her talk of life and love and parenthood. As the ceremony continued, both of his boys stood to talk about him and who he was. We listened to his favorite songs and reminisced on stories about his life, the kind of man he was and what influence he’d held on his sons and daughters.
By A.T. Baines2 years ago in Confessions
Father Forever
The smoldering ashes of her home cooled to little more than ruined wood and billowing smoke clouds before either Emry or the dragon moved from their places. The day caught up to her in moments as Balshenai finished cleaning the blood from her scales and curled beside her. In the warmth of the dragon's body she laid, the great beast's tail wrapped her in safety, for the first time in the last day.
By A.T. Baines2 years ago in Fiction
Promise of Dragon's Fire
No sooner than she released the haft did she fall back behind her father's bed, whipping her hands to her ears with her eyes clamped shut. Emry heard the squelch of the arrow lodge into the man's eye socket through the sound of her father's favorite bow clattering against the floor. A cold thud followed. She peered beneath the skirt of her parent's bed to see the scout lying on his back, his head twisted in her direction. The gush of blood from his eye masked the scars and drenched the man's facial hair. The torch he held rolled a hands length away from him and teetered back and forth.
By A.T. Baines2 years ago in Fiction
Emry of the River
There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Though, long before they arrived, it wasn't a valley either. Where the dragons arrived was once a deep channel that ran between two frighteningly tall mountain ranges. The banks of the channel were overgrown with bitter Fickleleaf flower that only blossomed in the winter. Swathes of shrubs and trees guarded the rapids from the clawing feet of the mountains, and provided a shelter for the animals that made the river their home. Where the water burst forth to create such a violent spectacle, few had ever seen. Atop a ridge deep within the mountains held the hushed secret, a rumor told by villagers elsewhere in the countryside that there lived a secret society within the depths. That if one were to climb into the ridge, they would find a great sparkling lake filled with water blessed by spirits, or gods. All who knew of the cannel had heard the rumors, but one child cherished it especially.
By A.T. Baines2 years ago in Fiction
The Great Spring II
Flowers don't heal suffering any more than the rain can prevent a wildfire. Digging through a mottled corpse, mangled from anxieties and past memories made real by fear and brought back to life by shame and sorrow is not how I pictured my post pandemic life, and yet, here I am. Rebuilding pieces of what I thought was at one time a capable pile of bones.
By A.T. Baines2 years ago in Fiction
The Great Spring
To live through suffering is humanity. To want a way out, perhaps more so. It is not the blooming of the flower buds that provokes my haunted heart, no more than the falling of the leaves brings me any deep joy. I can look out and see the orange and red of autumn trees and feel my heart spring upward in excitement, just the same as when the petals of the first daisies spread to meet the sunlight. The world spins the same as it always has and I've come to know of myself with each passing that I am sad in the springtime. It is a part of me, and has always been this way.
By A.T. Baines2 years ago in Psyche