Britt Blomster
Bio
I'm a writer, poet, storyteller and dreamer. I'm inspired by the world around me and channel that into my writing.
E-mail: [email protected]
Achievements (1)
Stories (105/0)
The Shark Whisperer
“There's a shark in Emerald Bay!” Someone shouts as they bang on my front door. Residents of my coastal town regard me as the town’s eccentric. On ordinary days when I venture into town, they won’t meet my eyes or even say hello. The Shark Whisperer is what they call me. My neighbors only call on me when I’m needed to remove a shark from the bay so the tourists don’t have to be removed from the beach.
By Britt Blomster 3 years ago in Fiction
How I splatted my way to Inner Peace
“Call me when you’re on your break” His text said. I call my husband as my break begins and he tells me he’s about to buy a Nintendo Switch. Before games me scoffs” We already have more than one Xbox and a PlayStation”. My husband builds his case for purchasing a Switch by telling me it’s a gaming system that all 4 of our children can play simultaneously. Multiplayer games are already in his hands. After he tells me what it’s on sale for, I tell him to go for it but I’m not convinced it’s a smart buy. Oh, how wrong I was.
By Britt Blomster 3 years ago in Gamers
The Brown Box Enigma
It was an ordinary Tuesday the day Tess came home and found the brown box on her front porch. Tired from another day at the job she despised, and having no desire to go inside and cook dinner for her unemployed husband she bent down and picked up the suspicious brown paper box.
By Britt Blomster 3 years ago in Fiction
Old Barn at Midnight
The old barn looms like an apparition at the end of the dusty road knotting her stomach even tighter as she walks shrouded from the summer moonlight. “Meet me at the old barn at midnight,” the text had said, flashing across her husband’s phone only 2 hours earlier as she slid his work polo on a hanger wondering why her husband’s secretary, two years shy from being half his age, was texting him at this hour. She stood in the bedroom they had shared for the past eight years, one hand on the hanger, the other on his collar, still as a statue, as if one movement would open the gates of hurt to flood in until from the next room she heard the shower turn off. Spell now broken; she resolved to keep her feelings tucked inside, not letting anything give away the fact that she saw the incriminating text.
By Britt Blomster 3 years ago in Humans