C. H. Richard
My passion is and has always been writing. I am particularly drawn to writing fiction that has relatable storylines which hopefully keep readers engaged
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.
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.”
Girl Left In Maine
“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.
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.
Leaving The Kingdom Of Dolion
“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.” The old scribe muttered to himself as he paced back and forth across the rushes on the floors of the high tower. “There weren’t always dragons in the Valley! We were the Kingdom of Thee!” He yelled out into the darkness.
Yvonne At The Toll Booth
An array of lights pierced my vision and paralyzed my movement. I just kept staring into the abyss of blue and white flashes. I heard voices around me, and faces would come into view. I could not move, but I did feel the moisture from the coins still in my hand. Ready as I was to make change for the next customer. Screams penetrated through my ears as someone was yelling, “She opened her eyes, let’s get her out of here.” Loud bangs, faces speaking in front of me as though I could answer. All I could do was see the glare that was blinding my eyes. Then as quickly as chatter and lights came into my view, there was nothing. I could only feel my breath and nothing else. Silence and darkness.
The Gift Card
We were all tired. It was one of those moments during the last two years that you could look around and see how weary everyone was even when veiled behind a face mask. I was waiting to pick up dinner at our one of favorite restaurants that had just started allowing for eat in guests as well take out patrons to their establishment. This small family- owned local eatery is known for serving good food, especially seafood, at low prices and always has a line. Sometimes, I have questioned whether it was worth the wait then I would have a bite of the haddock sandwich or the red bliss mashed potatoes and plan to eat there always.
The Last Mystery Writer
Waiting was not something I was good at, but I had become accustomed to the endless game of watching the clock and hoping against hope. On this night I did not even anticipate that wish of accomplishment as the snow started to fall outside of the Violet’s Bookstore in downtown Bedford, New Hampshire. I looked over at my two kids who begrudgingly came with me. Avery, my fifteen-year-old daughter was on her phone, which was how I often saw her face in the last year since her mother got her that thing. Her pink hair looped over her face mask that she would take down every couple of minutes to post pictures of herself on social media. She had a textbook propped open on the table in front of her, so it looked like she was doing her homework.
- Runner-Up in Return of the Night Owl Challenge
Children Of The DressmakerRunner-Up in Return of the Night Owl Challenge
Boston, June 24,1865 I lay on the bed, focusing on a curtain that moves ever so slightly with the warm summer breeze streaming through the window. I hear the sounds of the streets below. The horse carriage trolleys with large amounts of people finding their way home from work or carrying on to evening plans such as the theatre. All the life of the world continuing. The world that has already forgotten. The world that has left me broken.