Claire Butler
Bio
Claire Butler is a writer/author, professional artist and francophile. She loves spending her day either behind her computer, in front of her easel or studying French. She lives in Cincinnati, Ohio.
Stories (5/0)
The MAGLEV Train to Osaka
I woke with a start, consulting my watch for a date and time. August 12, 2029, one-twenty in the afternoon. As the fog cleared in my head, I tried to remember boarding this train. The last thing I remember I was in the Kitami train terminal waiting for the American military attache to the ambassador of Japan to arrive from Osaka. A dizzying feeling crept over me. I looked around for the attache—there was no sign of him.
By Claire Butler2 years ago in Fiction
The Freedom Tree
The fight for freedom runs deep in my family tree. General Nathanael Greene, one of the most celebrated Revolutionary War generals, and General Washington’s right-hand man and strategist, is my Great Uncle many generations back. I am descended from his brother, Jacob, who was also a general in the Revolutionary War. The family were Quakers immigrated from England, and settled in Coventry, Rhode Island, where their homestead remains today on the National Register of Historic Places.
By Claire Butler2 years ago in Families
Unsuspected Vixen
I, Shelly Keating, grew up poor in the projects of Brooklyn where sex was traded every night in back alleys reeking of urine and vomit, or in cheap hotels with bug-ridden mattresses. I was a people-watcher. Television never interested me despite the 54-inch model in the two-bedroom flat I lived in as a child. My useless father spent countless hours in front of it watching wrestling and NASCAR, while drinking one cheap brew after the next, ignoring the falling-down wallpaper and chunks of drywall that littered the floors. It took no time to realize that my focus should be on reading. Book after book, I carefully crafted my future.
By Claire Butler2 years ago in Fiction
The Eight
The Eight Prue found her brother, eighty-year old Joe McKenna, slumped over a burning Cohiba and a snifter of Louis XIII, still gripping the little black notebook that he carried with him everywhere—even to bed. She pried his stiffening fingers off the book, rummaged through his desk for his will—she found it, read it, and put it back. The notebook she took.
By Claire Butler3 years ago in Families
