Clint Jones
Bio
I am a philosopher slowly transitioning into a writer. I write mostly essays, non-fiction, and poetry but I am now adding fiction to my repertoire with asperations of penning a novel. Thanks for reading my work. Tips are appreciated.
Stories (11/0)
A Dream Come True
Thud! Then, panic. Ice cold panic. I didn’t know you could feel cold sweat underwater while wearing a wetsuit. But here I was, dangling in suspended motion, inside a sinking cage I was sure was too unsafe for this type of usage, and something had just jarred the cage hard. I couldn’t remember why I had agreed to this. The world was drifting quickly into darkness through the ombre shades of blue made possible by the penetration of piercing shafts of light. It would have been stunningly beautiful if not for the red cloud of blood in the distance, not far enough away in my estimation, swirling in whorls of pink flesh and viscera, punctuated by brief glimpses of grey on white, shadows I knew to be sharks.
By Clint Jones3 years ago in Fiction
A New Game of Chance
There it was, unexpectedly; big, vivid, red letters standing in stark contrast to the non-descript nut brown paper they were emblazoned across. SUSPISHUS. Alex and Jordan stopped mid-step; their conversation cut off midsentence. Alex’s grip on their bag of groceries tightening involuntarily. Neither of them could believe what they were seeing. Neither of them wanted to see it. Sitting unavoidably and confrontationally in front of their door was a Suspishus package. They were on a timer now and they both knew it. Six hours and counting.
By Clint Jones3 years ago in Fiction
As American as Apple Pie
In my line of work, I’m expected to make impossible decisions. Not that I am the only person that ever needs to make such decisions, I wouldn’t call such people rare, but the type isn’t exactly common either. I kill people for a living. Pulling the trigger on someone, taking their life, that has always come easy to me. I didn’t start out killing animals or anything, but early in the Terror Wars, back when things were still patriotically colored, I’d lied about my age to join Uncle Sam’s Cause. I liked the necessity of self-discipline, but not the discipline. Turns out, I liked the killing, too. You’re not supposed to like the killing part, you’re just supposed to see it as a necessary evil. You go over to some other person’s country and kill the poor bastard for not living like Uncle Sam expects him to or because he has too many unmined minerals or too much natural gas, too many barrels of untapped oil, or some rare earth metal, maybe lots of clean water. Sometimes we were expected to kill them for worshipping a god besides Mammon, but the Brass never pitched it that way through the propaganda machine.
By Clint Jones3 years ago in Fiction
Destruction is an Act of Creation
The world has a way of grinding you down. Or it does me. Commitments to other people and projects, work, writing, life in general, all have a way of getting out of balance, turning easy tasks into obstacles, making mountains out of molehills, and generally sullying an otherwise pleasant day or disposition. Not that finding a perfect harmony between commitments is possible, I am not even sure it’s desirable, really, when the hectic-ness of life is what makes taking a break from it so satisfying. Or, again, at least that is true for me. I suspect I am not alone in this, however.
By Clint Jones3 years ago in Poets
Word Challenge #1
It's awkward to lift your chin off your chest and discover you're the only person in the bar besides the tapper and the piano man. One blankly wiping down glassware, the other absentmindedly smoking a cigarette in the half light of the room, staring into a distant nothing. This is the state of things in the days leading up to Carnival when every juke joint and eatery is gearing up for the mob of tourists. But now it's still possible to stumble in to a dimly lit place at two in the afternoon and find a little solitude. Solitude was what I was after, after all, given how things had been going in my day-to-day. I’d never been in this bar before, but from the outside it looked inviting, like a place I should go, a place that would welcome me or at least provide what I needed. What I needed was a drink and some peace and quiet to do some thinking.
By Clint Jones3 years ago in Fiction
The Weavings of Ordus
Ordus sat down heavily, wearily, on the small hillock sprouting tufts of katto grass, jasmine, and thorny looking brushweed. He dropped his helmet on the ground between his legs and laid his head on his crossed arms resting on his knees. With his eyes closed he focused on the immediate silence, no birds melodiously twitting, no insects incessantly chirking, only the faintest din of low moans in the distance reached his ears, subtly piercing the ringing that throbbed there. He could hear his sweat plopping in fat drops from his brow to land on the wide brim of his kattoir helmet. He could hear the slow, sharp inhale of his ragged breaths. He believed, with his eyes closed tightly, if he held his breath, he would be able to hear the sizzle of spilt blood boiling in the sun.
By Clint Jones3 years ago in Fiction
Of Necklets and Nooses
The city of Heartshape was on lockdown again. Through the howling wind, sirens signaling a chase could be heard in the distance. Bizzy knew that screaming sound would soon be followed by other, more hollow, howls. Howls that sunrise would see silenced with the slow, guttering, gurgles of another extinguished life. The penalty for being outside without permission during a lockdown was death by hanging. Somehow, to Bizzy, this seemed like a fair trade, a blessing even; she often wondered why more people didn’t take to the streets. Still, she hoped to avoid that fate as the floorboards beneath her feet creaked under her shifting weight. She paused between steps to let the noise fade even though she was fairly certain no one was around to hear her.
By Clint Jones3 years ago in Fiction
