D.P. Martin
Bio
D.P. Martin began writing a first novel in third grade - and had it survived mom's cleaning habit, it would certainly have been a number one best seller. D.P. calls New Hampshire home, raising one son and three hyperactive cats.
Stories (14/0)
The Breakup
“Take care,” she offered, sliding into the driver’s seat, looking into his eyes a final time before closing the door. David stood breathlessly, watching the Volkswagen’s taillights glow as it rolled toward the street. “I can still stop her,” he thought, “and explain why I’m doing this…”
By D.P. Martin11 months ago in Fiction
Banoom
Banoom dragged her tail through the fallen leaves on the malt path, the autumn foliage now past peak color, her breath visible in the air above her snout. Cambria woods – especially the malt path – was her favorite place on Yirrth, a retreat from awkward interactions with family ‘friends,’ volunteers, or the Charitable Order of Gnomes. A place to avoid whomever she was appointed to stay with that week.
By D.P. Martinabout a year ago in Fiction
Southbound
Before his eyelids opened, Solomon Jones knew this assignment would be on a train. The soft, hypnotic hum of the maglev propulsion drive, the smells of newspaper ink, body spray on sweaty business clothes, the rubbery non-slip aisle padding, and the piquant residue of fabric cleaner on cloth seats. The olfactory memory made him question if he’d been sent back in time for this commission, for although twenty orbits had passed since his Academy training in that city, the smell of the Torin magtrain could never be erased from his mind.
By D.P. Martin2 years ago in Fiction
The Thirteenth Holder
“The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.” Pastor Nate had been sitting on his green Coleman chair to deliver the opening line of his story, his head intentionally pointing groundward so that none of the youth group campers could see his face. He paused for dramatic effect, the sound of the snapping fire before him the only music to challenge the vibrant songs of the crickets and peepers surrounding them in the White Mountain Forest. Nate raised his head slowly, a sinister grin on his bearded face, and continued the story, slowly scanning the eyes of the ten fourth graders encircling the fire. He clearly had their attention.
By D.P. Martin2 years ago in Horror
The New World
Westarctica had become a tourist destination for biped mammals, and every penguin alive understood that those creatures were deadly tourists. Groups of pink, hairy bipeds came, leaving behind charred ground, animal skin huts, and constructs made from plants and glistening argent bones. Just two mating seasons ago, President Waddle attempted to welcome a group of these fragrant creatures as they approached the capital, sending a team of brave guins bearing krill gift baskets, anchovy snow cones, and the shiniest pebblegems from the depths of Where’d-Bruce-Go Crevasse. Only one guin returned, reporting his comrades had been devoured. It was only by miracle during his own unspeakable torture that he escaped. Each highest hotskyball since, the denizens of Westarctica remember those hero penguins by squawking low ballads about the day known forevermore as “The Really Nasty Hello People Try.”
By D.P. Martin2 years ago in Fiction
You've Got it Forever Now
More than a quarter of a century after making your acquaintance, I still find myself in awe of you. I can tell you the day – June 19th, 1995 – as well as the hour. It was one o’clock in the afternoon when I arrived for the first time at the Spruces, the 19th century hotel then being used as the residence for the cast and crew of the Weathervane Theatre. Even before I was parked, I realized that the building was many decades past its heyday, in an era when wealthier Bostonians and New Yorkers could board a train north during the summer months to holiday in the cooler air of New Hampshire’s White Mountains. I immediately wondered what I had gotten myself into.
By D.P. Martin2 years ago in Families
The Revelations of Bones
The morning of Friday, June 11th, 1999 began unlike any other morning in my life to that point. I thought nothing of it at first, but all these years later I remember waking that morning more than I can recall any other awakening in my life.
By D.P. Martin2 years ago in Humans
The Raising of Ambrose
Ambrose was a black lab. My black lab. Radiant obsidian fur everywhere, save a tiny patch of brilliant white in the middle of his chest. The smallest from a litter of six puppies, my dad called Ambrose a million different names over time, but he never let anyone call the dog a “runt,” perhaps, I fathom, because my dad had been the smallest of three offspring himself.
By D.P. Martin2 years ago in Petlife
The Promised Letter
Elizabeth, I promised you my story, and I want you to know that I wrote it only for your eyes. You shared with me something tremendously personal, and I am most thankful. I admire people willing to share stories of their most precious moments, and I'm honored to be the one with whom you shared yours.
By D.P. Martin2 years ago in Confessions
- Top Story - December 2021
My 9/11 SocksTop Story - December 2021
I'm one of those men who have a hundred pairs of socks in the sock drawer, some new, some old, most in various states of disrepair. Most men don't spend more than two seconds thinking about holes in their socks as they put them on… they call them their "Sunday Socks" and they move on because no one’s going to see them through their shoes. When I open my sock drawer, I wonder if the pair I take out is one of my 9/11 socks, and if it is possible that I still have any more of them.
By D.P. Martin2 years ago in Humans
