G. Arthur Clynes
Bio
22-year-old aspiring writer, Francophile, and stranger. If I made any money from writing, it would go towards finding other pretentious hobbies. Thank you for your time if you're reading a story, or even just my bio, which needs work.
Stories (3/0)
The Collie
Spirit has a gray snout, and his eyes are cupped by gray crescents. When the wind blows back his ears, and the sun fills his eyes with amber, his grin, with the violet flesh and yellow teeth, and lazy tongue which is so free, is that of a silver scholar. He is a sage, now that he hobbles over to sit on my feet. Then he rests his head which smells of the dirt of the garden where he had been rooting on my knee. With my arms around his neck, I kiss him anyways. Of course, it isn’t all so sentimental.
By G. Arthur Clynes2 years ago in Families
The Axe And The Pellet Gun
My mother cried when she saw my hands— torn, and bleeding, and quivering, the way that baby rabbit had shaken with fear after I’d wrestled it from the teeth of the family labrador. For she had warned me of the cold, as I went out in the morning, and gave me my father’s old brown coat. She told me to be vigilant of the axe, and gave me a sip of her richly black coffee, which had been obsidian in the halflight of the kitchen. I had sighed, and tried to refuse, but she was my mother, so it was futile. Throughout that day, until I came in with the flesh of my palms marred with splinters, and ripped about so that it had the same hollow color of white seashells, I smiled at the thought of my mother tilting that mug to my lips, and holding my nape, though I was nearly a man, in the way she had with soup when I was sick, as a little kid.
By G. Arthur Clynes2 years ago in Fiction
