J. A. Rossignol
Bio
Born and raised in rural Maine, USA. J still resides in Central Maine with his wife, five children, two dogs, three cats and two birds. Can often be found somewhere along Maine's dramatic coast where many of his ideas have been inspired.
Achievements (1)
Stories (6/0)
- Runner-Up in Misplaced Challenge
Logos and the Babe
'What, in the name of the Sun Goddess, is that smell?' grumbled Logos, as he slowly stretched the slumber from his enormous frame. His matte gray scales, which had long since lost their argent luster, were dappled with clinging brown leaves and a few fallen branches. He emitted a low groan, as his skeleton realigned, bones popping into place with cracks and muffled thuds.
By J. A. Rossignol2 years ago in Fiction
Sacre' bleu, C'est un Loup Garou!
When I was a child, camping out in the deep rural Maine wilderness was nothing short of magical. It always began by stepping off of the bus on the last day of school to see our old station wagon packed to the gills with camping gear and supplies. It seemed like my feet had barely touched the ground before the old Buick's heavy door thunked closed behind me, and we began the long journey to Old Town and beyond.
By J. A. Rossignol3 years ago in Fiction
The Recluse
Within a thick bank of sea fog, a once imposing figure, bent by age and suffering, scowled at a familiar scene unfolding just a rock's throw away where two National Police Officers were brutally removing an old man from a small tool shed, where he had apparently been hiding. Another man, presumably his neighbor and betrayer, watched on with smug self-satisfaction, clearly pleased with himself. From the age of the beaten man, the watcher assumed that he must be an original separatist. Ever since the rebellion was crushed, the Global Government of Earth had been brainwashing folks on the heroic patriotism of reporting any information regarding the location of surviving separatists, none of whom could be less than seventy years old by now. Some folks will do anything for a pat on the head from the government, as though they're trying to prove how devoted they are. To be fair, the bounty of five thousand per traitor didn’t hurt.
By J. A. Rossignol3 years ago in Fiction
