Jack Scranton
Bio
Writer, image retoucher, musician/composer, 3D artist. Despite modest success in all those fields, Photoshop paid the bills.
Stories (36)
Officers and Men
Even when casually walking, both managed to look like they were marching in formation. At first glance they might have been dressed the same—starched khakis with creases straight as a gun barrel, caps tilted at a jaunty angle but still well within regulations. Close up, however, the differences were obvious. His cap had a gold band with an eagle in the front; my father’s cap got by with a black band and an anchor in the center. His shoulders sported boards with two gold stripes; my father could only claim small gold anchors on his collar. He was an officer and wore the wings of a navy pilot; my father was a hard-boiled navy chief. Between them stretched the impassable gulf that has always divided officers from enlisted men in every military organization that ever existed.
Jack ScrantonPublished 15 days ago in Fiction
Black Ice
Jack Conway glared at the snow covered steps leading from his stoop down to the snow covered sidewalk, then across the street to his car, already locked in the snow pushed around the tires and up to the door by the early-morning plows. His daughter, Amy, poked her head around him and gave a gasp of delight.
Jack ScrantonPublished 2 months ago in Fiction
A Golden Opportunity
The misty lawn glistened, a plump full moon reflected in the jeweled dewdrops coating each slim blade of grass. But the only reflection Arthur saw was his own failure, a vast sea of failed moments. How many bejeweled pathways had taunted, teased and enticed him for years beyond counting? Yet always, when he drew near, they proved to be but a trick of his imagination as yet another dream wisped away in a shimmer of light and shadow.
Jack ScrantonPublished 3 months ago in Fiction
On A Bench In Central Park
The Guitar Man sits on a bench at the edge of Sheep's Meadow in Central Park. He spends five minutes or so tuning his instrument, an old Gibson, late 50's vintage. Its sound has mellowed with age into sensual, golden tones that linger like chimes. The neck, straight as a reformed sinner, yields flawless intonation with not one out-of-phase beat. When he is satisfied that the strings are in sync, he begins to play.
Jack ScrantonPublished 5 months ago in Fiction
Beautiful Liars
Grisham was directed by the butler out to the back yard, where he found Roland sitting by the pool, sipping from a glass of wine. It was like walking into a nature conservatory. Dense foliage proliferated.
Jack ScrantonPublished 5 months ago in Fiction
Little Butch
Headlights bounced up and down through the trees as a car drove too fast through the ruts and mud leading down to this small clearing. Little Butch popped the top off a can of Bud and downed about half as the beams snaked between the trees. The thick night air smelled of muck and moss and the not quite stagnant pungence of a slow moving river. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Eleven o'clock and it was hot enough to break a sweat standing still. Mosquitoes craved blood.
Jack ScrantonPublished 5 months ago in Fiction
Girl Watcher
Hurricane Iniki toppled the coconut palm in 1992 but didn’t kill it. Now the tree jutted out from the property nearly parallel to the clear, aqua-hued water, offering a perfect vantage point from which to gaze upon the beach next door. Once Charley installed the hammock, that is.
Jack ScrantonPublished 6 months ago in Fiction
In Their Own Way
Sally stood beneath the large oak at recess, alone as usual, watching the other children play, wishing she could be anywhere else. As always they ignored her, except for Mary. Mary glanced over at her with smug grin.
Jack ScrantonPublished 6 months ago in Fiction
Banana Nut
Fowler parked down the road from the flashing red and blue lights, stuck the NYPD sign in his windshield, then walked up the hill to the accident scene. Already, vehicles were everywhere and more would be coming. The chance for a quick escape made the hike worthwhile.
Jack ScrantonPublished 6 months ago in Fiction
Sump'n Special
In a voice like oiled gravel, Chef said, "The secret to life is a good roux. You remember that, you hear?" He glanced at his guest.
Jack ScrantonPublished 7 months ago in Fiction
Both Sides Now
Steve struggled to clear an Olympian sized paper jam from the printer. Tom, sensing a captive audience, pounced. "Hey... what do you call a bi-sexual man?"
Jack ScrantonPublished 7 months ago in Filthy
Detour
As soon as he crested Skeleton Ridge, she noticed. Against a terrain where nothing moved and change took years he stood out like the flare off a reflecting glass. She set aside the apples she'd been peeling and went inside to get her husband's Remington. She made sure both barrels were loaded. But as she sat back down on her front porch, weapon comfortably cradled in her lap, her first thought wasn't for safety; she wondered how it would feel to talk to someone.
Jack ScrantonPublished 8 months ago in Filthy
