Jack Scranton
Bio
Writer, image retoucher, musician/composer, 3D artist. Despite modest success in all those fields, Photoshop paid the bills.
Stories (48/0)
Take Two
When Karen, browsing through the magazine racks, realized the guy crowding her from the side was Graham, her first impulse was to kick him in the balls and run. That delicious fantasy lasted maybe five seconds. Then she considered just running. Again. Instead, she leaned in close: "Did you finally learn to read, or do you still just look at the pictures?"
By Jack Scranton15 days ago in Filthy
Why We Are Doomed
Note: these events are true. This was written in 2006, when it all took place, in Brooklyn, NYC. It was a time much further distant than numbers would suggest. Speakeasy, a wi-fi provider, is no more. The DSL connections they sold have likewise gone the way of 8-track tapes and SCSI connections. Sears is down for the count. Agencies and companies were still working out how to migrate their services to the internet. Customer service, such as it was, still entailed labrynthine sets of phone menus, and, occasionally, encounters with surly humans who resented your intrusion. But the underlying themes remain relevant, more so, if that's possible. Enjoy my tale of woe.
By Jack Scranton24 days ago in Psyche
Hunger
Even holding herself motionless, movements rippled throughout her body. Eyes always alert, glancing here, there, watching, hoping to catch whatever might next be coming her way. I could never wrap a blindfold around such active, expressive eyes. Particularly when her efforts were so futile. She hadn't yet seen what was next in store, but it didn't quench the hope that she might, this one time, give herself a moment's warning. Torment through optimism.
By Jack Scranton2 months ago in Filthy
Coming Attraction
They were gorgeous, the blonde and the redhead, the kind of women for whom getting their way was assumed, the kind of women who suffered disappointment badly. For such women, men were commodities, acquired when needed, discarded when obsolete. They could well afford such conspicuous consumption; their resources were plentiful: open smiles, lingering glances, a hint of roiling passions beneath carefully constructed exteriors, heartbreaking eyes, tempting glimpses of smooth thighs and curved cleavage. Men lined up. All were shot down.
By Jack Scranton2 months ago in Filthy
Mother Nature Knows Best
"I want to try something new," she'd said. His idea: "Let's make you uncomfortable in public." Now she fumed, hesitated, felt a tingle wash over her cheeks. But then she picked up the shopping basket and began wandering the aisles. Timid housewives stole furtive glances her way. Horny stock boys stared slackjawed.
By Jack Scranton3 months ago in Filthy
Who's Laughing Now?
It was 2 AM when Jack finally dragged his weary ass home from work. Everything at the site that could've gone wrong had gone wrong, and now he felt beat up worse than his bowling team in last month's finals. He hurt—damn, even his eyes hurt! How the hell do eyes hurt? Well, his did. He couldn't wait to climb into bed and close them.
By Jack Scranton3 months ago in Filthy
Recognition
For months, Jonas suspected that he was being followed. They had tracked his career for years, of course; he was a well known pebble in their shoe, and, ultimately, they wanted him silenced. He was the worst of subversives, you see. Once one of them, one of their Ivy League minions, he’d walked away. Now he dared speak of truths others sensed but feared to probe. He saw it all; the true flow of energy through the world’s bastions of money and power; the forces that move nations like markers on a gameboard. The Unseen Hand; Illuminati; not only had he mentioned them by name, he had uncovered their footprints traipsing through the history texts, hidden in plain sight. He alone had discerned the patterns; he had connected the dots; he had uncovered the links. History might not lie, but neither does it reveal its truths without a fight. It must be coaxed, prodded, coerced. Even seduced.
By Jack Scranton11 months ago in Fiction
High Water Mark
Janet sipped her coffee and stared at the ocean from the screened in porch, losing herself in the rhythmic sound of the waves and the metronomic movement of water as it ebbed and flowed. She envisioned the white foam edge, each time defining a new set of random curves, leaving their shape in the sand, over and over, until at last the waves had advanced as far as they could and the shapes began to recede, as if a sequence of snapshots in a cycle that never ended.
By Jack Scranton11 months ago in Fiction
