Jack Scranton
Bio
Writer, image retoucher, musician/composer, 3D artist. Despite modest success in all those fields, Photoshop paid the bills.
Stories (26/0)
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.
By Jack Scrantonabout a year 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.
By Jack Scranton2 years ago in Fiction
Take The Shot
He was big, gorgeous, and, as they all were, in peak condition. Where did they find these guys? Some farm hidden up in Montana, maybe, where they cloned perfect males, one after the next? He seemed a bit cocky, with a little attitude. But his job was to look great, and he knew he was nailing it. Besides, she'd spent plenty of time alone with naked men like him; she could handle him. Confidence was not an issue.
By Jack Scranton2 years ago in Filthy
End Times
The headlights first appered as a faint glowing blob in the distance, the only thing that competed with the moon against the Bible Black sky. Then, as they approached, they became piercing spotlights cutting through the night, blinding Cassidy. Finally, a large SUV slowed to a stop. The driver was scruffy, with a long, ratty beard and dusty work clothes. But his car seemed new and solid.
By Jack Scranton2 years ago in Filthy
I'll Handle This
Car doors slammed. Marcy glanced down from her window to see Steve helping Wendy out of his pathetic little Prius. Poor Steve: bad taste in cars, bad luck with women. What would a date with Wendy entail? Library browsing? Shopping for postage stamps? Then back here to waste the rest of the evening. Mrs. Butterworth made that clear: gentlemen callers in the parlor only, and only until nine. After that it was the front porch swing, and forget sneaking someone into your bedroom. But Marcy was nothing, if not resourceful. She was also horny, and Mrs. Butterworth be damned.
By Jack Scranton2 years ago in Filthy
Filling Spaces
Lynn left no doubt as to the urgency of the situation. "Push it, people! We're live in four hours!" Her latest exhibit, Filling Spaces. She insisted on micro-managing everything, of course. The gallery techs were skilled; John certainly needed no help running a crew. But if she couldn't retain control over every aspect of the installation, would it really be her work?
By Jack Scranton2 years ago in Filthy
Your Cheatin' Heart
The first thing Nadine heard when she woke up was rain pelting the window. Then she rolled over and remembered that the other side of her bed was still empty. Joey always said the only thing a rainy Saturday morning was good for was Hank Williams on the radio, a bottle of Jim Beam, and screwin'. The Jim Beam was out in the kitchen but she hadn't touched it since she'd thrown him out. Or he left. Both sort of happened at the same time. As for Hank, she could probably play anything of his and feel like it was written just for her. Damn, she could almost hear the music now. Well, at least a guitar, which, as she more fully awakened, sounded less like Hank Williams and more like Duane Allman. That sent her heartbeat racing. Duane was Joey's patron saint.
By Jack Scranton3 years ago in Filthy
