James Catlin
Bio
Long ago, as my family sat around a campfire, seven daughters eagerly awaiting the conclusion of a story. "More! Daddy, More!" I delayed. My wife grabbed my shirt lapels and said, "Write it down!" The rest is history.
Stories (2/0)
The Binding mist
Light filtered in through tattered slats, many of which hung loosely on the large old door. Sara looked longingly, wanting desperately to get a glimpse of what lay beyond, but the tether prevented it. How long had she been confined here? It was a question that grated every morning when the darkness gave way to a new day. Suddenly she realized her hand was outstretched toward the rays piercing the dimness of the old barn. With a jerk she drew it back and retreated to the slightly comforting shroud of hay that had become her home.
By James Catlin3 years ago in Fiction
Still A Chance
Mara pressed herself harder into the dark shrouded corner of the room as the pounding on the heavy door intensified. The cold of the metal bar clutched tightly in her hand made her fingers ache. This had happened several times in the past two years and on each occasion the intruder had given up and left. It was not fear that made her hide in the shadows, but a wary instinct developed in the months since the world had gone to hell. Trust nothing but yourself her mother had said in the last moments they had together. Not even a thick steel security door, Mara silently mused. Her left hand fiddled with the delicate locket that hung around her neck as she stared blankly at the floor.
By James Catlin3 years ago in Futurism
