Jason Burnham
Bio
I'm a 49 year old dude that likes to garden and write as a hobby.
Achievements (1)
Stories (7/0)
Ghost
It was the time of the Pear tree. Mornings held the reminisce magic of being fifteen and holding a pack of menthol cigarettes. Crisp, refreshing, and tasting of teenage rebellion. Afternoons were lackadaisical and quintessential charming. Warm, breezy, and comforting. Summers suffocating hands had lifted and winters frozen disciplinary bearing was months away. For the Pear tree, unlike most trees, these days between wicked heat and terrifying cold were when it was at it’s best. It’s fruit plump, tight and firm held a sweet nectar fit for the Gods. For the birds, who had not yet migrated, this was their final moment to gorge; for the bees the blooming blossoms gave them a last-minute reprieve to fill their hives with honey. These days were Kevin’s favorite, but Kevin wasn’t here. He was somewhere far far away fighting a fight that most people had forgotten. This had been Kevin’s tree, the one he had planted years ago, and as Janet pulled a pear down from one of the many heavily laden branches a part of her heart felt like it was breaking deep inside.
By Jason Burnham3 years ago in Fiction
Finding Love and Happiness Under a Rainbow Night
A storm was coming. It’s rolling cloud formation had piled high upon the mountain crest. As the sun dipped down, the tempest was unleashed, and the ocean churned as the sea dashed itself against the hundred-foot cliffs. With every thunderous boom, the ground shook with a rumbling roar. The air bit with a freezing cold but it felt fresh and alive. Lenny’s phone vibrated and binged with an emergency alert. He glanced at it and went inside.
By Jason Burnham3 years ago in Fiction
The Promise Sacrificed
As I pass a light green neon sign, the ghost of memories past comes rushing in. Saddam’s forces were raging across Kuwait and the tradition of following in my grandfather’s and uncle’s footsteps was weighing heavily on me. It’s been thirty years since that day, I think. My thoughts drift towards Shane and the promise I made. It still haunts me and pulls at my soul.
By Jason Burnham3 years ago in Fiction
Yesterday's Last Flower
It wasn’t until the slight scraping of a flower filled vase sliding across a fake wooden table that I realized someone was there. My hands were busy swabbing a tracheostomy stoma site with a mixture of hydrogen peroxide and saline water and the best I could do was give a nod to acknowledge his presence. He nodded back.
By Jason Burnham3 years ago in Fiction
Destinies
In the summer of eighty-two, Janice McCain was stricken with an infection that almost cost the nine-year-old her life. The bacterial assault ravaged both organ and limb, blackened three of her fingertips, and came close to costing her an ear. For twenty-two days, Janice hovered in the region between life and death while parents and doctor wondered if she would survive. On the twenty third day, a turning point in the medical war for the young girl’s soul drifted on the path towards the living. There would be days of tension filled panic but slowly, day by day, Janice got better and after seven weeks of hell the little girl woke up and gave those in the room a smile.
By Jason Burnham3 years ago in Fiction
- Top Story - July 2021
A Broken Piece of CakeTop Story - July 2021
My wife’s chocolate cake awaits inside upon the dining room table. The wafty scent has long been an established greeting for me at our entrance door. It is my sweet reward for a week of traveling mind numbing sales work. There is a deeper-seated unstated missive connected with the fresh baked morsel. A message that I am loved, appreciated, and deeply missed while I am away. It has always been and always will be my wife’s ‘Welcome Home’ gift to me.
By Jason Burnham3 years ago in Fiction
Mary's Girl
The beginnings of the Democratic National Workers Party can be traced to May 2013 when the United States Executive Administration systematically waged war on those Journalists it deemed a threat and silenced them without even a whimper of protest from the National Press that hired them. Before then, the Press had been an extension of the Political Parties providing their own form of propaganda and misinformation. 2013 though, was the turning point when the National Press went from being a messenger to an active participant in the direction the United States was to head. The cost was only a few Journalists careers, their lives, and their ethics.
By Jason Burnham3 years ago in Fiction