Jim Sprouse
Bio
Husband of a vibrant, generous, and gracious wife; father of a precocious two-year old with a smile that will melt your heart; teacher of high school and college students; and follower after the Great Exemplar—Jesus Christ.
Stories (8/0)
Leviathan
The team of researchers descended to a depth heretofore unreached. Their vessel was the first of its kind. The air practically hummed with the excitement of those on board. Very few frontiers remained unexplored on earth, and they found themselves on the cusp of one of the last, plunging deeper than human beings had ever gone before.
By Jim Sprouse3 years ago in Fiction
A Whimsical Wombat Tale
Once upon a time, not so very long ago and not so very far away, there lived a whimsical wombat named Wiggle. As one might expect, Wiggle was often given to bouts of waggish whimsy. This was indeed the case on this day when Wiggle threw open the front door of his house and launched himself across the threshold, intending to skip all the way to wherever he was going (he had not thought of a destination just yet).
By Jim Sprouse3 years ago in Fiction
Owlishness
The blood seeped out of his nose, painting a jagged, vermillion stroke across his upper lip which formed into a steady succession of droplets that crested the ridge of his lip and fell amongst the leaves below as he ran. Jack was racing through the woods, dodging trees that attempted to thwart his forward momentum. Behind him was Max--the school bully.
By Jim Sprouse3 years ago in Fiction
Whatever Happened to Ol' Bogtrotter?
Do you remember Bruce Bogtrotter? Do you remember how that nasty, outlandish, ridiculous Headmistress Trunchbull tried to humiliate him, but he turned the tables on her? Hoo, boy! That was a scene worth remembering! She called him everything from a clot to a carbuncle, but he turned out to be a clever clogs didn't he? Ha!
By Jim Sprouse3 years ago in Fiction
Meditative Woodworking
The air around me is redolent of the sweet smell of cherry wood. All is quiet at an hour when the sun has yet to ascend past the horizon. The only sound I hear is the soft scraping of the hand plane as I run it along my workpiece, following the grain of the wood. The woodgrain is my guide. The occasional small mistake is my teacher. I am in my own world for while as I seek to shape my piece into what I think it should be. I am a creator. My creations do not know my name, but neither do they criticize or bring any complaints against me.
By Jim Sprouse3 years ago in Longevity
The Draven Chronicles
The dark tower loomed like a silent sentry silhouetted against a darkening sky that threatened violence. A low rumble of thunder rolled across the plains that surrounded the fortress. Strewn about the barren flatlands were ancient piles of rubble that were supposedly all that was left of a great civilization that had existed long ago. Draven glanced upward at the sky.
By Jim Sprouse3 years ago in Fiction
