John Ouellet
Bio
Retired Special Agent FBI. Resides in Michigan. Originally from Boston Mass area. Novels: The Captive Dove and Cats & Dogs. Website: jOuelleteMontayne.com
Stories (9/0)
The Merry Spinsters
It was one of those delightful muggy days when the sun and rain clouds met above like wandering tourists. A violent flash of rain quickly muddied the earth. Lydia left her garden in haste. She watched from under her wide straw hat as the last defiant rain drops spun the brilliant sunlight like tiny prisms. Then, all too soon, the sun vanquished the storm.
By John Ouellet2 years ago in Fiction
Carry Me Home
Chloe hurried down the stairs when she heard the screen door whine open and then just as quickly slam shut. It was Sam she was hurrying to meet before he had the chance to see the faded jean jacket that belonged to no one he knew. “Simon’s home. He’s asleep. Let him be now. He came in late. He’s exhausted, says he feels sick but I don’t think so.”
By John Ouellet2 years ago in Fiction
With Every Beat of My Heart
Drip, drip, drip, drip. Slow, steady, insistent. It came as an echo, as if within a cavern. It even chilled the air, that sound, that feel. It followed him from room to room. No time of day was spared. It came with the same pulsing rhythm, the same dull slapping. At first he thought a leaking faucet or remnants of a summer storm. He checked for worn washers, loose drainpipes, unattended-to cracks in the old roof. It was none of those. They called in plumbers and home inspectors, heating experts, roofers, and bug exterminators. None could locate the source. Indeed none could hear the drip, drip, drip but him.
By John Ouellet2 years ago in Horror
CATS & DOGS
If you were fire, this is how you'd want to burn, a true democracy of flame, all with an abundance and none with more than the other. They tried to fight it, tried to find an entry point, but all were consumed, as if fire knew they'd be coming and was tormenting them. All they could do was watch. It was marvelously contained. It burned quick and tidy. Just the old house. It would be remembered as one of the most bizarre and terrifying fires in Kalispell's history. Five people dead. A child survived. A child and a half dozen cats that must have jumped from the fire. The child, a burnt-orange haired boy, seven-years old, his name now forgotten unless one cared enough to query the Internet, was found watching from the front walkway when the first neighbors arrived.
By John Ouellet2 years ago in Horror
SURF AND TURF
It was just for the weekend. Drive him down from Boston, show him around the Cape, spending as little time as possible in Falmouth, then flying back to El Paso. It wasn’t Angela’s idea; it was Abyasa’s, a topic she’d never suggest and had worked hard on avoiding. But then she made the mistake of telling him she had family on Cape Cod. It happened during an evening stroll while he was visiting her in Galveston. He lamented that he was here in this country alone without family or Indonesian connections. To make him feel better she half joked that having family around wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. He wanted to meet them. After all, they were getting close. Nothing imminent but there was certainly an attraction brewing, something seductive between them.
By John Ouellet3 years ago in Fiction
The Warming House
It didn’t bother him to have them over; he was happy to do it. He smiled generously and told them to lay their coats, hats, and gloves on a table in the corner of the garage. When one of them, a much older man whose lower lip trembled like that of a whimpering child, balked, Warren Lott nodded and let him wear them inside. There were four of them, all crusty-eyed and skin the texture of dry modeling clay. They were embarrassed to be there, though they needn’t be. Warren and his wife, Jenna, were happy to help.
By John Ouellet3 years ago in Fiction
The Talking Tree
In a small town in northern Michigan there is a talking tree. Don’t ask the locals; they’ve never heard of it. Don’t set off on a search for a thing of majesty and splendor. It is a simple red maple set in the midst of a forest on an overgrown path that leads to nowhere. Though it has been in my family for four generations, I knew nothing of its existence or significance until several weeks ago. And in my heart I know its re-discovery was not mere serendipity but an act of a silent prayer.
By John Ouellet3 years ago in Families
