Linda C Smith
Bio
Writer and photographer. Also wife, mom, grandmom and all those other relationship tags that make life so fun. My personal motto is Choose Joy.
Stories (9/0)
The Wild Plains Were His Home
The giant bison snorted in the early morning mist, shaking his heavy head from side to side. Autumn was deep on the plains, having turned most of the grasslands to dry gold. As far as his eyes and memory could see were the plains of his life. The old bull could not count the years of his life only its seasons. That he was old there was no doubt. His hide bore the scars of many battles and the mishaps of a long life. Scars from the horns of his rivals; clawmarks of the grizzly; and gun and arrow wounds from creatures he did not understand.
By Linda C Smith3 years ago in Fiction
Terror always tiptoes around
It all started the day Claudia finished her wolf rug. It was a beautiful little rug, just the right size to put on the floor in front of her television set. Start to finish the project had taken her a bit over two months to complete because she had never before done latchhook. It took awhile to master the correct way to hold the hook and to grab the yarn and pull it through the mesh without shredding the yarn. It was a good thing she had purchased extra yarn. But once she got the hang of it, it was fun to watch the image come to life. The completed rug had two wolves on it, one of which was baying at the moon.
By Linda C Smith3 years ago in Fiction
They called him Rabbit Ears
Bobby did not have big ears. That wasn't it at all. In point of fact, Bobby wasn't very big. Being only seven years old and the shortest of the kids, he was often overlooked until he was missed. Dinner time would come around and Mom would count out the chairs that had bodies in them. Invariably the fifth chair would be empty. "Bobby!" would go out the call from Mom who would then dispatch one of the brothers to find him and bring him in to supper.
By Linda C Smith3 years ago in Fiction
On the wings of the cacao tree
"Hawaii, really? We had to come to a tropical island to work?" Jocelyn was sympathetic of Nancy's whining. It was all she'd done for the past three hours; which was the entirety of the time they'd been on the island so far. "Yes, work," said Jocelyn. "This is a job after all. Maybe we'll get lucky and have some time to sit on the beach and drink one of those fruity drinks with umbrellas in them once the event is over."
By Linda C Smith3 years ago in Fiction
Romance with candlelight and hay bales
Norman was 80 years old but spry. He carried himself like a younger man of 75. His hair was gray but he still had all of it. His beard was gray but he shaved every day because he didn't want Martha to think him "grizzled." Today he wanted Martha to think of him as handsome and funny. She often told him he was funny. Today he was setting up a spot in his old run-down barn for a romantic dinner he hoped would charm her.
By Linda C Smith3 years ago in Fiction
The Red Pheasant Inn
Clarence and Phyllis had first heard of The Red Pheasant Inn as it was back in the old times. Clarence's father and mother had honeymooned there and often told stories of the long walks they would take through the rolling countryside and how they would enjoy glasses of locally grown wines. The Inn was at least a century old, built of stone hewn from the ground from the nearby hills and transported by donkey cart. It wasn't big, it wasn't fancy but it had charm. At least those were the stories told by Clarence's father.
By Linda C Smith3 years ago in Fiction
Quilting my way to peace
Three years ago I purchased my first quilt kit. Truthfully I didn't know what I would do with it, but the picture on the package was beautiful. I was on vacation, a cruise actually, to Alaska. One of the stops on the cruise was a town that had an amazing quilt shop. When I walked in my breath was taken away.
By Linda C Smith3 years ago in Lifehack
In the end it was the zombie earwigs
It would have been better if it had been butterflies. Marjorie loved butterflies. They were soft and lovely and flitted from flower to flower. Would being smothered by soft butterflies have been better though? Earwigs, on the other hand, were ugly and creepy. And had those nasty pincers. They did not flit. They scooted and scurried. And they killed a lot of folks. They killed her Marcos.
By Linda C Smith3 years ago in Fiction
