Logan McClincy
Bio
A stranger once saw me after I'd been living in the middle of the desert alone for several weeks. He drew that picture of me. Basically, I've always been inspiring.
Stories (27/0)
The Thing in the Mirror
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. Not at first. I might not have noticed at all if it weren’t for those eyes. I was beyond tired, the project was due at five a.m. and I’d used every last second to finish. My arm hovered above my keyboard, severed it’s ties to my nervous system and let my barely extended finger thud heavily onto the enter key. With the deep, satisfying click, the spell prolonging my life had been broken. Without the standard pump of adrenaline that comes with having a purpose with a deadline, I was dead weight. It was as if the unseen marionettist controlling my life had cut my strings without warning. I wasn’t crumbling easily, time had built calcifications on my joints that would hold me up just long enough to get some food, take a shower and go to bed. I hoped.
By Logan McClincy about a year ago in Horror
Orc Country
Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. Roger could only hope the exhaust coming from his motorcycle might change the saccharine colors in this state, but he knew it didn’t matter. He’d be back on the road soon enough. The sky-colored grass, blue sky not this pink one, rolled past like a conveyor belt. The tree trunks wrapped in horizontal rainbow stripes, gaudy imitations of their former selves, marked Roger’s path better than any map could. He counted one hundred and seventy-nine trees before turning left at the fork he knew would be there. It wasn’t there when he’d come this way, but that was New Cascadia for you. Reduced to cartoony magic and non-Euclidian driving directions. An entire, corrupted landscape that some people had the audacity to call beautiful, as if photographs of Washington State pre-cataclysm didn’t exist. It made Roger sick.
By Logan McClincy about a year ago in Fiction
Interdimensional Menagerie
Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. The dewy sheen on the rainbow hued grass reflected deeper magenta shades as the clouds passed over the hillside. The only tree in the region, a magnificent oak making up for its solitude with sheer size, was already teeming with activity. Eyes unfamiliar with the denizens of the Wandergone, outer realm of magic, life and joy, might have assumed that they were either hallucinating, or that the forest itself had come alive. Rustling among the thick leaves of the oak tree soon revealed small but intense points of light hiding in its boughs. The mindless fairies of brilliant shades of pink, blue, green and orange drifted away from the center of the tree, signaling the start of the evening’s activities to their neighbors. They spun and danced around the tree, adorning it with thin, translucent strands of strange glowing thread, until the oak was decorated like a holiday tree. As the sentient pinpricks of light spun about in their merriment, every football sized rock scattered around the base of the tree, and there were hundreds, suddenly sprouted legs of stone beneath them before walking out to the edge of the hilltop and plopping right back down, this time arranged in a perfect ring. Moments after the stone stampede, legions of red and blue toadstools rose and followed suite. Every mushroom in the area sprouted two new stocks at their bottom before chasing after the boulders that left them behind and settled back down next to them.
By Logan McClincy about a year ago in Fiction
The Capacity for Patience
Nobody said that my life was going to be easy. Nobody said it was going to be hard either, and they were right. My life was neither easy nor hard. Nobody ever said much of anything in my presence, even when they did, it was usually by chance. I was not but a stone for most of my existence and nobody has much reason to say to a boulder. I saw people very rarely, in those earlier parts of my life. It is difficult to tell time as a stone, things that can move about freely always seemed to do so with a speed I couldn’t fathom. After the dust settled, the fires cooled and rain began to fall regularly, softer creatures than stones or trees, animals, began to wander out of the ocean. More fires, bigger stones and ice took away the first ones, but they were soon replaced with other, smaller animals. Some of those animals said nothing, only passed me by with silent acknowledgement of where I was. Others gathered around me, they squeaked and chattered their fast, unintelligible words as their tiny paws scrabbled up my warm, rough skin. I always liked the squirrels. They never had any reason to break smaller stones off of me.
By Logan McClincy about a year ago in Fiction
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