Mark E. Cutter
Bio
The hardest thing I've tried to write recently is this little blurb right here. So, here it is. I'm learning how to write stuff. I hope people enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. I truly hope this is my last edit in this box.
Stories (3/0)
The April Fools: A hero's journey
I am one of the lucky survivors of the expression "boys will be boys." One of the most poignant sayings ever coined, this little gem includes, but is not limited to, a wide range of hormonally induced, reckless, self-imposed ordeals masquerading as rites of passage. Most if not all of these ordeals can be dangerous. Indeed, that is the whole point. In mid-April of 1981, my best friend and I concocted one of our most extreme ordeals during an unseasonably hot and humid four-day stretch of weather.
By Mark E. Cutter8 months ago in Humans
My Name Was Danny
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. What? Again? His concentration broken, the poet Carlyl opened his eyes. Reaching up, he rubbed his temples and then ran both hands through his salt and pepper hair. This was the third time in a row that the candle had ruined his simple mental exercise. He blew out a long rush of air.
By Mark E. Cutter9 months ago in Horror
The Valley of Beginnings
There weren't always dragons in the valley. And there shouldn't be now, Hakkar thought glumly as he crouched and picked up the end of the rope he had tied to a stake the night before. The time for them to have moved on from Brond Vale had come and gone at least six months ago. This had been agreed upon hundreds of years in the past, when the Accords were first made between men and dragons. Yet, reports had reached the king claiming that attacks on livestock had increased. The rope in his hands seemed to support those reports...yet...something was off. Last night there had been a succulent goat tied to the end of this rope, now there was just a cleanly severed end coated with a thick goo for half a cubit. Holding the rope in both gloved hands, he raised it to his nose and sniffed tentatively. He recoiled, nostrils stinging and burning. The acrid odor of the slime was nauseating. It most definitely did not come from a dragon. He sighed, and dropped the rope back onto the torn turf and dirt from which he had plucked it. He hated mysteries. Putting his hands on his knees, he stood. Both his leather armor and his knees creaked from the strain. He was getting too old for this.
By Mark E. Cutter10 months ago in Fiction
