Misty Rumsley
Bio
I have been writing stories ever since I was little.
Love writing fiction and a little poetry the most :)
Stories (9/0)
Old Friends
The autumn sun was low, casting long shadows across the path as Emily walked in the park on her way home. It had been a big day at school, and after a snack at her friend's house, the ten year old was looking forward to a quiet evening in front of the fire with her dad. And it was pizza night!
By Misty Rumsley2 months ago in Fiction
Chapter One Storm in the Living Room
"Steve, really?" I asked as I caught my ten year old son pulling the orange juice back out of the fridge where I had just put it. "You've all had about three cups of that already." It was Friday evening and it felt like I had been trying to make dinner for the last two hours. If it had been a summer night, my five children would be outside in the garden screaming there, even if I had to lock the doors on them. But as it was winter and already dark, they had no choice but to play in the living room. My husband and I were both raised by fairly strict parents. Screaming was unheard of, so was taking food from the kitchen without permission or asking for seconds. Maybe our similar experiences combined made a stronger determination to see our kids allowed to live to their full capacities, I don't know. But if little is to be said about that, then I'll just leave a final comment that for whatever reasons and by whatever causes, our children were much different.
By Misty Rumsley8 months ago in Fiction
Life is the Name of the Adventure for Jim Bells
I LOOK OUT THE window from my seat in the aeroplane and, even though all I can see are patches of blue sky and clouds, the nature tracker I'm holding tells me that directly below us is a tundra biome, cold and icy. I should know, since I was just in the Salluit airport. When we land about an hour later, I pick up my pre-paid rental off road land cruiser camper, and set off for the rest of my journey to Mexico City, taking "the long way around" as I like to say. Who would pass up a plane ticket and drive across the whole of North America but for an outdoorsman and raw nature lover like myself?
By Misty Rumsley8 months ago in Fiction
My Runaway Train
MY RUNAWAY TRAIN 1911, Somewhere in England I open my eyes. What’s sounding like a lullaby humming in my ears? As my head clears I realize it isn’t a lullaby—it’s the sound of the wind in the trees as the noisy train I’m on rushes by. But where exactly on this train am I? I’m lying flat in the open, the cold, darkening diamond sky above me. My neck aches when I try to lift my head, so I reach up a hand to the railing and eventually manage to pull myself to my feet; all goes blurry again as my head swims. I blink rapidly as if that will help, and try to survey my surroundings. I must have been unconscious somehow but I can’t remember what happened before I found myself here. I brush some red curls out of my face and turn towards the sound of the engine, deciding I must be on the caboose at the very back. Suddenly I’m scared nearly out of my skin, which must have somehow brought back my bearings. In front of me, leaning over the railing with his hand poised as if ready to grab onto something, is a boy—silent and still. Cautiously I step over to him. His face looks like he has just had some kind of fright.
By Misty Rumsley8 months ago in Fiction
