Patrick Juhl
Bio
Born in California, live in Tennessee. Wanna know more? Well maybe there are hints hidden in code in each of my stories. But probably not. I've got a black cat named Peewee.
Stories (18/0)
The Book of Ronald
In the land of Uz there was a man named Ronald. Nobody ever called him “Ronald,” though, only “Ron,” and that was when they didn’t call him “drunk bastard,” or “there he is! Get ‘im!” Ronald drank so much that beer wasn’t even able to get him drunk anymore, a fact of which he was deeply resentful.
By Patrick Juhl6 months ago in Fiction
So Riches Begat a Beggar
This one is so old that I hardly remember the person I was when I wrote it, but it has its loveliness. ~~~~~~ His existence was antithesis to rationality. He was so tall that his head vanished into the ground, and his kindly gaze burned with such fury that it bit with frost. The supreme beauty of his face, as though carved out of Greek marble, had been known to drive cities mad with its ugliness. So, when he walked, he made himself small. He made himself ordinary. He made himself one thing, at one time, and forgot the other–left it behind to be reattached later like the tip of a finger after the slip of a knife.
By Patrick Juhl7 months ago in Poets
Winter Crops
I should have left the damn thing in the ground–left it there for some poor schmuck to dig up long after I’m gone. But, well, I couldn’t very well have done that, could I? It was just so lonely and, well… it was lonely and, God have mercy, I’m a good man;
By Patrick Juhl7 months ago in Horror
Kokomo
Jennison pushed away the bottle of water in the dull orange light of the reactor. “I'm fine, Liv. You drink it.” “Are you sure?” Liv asked, frowning at the mouthful of water sloshing around the bottom of the bottle. She licked her cracked lips and flicked her gaze back to Jennison, who slumped against the wall with a dead look in his eyes.
By Patrick Juhl9 months ago in Fiction
The Late-Late-Late Show
The clock flashed on the bedside table, 4:52, 4:52, 4:52. The time had been the same ever since the storm knocked out the power. The TV flickered through channels. The remote was broken. It hadn’t worked ever since I threw it at the wall and it shattered, and now the channels passed in a blur, now hair serums, now Tupperware, now late-night shows with vapid celebrities nobody ever heard of talking about their outfits.
By Patrick Juhl9 months ago in Fiction
Have You Seen This Girl
Her flier stares from the dash, young and pretty like a breath of spring. It’s winter now, and it’s been ten winters come and gone, but there she is, still as pure as mountain air, and the winter is in my bones. A car flies by in the dark. 95. My siren goes “whoop whoop” like an excited dog. Blue and red ignite the darkness. The car pulls to the shoulder–a sexy red convertible as foreign in the cold as that pretty picture. Lights flash off the rear plastic window as I leave the dark and the warm and crunch over to the driver.
By Patrick Juhl9 months ago in Fiction
The Side of Right
In Sharant, the trumpets blow for returning heroes. Heroes missing limbs and heroes missing eyes, heroes on horseback and heroes on sledge. Heroes in bronze and heroes in torn and bloodied cloth. There were a lot of the latter, and many limbs left frozen on the mountain are clad in the same rough-spun linen. Sitting high upon his mount, the general beams, armor gleaming in the noonday sun while people pitch red Yumang flowers into his path. The blossoms crush underhoof and paint the stones crimson.
By Patrick Juhl2 years ago in Fiction