Rob C. Johnson
Bio
I began writing at an early age and continued well into my adult years. I'm known for telling stories weighing on my mind--mostly fiction--and enjoy the likes of fantasy and crime.
Stories (7/0)
Recoded
Recoded There's a place that none of us kids have ever heard of before. My toes tucked in, cut off by the sandy surface of the beach. Shells, rocks, and many pebbles littered the sandy surfaces, which led to the lapping ocean reaching the shore, only to retract and try again. Dr. Jenna, much like all the adults there, wore white lab coats. Usually, she'd walk along the beaches, sometimes holding my hand as we watched the gulls fly away, flapping their angelic wings ever-so gracefully. They'd fly off to another world. At least that's how I imagined it once they coasted into the distant sky until you could no longer see them. Some of us kids would sit around and wonder where they’d disappear off to. As if something awaited them on the other side of the endless ocean. Dr. Jenna walked with me side-by-side and she'd give vague details of “recoding.” What was that? She told me about one of the kids and how they didn't act “uniform” as she called it. Somehow, he attempted to cross the waters on a makeshift raft and attempted to escape. The adults eventually caught up to him. Then, while holding my hand through the beach, she said, “He was bawling and kicking uncontrollably, he had to be recoded. He swears up and down he didn’t make the raft. Rather, someone else made it for him. Whoever it is, they’ll become recoded. And if anyone withholds information on the person, or protects them, will be recoded.”
By Rob C. Johnson3 years ago in Fiction
By The Horns
“What do you mean by 'you need more time?’” Jarrod Jefferson asked, irritated. He swirled the Jack Daniels in his glass, taking a small sip of the dark liquid. He sat at his desk, placed the glass on the surface, and drummed on the wooden surface with his fingertips, playing in a disorganized melody. Jefferson, as everyone referred to him, was dressed in a sharp, pin-striped business suit with the light reflecting off his glasses. He was clean-cut, and his face seemed wrinkled as if he were always in thought. A short-haired, red-headed woman strutted over in a seductive stride as if trying to get Jefferson’s visitor’s attention. She succeeded. The devil in a blue dress and black, peep-toe heels swayed over to the edge of the desk. She sat her bottom on the edge, a drink in her hand also. She winked and put her lips to the glass.
By Rob C. Johnson3 years ago in Fiction
Atlas
A loud ring snapped me from the daydream that held onto my attention, keeping it from the reality of my situation. That ring—it awakened me from the trance the steady hum of the vending machines put me in. The steady metronome droned on as I sat before the guy sitting at the motel desk. He was reading a comic book titled “Villain.” The pages showed him the contents inside, so much so, that I wasn’t sure if he noticed my entry. Before I even told him, he tossed me keys as if they spoke in a chanting jingle for me to “take them.” They beckoned and I didn’t ignore them. Without looking at me, he told me my room number, which was scratched on the key tag in ink, 210.
By Rob C. Johnson3 years ago in Fiction
The Last Piece
By Demetria Wilcoxon I contemplated at the table that night. The one craving I couldn’t ignore hovered over me like guilt. According to doctors, I had to pretend as if the foods I love the most are non-existent. No matter how satiable the smooth, dark taste of chocolate was, it was debilitating to my health, yet, I’ve always been a glutton for its rich taste. Yes, I'm a big girl, but you shouldn’t use that as some barometer of judgment. Big girls are obligated to eat like everyone else. Before I was obstructed from enjoying the chocolate, double layer treat, I enjoyed the baked dessert amongst friends and family. We’d all not only share a laugh or two—we’d share memories. This house would fill with laughs. And that’s so you’d get the gist of a house that was alive, and you’d get the gist that I wasn’t alone in reducing the chocolate treat down to a mere slice. The slice was surrounded by crumbs on the base of the ceramic plate. Along with the excess chocolate smears that came along with the savory slice. One slice remaining. I'd sit there contemplating on whether I should ignore medical advice just for a moment’s worth of bliss. I mean, in a way, I didn’t care much. There were times when I grabbed the plate, held it over the trash. It immediately made me think of those movies where the protagonist held the antagonist over a cliff or an edge and drops them at the end of the movie. Or in some cases they don’t—I was one of the ones that didn’t. The fork was ready to push it off into the trash, but I stopped myself short, returning the plate and chocolate treat back to the dining room table. It was back to square one. Back to the stare down. And I was surely losing. Ignoring the loud craving—doctor’s orders—wasn’t working. I was always in and out of the hospital. I knew I’d gotten sick easily. The sickness wasn’t ordinary, however, and rather wonder and ponder proceeding steps, I’d ignore everything the medical professionals would advise me. Including the constant allergic reactions, my body had to my favorite, sweet, dark treat.
By Rob C. Johnson3 years ago in Fiction
Envoy
A Short Story He waited in anticipation. He checked the time on his watch. It was nearing eight o' clock and getting late. This place was empty and abandoned, just the way he'd needed it to be. The idea of even fathoming such a task brought out nervous ticks: lighting and blowing cigarette smoke in the cool, night breeze, checking his cellular phone every ten minutes to see if his wife would message him concerning his whereabouts.
By Rob C. Johnson3 years ago in Criminal
Celina Saga
Precius held a worried look on her face. The clouds above her darkened. A bad omen drenched the skies. She could feel it. The princess of Celina rode to the thunderclaps of her horse', her younger sibling, Sybil Valentine wore a bandana atop her long, black hair like a gypsy. Her eyes reminiscent to what the sky once was when it was filled with radiance, now the sun had forsaken the Earth that once needed it. Her bosom covered with her thinly blue skirt and black leggings that led to her brown, buckled boots. She kept her arms wrapped around Precius' waist as she could feel the up and down rhythmic thump of the horse's motions. Corinne, Precius twin sister, kept pace beside them. They were ripping through a thicket to seek help--Sybil was infected. She mainly spoke slowly, but would feel as if the world weighed heavily upon her mind, causing it to wander. Sometimes, the thoughts were malicious. And even then, she only let out short groans, to which, Precius soon took notice.
By Rob C. Johnson3 years ago in Geeks
Space Program
Space Program A Rob C. Johnson Short Story Today was the type of day where you’d often wonder how things would turn out. Today was a day filled with people lined up outside the new place they’d just finished under construction. It was well-fenced off. It was one with the fences topped off with outward hooks, making it hard to infiltrate. The attraction must’ve been huge, which would’ve been the only reason to enjoy these trash-ridden streets of downtown. The trash was my responsibility for having “sticky-fingers”. My supervisor hovered over us like vultures to dying corpses. He stopped and snapped me out of my trance; my moment of clarity of the Space Program, reduced to dashed hopes.
By Rob C. Johnson3 years ago in Fiction
