Ryan Smith
Bio
I'm a good dad, a decent writer, and a terrible singer.
Achievements (8)
Stories (32/0)
- Top Story - October 2023
What Editfest taught me about writing for Vocal challengesTop Story - October 2023
I love writing, but as a videographer, my job is creative in a different way. I'm grateful to make a living as a storyteller across mediums, and while I have used one to promote the other, I hadn't consciously considered how those two realms could influence or inform the other in terms of the hardest part of the creative process: Solidifying a story idea, the mental battlefield as a Vocal writer. With Vocal challenges especially, I have been guilty of spending a lot of time in the starting blocks, obsessing over the minute details. And then Editfest came along.
By Ryan Smith6 months ago in Writers
The South End
I hoped whoever dared him to jump faced the consequences. Maybe there was more than one. A gaggle. A coven. A murder. They all stood on deck in various degrees of drunkenness. One of them even filmed it on their phone and gave it to the news: Kevin Newland, alone in the black ocean, its secrets circling beneath, ever closer, the frigid water sobering him to the reality of his situation; the cruise ship drifting away, its light growing fainter with every frantic minute. His hope would have exhausted along with his body. A lonely, cruel death. The Bedford police released a statement that the Bahamian authorities were putting every resource into finding the Canadian star athlete teen lost at sea. Boats, helicopters, drones. Until they called it off. Until.
By Ryan Smith8 months ago in Fiction
The Rabbit
Alex opened the envelope with a trembling hand. You are cordially invited to celebrate the Thirtieth Birthday of our beloved daughter Emily. It sat on his kitchen counter for several days, a doorway he never thought he would see again. There was no enclosed RSVP. A summons. He left the city.
By Ryan Smith10 months ago in Art
The Scream
The dogs were barking. My mother opened the door just a crack, enough for the Law to get in. I don’t remember how many Law Men there were, but they had four times as many arms, scooping up Cassie and Carol as they stood, frozen by fear, in the kitchen. Their arms must have been hot because Cassie and Carol came alive, kicking and biting and screaming. The Law grew more arms and held my sisters tight.
By Ryan Smith10 months ago in Art
Property of a Lady
Rupert Stone was, by all accounts (including those of close family members), a cruel man. When he fired Simon King days before the gallery’s gala opening, he was more focused on his coupe of securing Property of a Lady, the 15th century painting loaned to him from La Galleria in Florence. The heist of the century, Rupert thought to himself with a smug smile as he greeted the first arrivals.
By Ryan Smith10 months ago in Fiction
- Top Story - June 2023
Sticky FingersTop Story - June 2023
The lights were out for ten minutes before David made his move. There could be no mistakes. He had played this out in his head until he could do it blindfolded. He rehearsed when no one was looking until he knew every creaky bit of the floor, where to hug the walls and the blindspots to pause in and wait for any signs of danger. He had been denied far too long, and tonight was the night that he got what he wanted.
By Ryan Smith10 months ago in Fiction
Travelling
Dear Son, I had this dream, and it lingers. I was walking through the woods, nowhere in particular, but not lost. Travelling. I came to a pond and looked down at my reflection. There were tiny little waves, and the ripples carried my reflection away through time, and I saw myself as an old man, wrinkles around the eyes from laughing, and creases in my brow from worry. When the water settled, I saw an infant, skin bereft of trouble or time, smooth and soft. It wasn’t me. It was you.
By Ryan Smith12 months ago in Poets
- Runner-Up in the Improbable Paradise Challenge
The MotherRunner-Up in the Improbable Paradise Challenge
Isla Mujeres, Mexico 1517 The Conquistadors, drawn by the flames of the lighthouse, came upon the mandible of the island jutting out of the sea. The plague of Spaniards came ashore in two small boats looking for riches, and found the sandy gem populated by fishermen and their wives, farmers, and salt miners. They discovered the house of idols at the headland, in the lighthouse's shadow, sheltering the flame of The Mother. The Conquistadors knew nothing of Ixchel, the Mayan Goddess of fertility, so when they found her within the house of idols, tall clay likenesses arranged in tribute, they knew what to call this place. Isla Mujeres. The Island of Women. The Conquistadors continued south, not knowing what to do with this place, as they were accustomed to water and blood flowing freely, and here both surged and ebbed. Their sails bulged as they sailed away, Ixchel expelling them on the wind.
By Ryan Smithabout a year ago in Fiction
Here, There and Everywhere
And then there were the winters. We went to school in a sleigh that Velvet pulled. Father gave me the reins sometimes, not my brother Ed. Losing this honour to his sister made him cross, so I learned to hide my pride so he wouldn’t hold me down and pinch me once Father was out of earshot. The farm was quiet in the winter. In the summer, the chickens were restless. I rode Velvet bareback through the fields.
By Ryan Smithabout a year ago in Fiction