I am an American Writer and Illustrator under the pen name Saint James. I specialize in creative fiction works, including pieces in the Young Adult, Sci-Fi, Romance, and Mystery genres.
Find Me: https://linktr.ee/TheSaintjames
Horror In Dreamland
“Dreamland is dying. Burlesque performances and sideshows aren’t what they used to be,” Amelie said to the wide-eyed troupe of discarded souls. “We have to keep our show on top. It’s 1941, after all. We’re in a new era, boys!” She slammed her hands down on the thick oak table erected in the center of the performer’s cabin. Dreamland had been a burlesque, sideshow hybrid in the Louisiana Bayou for going on thirty years. Amelie wasn’t about to let it die off now.
A World Reborn
A blanket of disease, famine, and war covered the Earth in darkness. For many years, life on earth was on the verge of extinction, and the human race nearly fell. The Sabre Corporation was formed in 2130 by the former leaders of the United Nations on Earth in an effort to rebuild the planet to its former state. By 2131, Sabre Corporation’s chief officers had put a governing body in place to restore order on Earth.
Ode to a Mother
Oh, Mother, we are living in contrasting years, on timelines decades apart, train cars on identical lines at separate stops in our journey to the end.
The Summer of 2005
Kansas summers were always brutal, but the fierce heat on that afternoon in the summer of 2005: I’ll feel that for an eternity. My best friends and I locked arms on the now infamous day in June and walked blissfully into a backwoods amphitheater for our first and only Warped Tour as a trio. Mindy and Julie were Juniors in high school; I was still an innocent sophomore, led by the bad influence of my two best friends, or so everyone thought. As the summer drug on, it appeared that I might have been the bad influence after all. As reserved as I was in my everyday life, I turned into a monster when I had those two by my side. We raised hell in our Podunk town that summer, but we didn’t do it alone: we did it in style, with a summer anthem behind us.
My Father: The Style Icon
My father was the funniest person I’ve ever known and the most annoying soul my mother had ever met. He loved her with a fire brighter than the sun’s surface. Temperamental as a bull, he complimented my mother’s occasional passiveness. A Taurus, born in the early summer months of 1957, the man never did anything calmly or without a stubborn undertone. He was steadfast and kind, but most of all, he was always greedy for a laugh. His humor got on every last one of my mother's nerves but made me laugh so hard that I’d have to sprint to the bathroom before I peed my pants. I've always been envious of what could’ve easily been his stand-up comedy routine. I was enamored when he took his dentures out and sat them on my mother’s shoulder while she innocuously sat on the floral print loveseat in our living room, attempting to watch an hour of General Hospital. Her reaction was always a violent gagging sound and a jump, launching them off her shoulder onto the cushion of the chair placed opposite the loveseat.
Dreams: An Evening Imprisoned
It was a Saturday evening, and my mother had been working, thus my father was responsible for keeping me upright and alive. He was only barely able to do either. He stumbled into the living room, interrupting my second favorite T.V. show, Murder, She Wrote. I want to be Jessica Fletcher when I grow up, but I realize that the cards are stacked against me by judging my father's actions daily. He buzzed around behind the couch for a bit before approaching the Zenith floor model television set and poking the power button, effectively ruining my evening. "We're leaving," he mumbled.
Mistress of the Mafia
The marquee flickered, the top row of bulbs missing, and the rest barely clinging to life. Nevertheless, the sign lit up enough to read The Flamingo. Light bounced off of my newly darkened locks and plump cherry lips. I looked nothing like myself in the reflections of the club’s windows, but I presume that’s the goal for a girl like me. The bouncer brought my attention back to reality when he placed a hand slightly north of my bosom where the strap of my black Dior met my collar bone.
Love in Hindsight
Lust was thick in the air when my eyes locked with yours that first day. Your eyes, two pools of glistening honey, made the perfect vessel for mine to melt deep into and never escape. You stepped into my world on a blisteringly hot day in July of 1969, and I knew I would never be the same. The Santa Monica street fair happened the first week of July every year since ’61, and I'd been every year. The festival line three square blocks with booths overflowing with a unique character operating only the shadiest carnival games. Street food venues littered in between the games and rickety amusement rides that had seen every inch of the country. It was the carnival of the year. You see, the street fair wasn’t a carnival for families, but it was a place for people of every shape, style, and spirit. Where once there was a wholesome weekend activity for families, no stood streets flooded with partially nude twenty-somethings and lovers taking solace in the bushes for privacy. Love was evolving for everyone in the '60s. It was given and received freely; there were no rules, no boundaries, and especially for me, no limitations. The fair was a place to explore, to dive into what love meant to you, without being judged.