Sean Cavanagh-Voss
Stories (10/0)
A Window Facing East pt. 2
It was a harsh and freezing wind that blew in from the north. Blood caked on chapped lips, a death grip on the hilt of a samurai sword. The way was long. He trudged through the snow with single minded determination. His destination was demarcated by a plume of black smoke in the distance. That which separated them: Okahana Pond. In the frigid winter, the pond was frozen all the way across: a sheet glass of pure ice. He put an unsure sandal on the frozen surface. He felt it creak a little. Oh well. There was no turning back now.
By Sean Cavanagh-Voss3 years ago in Fiction
A China Shop; or, Kafka for the 21st Century Man
Don’t be creepy, don't be weird. Don’t be creepy, don’t be weird. Don’t be creepy, don’t be weird. There she is sitting at the table. Honey-blonde hair. Green eyes. My type. Why did she have to be my type? It would be so much easier if I wasn’t so attracted to her. Like marginally attractive would be welcome. But she is drop dead… Don’t say it. Don’t think it. It’s just going to make you nervous. You’re going to think the same thoughts you always think: you’re not smart enough, not attractive enough, not good enough. Oh right, because you’re never good enough. Shut up, Dad.
By Sean Cavanagh-Voss3 years ago in Fiction
A Window Facing East
It moved with the wind: a carpet of gold and brass. It stretched for miles until it died on the horizon. It moved with the wind: a head of jet black hair, shoulder length. The face it attached to, a cold steel grimace. It moved with the wind: a strand of rope. Affixed to his waist, it held the sheath of a samurai sword. He flicked his thumb on the hand guard, revealing an inch of the cold steel blade. Across the field was his opponent - a samurai of considerable renown though one of old bones. He gave thanks that youth was on his side and drew the length of the blade as he charged. He moved like the wind.
By Sean Cavanagh-Voss3 years ago in Fiction
Where the Dustwinds Moan
It was 9:37 a.m. when the bombs dropped on November 18th, 2097. It was a Monday. When the dust settled, the living, as they are wont to do, went on living. Camps and tribes formed around river basins. Canned foods became coal and wine. And violence and cunning were the national currency.
By Sean Cavanagh-Voss3 years ago in Fiction
Sitting in the Sand
Dusk came early on March the 5th 1989. The rise and fall of breakers. Wind in the palms. He pulled the baggy blue jeans up from the edge of his buttocks. Forgot his belt. Again. He tapped the industrial torch against the heel of his hand. Batteries rattled inside the casing like maracas. It blinked away the darkness. And the things he’d heard in it. Popcorn fireworks. Dogs barking. The roar of the engine. His boots sunk in the sand as he trudged along the coastline. It was like walking on suction cups. Cicadas rattled in the trees. By now, the sun had disappeared behind the horizon. The only light was the torch in his hand that glittered off the waterline. No moon. Even the stars seemed dimmer.
By Sean Cavanagh-Voss3 years ago in Criminal
It Happened...
One day, there was a dog – a little Shih Tzu with a name only he knew – strolling along a naked ravine unquenched by the summer drought. At the end of the ravine, embedded in moss-covered concrete slabs, there sat a drainage pipe rusted orange. Woof-woof, thought the dog, panting out the scalding mid-afternoon day. Perhaps he was excited to watch the turtledoves drink from what little the ravine had left to give. He padded towards the potential companions, his tail dancing back and forth as his floppy brown ears flapped in the breeze. But these were not the friends he sought, for as he moved upon them, the turtledoves screeched out and up towards the burning ball in the sky. He then lowered his head and busied himself by sniffing along the concrete to play off his embarrassment at the stark display of rejection.
By Sean Cavanagh-Voss3 years ago in Petlife