I'm a 47 year old aspiring writer who has finally taken the time and put in the effort to make the dream come true instead of just keep wishing it.
I practice short story writing to hone my skills & entertain others with my storytelling.
A Fight Worth Having
They were strangers in this land, everyone was, but they were alienated more than most. It was 1847 and they had travelled west in search of a new homeland. The journey had been hard. It was a long trek through cold, desolate land, traversing the Rocky Mountains in the frigid, harsh, winter before finally settling in Utah. They had followed Brigham Young from their settlement in Illinois after the murder of their leader, Joseph Smith.
Voyage Of Broken Dreams
It was a bright and cheerful, yet slightly chilled morning. Anticipation hung in the air so thick that you thought you could almost taste it. The dock was bustling with people milling everywhere finishing last second tasks before the grand event happening later. Everett Simmonds adjusted his coat as he stared at the massive ship docked in front of him. The H.M.S Titanic was to be the grandest passenger liner of its kind and he let out a whistle at the sheer size set out before his eyes.
In The Dark
She peered through the tiny crack she had left in the door. From her closet sanctuary she looked out at the bedroom, barely breathing, heart pounding so loud she felt it would give her away any second. She saw no movement in the room but could hear the rustling from the hallway. A shadow passed by the bedroom door, and she paused her breathing once more as her eyes grew wider with apprehension. The shadow went back the way it came, never entering the bedroom and she allowed herself to relax for just a second. Her mind was racing. Would he find her? She closed her eyes and hoped the answer was no.
The Legend of Matt Hammer
The sun blazed down on the desert, baking the ground and everything on it. Even the lizards had tried to find some elusive shade. The man slowly plodded through the heat, his bare skin feeling like it was on fire. The war had ended, and he was now a free man. Freed by the soldiers from the north he had headed west in search of a better way of life. He had no family; his relatives had perished either on the boat on the way over or under the stress of the working conditions on the plantation. He had stolen a horse from a southern gentleman, and he had ridden as fast and as far as he could go.
Desire, Menace, and Murder
He was a player, and he was good at it. Blessed with good looks and a natural charisma that made conversation with strangers come easily, women were simply drawn to him. It was all an act, his entire life, he had been conning for so long that he couldn’t remember what he was actually qualified for anymore. It was so simple, a little bit of research, not on Google, and he could convince anybody that he was what he said he was. Sure, Google made it easier to look things up, get information quicker, but that was the same information anybody could get. If you were going to convince somebody that you were an airline pilot, or a defense attorney, or an antique dealer it required a deeper knowledge of the subject. Trips to the library were frequent, he liked the feel of pages in his hand, liked the obscure tidbits he could find among the shelves of books. The devil was in the details, the more facts you dropped the more convincing you were. Besides, the library was always a good place to meet smart, single, maybe a little lonely, women. He could pick a new job and a new soul mate at the same time.
Tempest on the Deep
He was a maritimer. His father was a maritimer and his father’s father was a maritimer. He lived and breathed the maritime provinces and the bounties they brought. For three generations now his family had fished off the shores of Nova Scotia and the sea had been good to them. He loved being a fisherman, the air permeated your lungs and nostrils until the only thing you could smell was the salt of the ocean. The waves rocked your boat back and forth, sometimes lifting you so high that if you looked straight out from the wheelhouse all you could see was sky, and then crashing you back into the ocean. It was better than any amusement park ride. The pride you felt when you had had a great catch and your hold was full as you motored your way back home was unlike anything else you felt. Your chest puffed out so far you thought it was going to split wide open. You beat the sea, provided for your family, and survived another trip. You were a man.
Mount Rushmore and My Experience as an Autograph Stalker
I’m a collector. I collect things. Superhero things, sports memorabilia, Louis L’Amour books to name a few, but the main thing I collect is autographs. I have probably close to three hundred in my collection and I have painstakingly put the vast majority of them in frames and hung them on the walls of my house. I would like to say that my collection was one day going to be the largest contributor to my retirement fund but sadly that is not the case. In fact, I used to call it my wall of semi-quasi-famous people I had met. You know, back when there weren’t a lot of extremely famous signatures on it and back when it was just one wall.
The Sweet Song of the Macaw
The year was 1935 and Hubert Rockingford was employed by J.K. Atlas Insurance Company. He was a former cop, former private investigator, and was now an insurance investigator. He liked his job, if he couldn’t be a cop anymore and private investigator was getting too dangerous, then this was the best of both worlds. Every now and then he investigated the odd fraudulent broken arm or leg, but mainly he investigated stolen property. This wasn’t ‘someone stole my bike’ or anything like that, he had performed well in this position, saved the company countless thousands of dollars, earned the trust of the head man himself and was now the lead investigator for all the high-end merchandise that appeared to go missing.
The water lay calm and still. It was a dark night, no moon in the sky and low cloud banks overhead. It gave an eerie feeling to anyone staring out over the shore. An owl spoke out in the distance and the branches of a nearby tree scratched plaintively in the breeze at the roof of a boathouse. There was a feeling in the air, a feeling of loneliness and melancholy, it made the little hairs on your arms and the back of your neck stand at attention. With the night so dark the water appeared to be black, so black that looking into it made you feel like you were staring deep into the abyss, almost to the soul of the lake. If you looked into it long enough it was as if you could feel the water staring into you.