Tagged: story

Storytime Saturday, featuring an excerpt from an unnamed short story.

Here’s a snippet from an upcoming short story. Thanks for reading.

The day that my potato exploded in the microwave was an eye opener. It was a sign…an omen. A message from the powers that be. Maybe I’d nuked that fucker for too long, or maybe I just didn’t give a shit. Either way, that little vegetable bastard decided to commit culinary suicide and blew itself spud first all over the confines of the microwave with a mere five seconds left. I mean, c’mon…it couldn’t have kept its composure for a measly five more seconds? Suck it up, god damn it! I had no money left, I had no lunch, and I was hungry enough to eat the scum out of the bottom of a homeless man’s shoes. It was definitely a sign…an omen…a message from the powers that be.

Storytime Saturday, featuring an excerpt from The Passing at Highway 10.

Below is a snippet from an unfinished short story…enjoy, and thank you for reading.

As she stood, I hurried behind her to help slip the jacket on that she’d carried over from behind the bar; it was long and red, and had a faint smell of sweet flowers and summertime.  The back of my hand grazed her bare arm, and it felt warm and smooth, and my heart damn near jumped three feet out of my chest.  “You ready?”, she said out of smiling lips.

A blast of thunder exploded outside with a crazy boom, and it sounded like a fucking nuke got detonated.  She jumped at the sound, and I glanced outside into that swirling mess of a storm.  The wind had picked up rapidly, and I thought to myself that it was going to be a slow, careful drive. I couldn’t have been more wrong. “Yeah”, I said, to answer her question, and I jerked my chair in and walked her to the door; we both flashed a wave and a smile to Jack behind the bar, and readied ourselves for the race out to the rig.

Storytime Saturday, featuring an excerpt from an untitled upcoming short story.

Take a peek at this week’s excerpt.  The story is still unfinished, but it’s a small part of a redemptive, soul searching, and ultimately uplifting tale.   Thanks for reading!

I’m not afraid of the dark. It’s there that I can’t be seen. These days, hell…maybe I don’t want to be seen. I’ve spent so much time lingering in that place that it’s comfortable….like an old friend. It knows me and I know it; it understands me more than the light ever did. The light left me, and when it did, the darkness was there to shield me from the cold. And boy, was it cold. 

It’s in the darkness that I can see the clearest. Sounds weird, right? But it’s true…in the darkness, I can see. Clearer than on the brightest, sunniest day…and yet I can’t be seen, at least by the normal, every day people. Night recognizes night. That much is true. Darkness can see darkness. Bleak understands bleak. I ain’t afraid of any dark. 

I think that I am afraid of sunlight though…it’s never truly touched me. I’ve always seen its rays, sure…but I’ve never truly felt it’s warmth. Like a plant that bends and twists and reaches and contorts for enough sunlight to survive…only to wither and brown and retract. It’s not easy to stretch oneself for nothing. There’s less disappoint in the dark. The sunlight is unforgiving to blemishes.    

Storytime Saturday, featuring an excerpt from an as yet untitled piece.

This is intended to be a tale of growth, understanding, and redemption…below is just a snippet.  Check it out if you’d like.  Best of days to all.



I wasn’t worth a damn on paper. In the paper world, the document world, the world of resumes and economic status, I was fucking worthless. Bullshit administrative work here, run of the mill labor there, hum drum office experience way over there…hell, my resume was less than toilet paper. Looking at that bad boy made me question everything. Is this what it had come to? Is this what all the years of busting my ass have amounted to? Jack shit? I may as well have been anonymous. Just another warm body to feed the greedy corporate carnivores. A chalkboard whose teachings had long since been scrubbed clean. 

But clean slates can still educate, right? They can still learn. Clean slates still hold value, however anonymous they are…they can still speak of success. I had to remind myself of that. But I was never successful at anything. Well, failing…I was very good at that. I was successful at failing. Hell, at fucking shit up, I was a professional. The best. I could turn a nugget of gold into a fistful of shit at the drop of a dime. All in a day’s work.  

Storytime Saturday, featuring an excerpt from The Passing at Highway 10.

Check out this excerpt from an upcoming short story about…zombies.  Read on, if that’s your thing.  Best of days to all, and thanks for dropping by.



No, this was real. And it was scary. And it was happening right before our eyes whether we were ready for it or not. All our lives, we live and breathe and feel invulnerable, like no disaster will ever reach our shores…like nothing bad will ever happen to tear our own little personal worlds apart. And when it does happen, everything we’ve ever known, understood, prepared for…gets thrown out the fucking window. “Yeah, zombies”, I said again into the silence, and it broke that silence like a rock through a pane of old glass. “What the fuck was that?“, Sam whispered into the dim light, and I heard him say “Oh shit, that back door”, and he took off and made his way to the back. I told Sally to wait here while me and another guy followed Sam to the back of the place. I heard it then too…a bumping or knocking sound coming from outside the door. Maybe they were trying to get in. We all looked at each other, and slowly and silently moved our way to toward the door.

Storytime Saturday, featuring an excerpt from an as yet unnamed tale.

Grab a drink, post up in a chair, and take a few minutes to dig into this little story snippet.  Thanks for reading; let me know what you think.  Stay creative.

     At long last, it appeared as though they were nearing their destination; the deeper they got, the more the forest seemed to close in tightly around them, and the unmistakable rustle of the oversized jungle leaves grew nearer. Up ahead, the driver finally made the decision to ease up on the gas, and the bus began to slow its pace as the road began to narrow. His heart began to race at the anticipation of what existed outside the comfort of the bus, and as this was his first international assignment, he was eager to get his feet wet and explore.  
     The bus’ brakes began to squeal loudly as it came to a slow stop. They were approaching a large clearing, surrounded by the intensely rich green of the surrounding jungle. The air began to surge in through the windows, and with a shudder, the bus came to a complete halt. He glanced around the bus, and all within were hurriedly gathering themselves and their belongings, stretching tired bodies and sleeping limbs from such a long journey. She was collecting her bag, and running her fingers through her wind tousled hair; she wore a green jacket that hugged her body just right, and she pulled on a well-worn cap that rested comfortably over her eyes.  

Storytime Saturday, featuring an excerpt from an as yet nameless tale.

Take a gander, if you’d like, and let me know what you think.  Happy weekend; stay creative.

He rode slowly and haughtily toward the beast; his approach was strewn with pride at felling such a mighty animal. The others rode the clearing, picking off the last of the exhausted herd, and he reached the animal as it writhed its last frenetic movements. The beast lay dying, an arrow through its chest, drawing its last breaths. He watched the king dismount and walk toward him with knife drawn. His last view consisted of the king, knife in hand, approaching him and drawing the glistening blade across his neck, thus finishing the job. The hunt was over, and the men cheered with pride at their success.

The camp was ripe with the talk of the day; bold stories intermixed with tall fables resounded over the group, and each man enjoyed his share of the well cooked venison. The fires simmered and the king made his rounds with the men, hearing each man’s tale with a warm smile and a ready ear.  

Storytime Saturday, featuring an excerpt from an upcoming untitled piece.

Read on if you'd like; if so, thank you for taking the time to do so. Best of days to all.

The bus veered around a series of winding corners, and they slowly and methodically snaked their way deep into the trees. He surprisingly managed to drift in and out of sleep periodically with each bump and sway of the ancient machine as it rocked him to sleep. The old driver tamed the turns like a seasoned pro, and managed to swerve deftly around each craggy bend; any driver with normal nerves would surely not have attempted that type of road with the type of speed that this guy was able to conjure up. It was actually quite a shock that the old scrap heap was able to generate any speed at all, he mused. One look at that thing and you’d think it must’ve been George Washington’s motor coach. That fucker had to have been at Valley Forge. A good jolt jarred him from his sleep, and he sat up wide-eyed in the seat. He gave a quick, slumber induced glance around the bus in order to get his bearings, and noticed that her eyes had closed and her head was tilted back against the seat. Her head shifted gently from side to side with each curve of the road, and she looked so peaceful like that, he thought, her head dancing along with the movement of the bus. The breeze forced its way in and caught fragile tufts of her hair in its grasp, and sent it flying rapidly in front of her face. She was beautiful.