Category Archives: Literature

Literary pieces that I have worked on or have in progress.
This category is for simple enjoyment and not a research project of any type, nor is it associated with any ongoing schooling or training.
Most of my stories will be fictional, and may tend more toward the fantasy rather than the sci-fi

Unique Little Egg

The intricacies… independent and unique.

He sent the order in this morning.

The letter next to her only specified: “Something intellectual and creative.” He often let her have the reins with the eggs, long ago realizing she was more than capable.

She sighs, but a smile spreads across her face.

She loves this… sort of artwork. She has never met another who does it the same as she does. She is meticulous, careful, measured.

But also, she enjoys flaws… though she isn’t sure she can really call them flaws if they are intentional.
She places the finished egg in the basket lined with soft linens.

A soft chime comes from outside her window. She stands and opens the window. She walks back to the table and retrieves the basket.

The basket is filled with intricately designed eggs, each the same, but uniquely different.

She looks out the window, then, as the winds of time blow past, she places the basket in the beak of the stork.

The Park

The damn birds… the incessant cooing, if Patty could think of a better punishment… she would.

She could not forget her little Katie’s laughter from the back seat. Her daughter, so bright and joyful.

They had been laughing about something, try though she did, she could never recall what.

The pigeons filled the road ahead and she slowed through the intersection as the flock took flight… filling the air and blocking her view ahead.

The car had slowed to almost a stop, but the maintenance truck, it had traveled in the fastest slow motion she had ever known.

She only saw it briefly as her daughter screamed then went quiet.

They had been on their way to the park… this park… and now.

Now she comes here every day. She sits on this bench, the very bench she and Katie would sit on.

This is the only way she can remember.

The buttery aroma of the popcorn drifts about the park as she sits immobile and heartbroken.

Her hand deep in the bag, now empty. The constant ring of the popcorn vendors popper, comforting and absurdly invasive at the same time.

The child’s laughter from the playground behind her, always grated on her.

She wanted to go over and tell them to go home, or go somewhere else, she didn’t care where. She just needed them gone.

Ugh… her back still feels stiff. She rotated her head about her neck, but with no real relief.

The jogger, what was her name… Sarah? Sarah… she knows the story and she tries to comfort Patty each day.

Today was no exception, the pigeons pecking at her feet, shooed away by Sarah.

Sarah sat next to Patty, holding her hand in one of hers, the other around her wrist, as if to reinforce that she would steady her if needed.

Sarah came and went, but today she went to the popcorn stand. A bit unusual for the health nut Sarah was but not unprecedented.

Laughter.

“Ugh…”

Children laughing no longer seemed a blessing.

Just go… away…

She looked toward the playground, the laughter continued.

She could not see the child, and an adult was no where to be seen.

She sounds to much like Katie… she needs to go…

Patty struggled, almost didn’t but finally decided to do something… anything…

She crossed the green grass toward the park.

The laughter of the little girl seemed to come from somewhere behind the slide.

The hard cold metal of the slide turned her stomach a little.

She can’t get the twisted metal of the car in the aftermath of the wreck.

She stepped into the playground, the slide directly in front of her.

Some toy, reaching up out of the sand punctured her foot.

“Her bare foot?” she thought as she twisted through the fall, unable to stop the rushing corner of the hard metal slide.

Her head… she could feel it bounce off the corner and her body went limp moments before the world faded to black.

Her eyes slowly opened. Her angel, her lovely little angel Katie met her with a bright smile. Katie giggled with joy. A nurse, her name tag… Sarah… held her wrist.

Sarah looked down at Patty.

“Katie has been here every day with popcorn. Every day for six weeks since the accident. We are so glad you pulled through. Welcome back, Patty.”

The Real Power

Detective Morris glared across the interrogation table.

“You said you were where, Friday night?” He said, for the umpteenth time.

The smug grin on the perp’s face… matched only by the eerie silence. That face, highlighted in red from the light in the hall, occasionally flickered with someone’s passing.

Ugh. Hours. He didn’t recall right off, how many, but it was a lot.

The suspect was guilty, his grin and silence were all he needed to know that.

“…Friday night, where were you?” His voice gruff and growling.

Grabbing the chair, Morris flipped it around, dropping it loudly onto the concrete floor.

As the cavernous echo reverberated and died, the suspect finally shifted in his seat.

He leaned forward, the grin gone from his face. Morris leaned in, listening intently.

Morris felt his head spin… “Your daughter… pretty little… Sarah. Sarah.. Right?”

The grin returned in full force. “She goes to Ethan Elementary… Walks down sixth street to your house… third one on the right… yeah? Yeah.”

The putrid feeling of evil exuded from this man.

His last thought as he reached for the cuff key, was of his darling Sarah.

Grabbing the wrist of the perp he reached out with the key, twisting it and freeing the suspect. He could feel the heat building in his hand, his fingers numbing. He dropped the key onto the floor next to the evil little man.

Retrieving the key the perp unlocked the other wrist, then tossed the key onto the table grinning, he turned to Morris.

The suspects eyes grew wide and the color drained from his face.

The deep growl from Morris cut through the boy as urine flowed to the floor, “And that… is exactly why you’re here!” Morris’s dagger toothed grin spread, splitting the dark red leathery skin of the Detective’s face. The ivory horns practically glowing…

Outside the Lighthouse

Out across the sea, the beam of light sweeps, searching… guiding… waiting for someone to see.

The rain pelts the windows, hammering in sheets and droves.

The storm rages.

His coffee… different… a slight hint of salt and iron.

He had emptied the last of his bottled water yesterday, so he was using water from the tap.

His chair, comfortable, in fact… more comfortable than he could remember.

The rain rolled across the glass in waves, like people at a ball game, or a concert perhaps.

It slid across, methodical then pelted the glass unevenly for a while, only to once again roll across.

The tea kettle started squealing, loud, but with varying pitch as the ancient stove elements heated, then cooled in slow succession.

Struggling, he worked his way out of the overstuffed chair, and stood.

A sip of coffee. Good… real good… warm and slightly metallic.

Another quick sip, ill timed with his breath, caused him to cough… the warm coffee spewed across the room.

He looked around in mild disgust as he headed for the stairs in search of a towel.

A towel… and to turn that incessant squeal off.

He followed the spiral staircase, feeling a bit unsteady, he grasped the handrail and longed for the comfort of the chair.

In the kitchen, he felt his way through the darkness to the stove.

The window outlined in flashes of light through and around the shutters and curtains occasionally lighting the scene.

He turned off the stove, and reached for a towel.

The rain murmured outside, the light outside the window, somehow was steady and bright.

He looked down at the coffee cup in his hand as he brought it up for a sip.

As he shifted the curtain and flung the shutters wide, he coughed again, spewing coffee.

Something slammed into his chest and he coughed again, then filled his lungs with air as he looked out…

…into the face of the paramedic, now dripping with blood as his cough sprayed him again.

“Welcome back,” the paramedic grinned in satisfaction.

Just In Time

The fog-laden evening chilled him to the bone as he stood beneath the street lamp.

“I am getting to old for this,” he mutters.

The juxtaposing hard soft glow of the lamps created an eerie duality of light on the street. The long

shadows dancing in the wind blown lamplight. The headlights shine on him briefly as the vehicle passes.

He checked his watch and pulled his cloak tighter against the cold.

The ache in his back. He leaned over and touches his toes to stretch the muscles, then placed his hands in the small of his back and leaned back, as far as he could.

The pop was almost audible as his spine realigned.

He sighed in relief.

Looking at his watch, he finally heard the approach in the distance.

He never knew when this she might tire of this.

Her incessant need to keep tabs on him was annoying, but he had long ago resigned himself.

She had little sense of humor, but she was pleasant to look at. They had played this game for as long as he could remember, and he was pushing… uh… well lets just say he was much older than the young lady.

He reached down and picked up the glass that he had set on the walk beside him.

She approached her hands flying, knitting, crocheting…or something else, he was never quite sure, and truthfully not that interested.

“Evening!” He said cheerfully. “Fancy meeting a girl like you in a place like this.”

Hand slowly demonstrating the magnificent surroundings, well… at least to him.

She winked. Reached out a hand containing a small piece of thread.

“Father,” she said as he took the thread.

Beautiful as ever he thought. He dearly enjoyed the moments, brief though they were.

“Fate, same time next year?” he smiled as he and his hourglass slowly disappeared.

Special Delivery

The cracked sidewalk lead up to the creaky steps of the old Victorian house.

He took a deep breath… and began walking up to the porch just above the stairs.

With each step it felt like he was walking in molasses, slowly his legs felt heavier the closer he got.

At the steps he struggled to lift his leg. Placing it on the step, he struggled to lift the other as the step creaked and groaned under him.

Twice more he struggled, twice more he climbed. Now, on the porch, he could see the note on the door. “Ring for delivery.”

The postman reached behind his back, fondling the bloody knife. The last victim had struggled and screamed. His crooked smile spread as he pushed the button and heard the ding dong of the bell.

He could see the little girl approach the door.

His hand closed on the knife as he stood holding the package. The door opened and the little girl stepped out. She smiled at the man.

She reached for the package and his hand swung the knife as the girl brushed his hand with hers.

The scene explodes in white bright, the man feels at peace, at last, his anger swept away.

The eerie soft words faded in the air. “Special delivery…” The young girl said.

You Never Saw It Coming

The young waitress sat at the counter, her tips laid out in front of her as she counted.

Old county songs, soft in the background, as she felt around for her glasses.

A movement from the corner caught her attention.

The last booth, the last customer… creepy. The guy seemed to be staring at her all night, but when she looked…

“I wish… he would just… leave,” she thought.

The creaks and groans of the diner always grated on her.

And the guy in the corner was not helping.

She turned and opened the register, trading her tips for larger bills.

As the drawer dinged shut, the ringing of the bell above the door caused her to start.

Oh…

She could see Jerry, the cook through the window as he walked out to his car.

Her heart sank.

She snuck a glance toward the corner, then, finding the man standing, her heart stopped.

The man reached into his pocket, slowly, deliberately, as he slowly sauntered in her direction. She diverted her gaze, maybe…

She saw his shoes as he stopped in front of her.

As the metal pressed against her hand, the man spoke.

“Annie,” he said softly. “You forgot your glasses again.”

He reached down and took her hand, placing her glass…

Prelude

As I put ink to paper, I carve into the annals of existence the historic context of what is about to unfold—a record, immutable and unyielding, for all to see and know. In dreams, I am as a bird on the wing or a cloud in the sky, an observer from heights unattainable, glimpsing that which defies perception, knowing that which yearns for clarity and resolution. Were it not for an extraordinary gift, these stories, these moments, these words would dissolve, forgotten in the ceaseless tide of time and the collective experiences that shape us all.
Though you may question the hand that writes, know this: it moves not by the will of its owner but as the witness of truths beyond itself. It chronicles not its own perceptions but only that which is—unyielding, unembellished. Bound by edicts that predate the stars, these stories—fleeting instants of time yet timeless in their gravity—are etched into my mind, each a gem whose facets I polish but cannot create, for I am without the power to turn carbon into diamond.
As I wander through the vignettes of existence, a great weight presses upon me, the unseen specter of my charge. An invisible phantom, I am unable to set pen to parchment save for when the truth demands it. I etch these truths, these visions, into permanence, preserving their essence within the boundless vault of eternity, and I offer them now as a gift of clarity to deepen and lift the understanding of what has transpired.
These words hold only the basest truths of what was, what is, and what may yet be. They emerge from a struggle—a quest to discern the tangled threads of the journeys herein. In the waking hours, I live as fully as I am able, but when I lay my head to rest, I traverse the lives of those I am destined to follow, their moments entwined with mine yet held apart. In dreams, I am granted vistas beyond comprehension, privy to knowledge unattainable, sights unseen, and whispers too faint for mortal ears—each as vivid as the sun yet devoid of emotion or care.
The manuscript presented here unfolds as greatness itself—its wings spread like a hawk soaring high, its tale unfurling like sails catching the winds of truth, propelling us across seas of wisdom and experience to lands uncharted. On the shores of the unforeseen lies the future of all, disembarking burdened by fears and regrets that should long since have passed into oblivion.
I ask only for your understanding and acceptance that the words within are unbiased, genuine, and balanced only by the hopes and dreams of the lives they recount. With every curve and line drawn on parchment, I immortalize visions not meant to be seen, whispers of truths unspoken, and the enigmatic echoes of events that remain mysteries even to those who lived them.
The truth I offer must come untainted, discovered by oneself, and shared among kindred souls. It is not mine to keep—it is yours to take. Though I am only the alchemist’s catalyst, stirring the pot in which change brews, the transformation belongs to the base substance itself.
If you are willing, take this journey of words and truth. Partake as you would of a feast, consuming only what nourishes your spirit and fills your heart, for each of us gathers uniquely, harvesting what sustains us, and no other will taste what we each find in this banquet of discovery. This journey, if you allow it, will transform you, lifting you to soar like a bird, to drift as a cloud, carried by the wind toward boundless potential.
The path before you, though inevitably your own, is forged by choice. Walk it with intention, for destiny bows to the direction of your heart.
—RCotD—

“Through time immemorial, reality, the cosmos, the eternal existence we call life, has struggled for balance. The struggle between opposites ensues, creating a battlefield upon which our meager existences are caught in a web of decay and renewal, with no knowledge of the need for balance; these are the domains in which the Cadre of the Dance inhabit. The knowledge of the true need of equality, in form and action, are their struggles.” – RtCotD

“Eclipsed by Time, Yet Everlasting; In Battles Endless Worn Unbroken. In Struggles Forged and Renewal Refined; From Dust to Destiny; In Balance, Brilliance.” – the Hack