This is a collection of some tidbits I’ve written in the past. I didn’t think they’d work as standalone blog posts, but I wanted to share them. So, here you have it. Enjoy. The Muffin I saw a box on the side of the road. So, naturally I stopped to check it out, assuming it contained a muffin. I looked inside, saw no muffin. But I’m sure there was one. It was probably just invisible. “Can you hear me, muffin?” I asked. It didn’t reply,….
Continued from Part One and Part Two “Touch it,” Mark said. The body on the floor looked smaller to Logan than the frightening Mr. Hornbuckle had when he was alive. Logan remembered when he first met the old man. It was at the supermarket a few years back. Logan’s mother let him pick out something sweet while she was buying groceries. “Go find something good and hurry back,” she had said. Logan enthusiastically ran off, quickly making his way to the cookie isle. As he….
Continued from Part One The boys made their way to the house, carefully ducking behind fence and trees along the way. Mark was the first to arrive, touching the side of the house in victory. He turned back and waved the others over. David, Drew, AJ and Logan joined him at the southeast corner of Mr. Hornbuckle’s home. The house had light blue aluminum siding that had long been in need of a new coat of paint. It was propped up by a cobblestone foundation…..
Logan was playing with a football out in the street with his friends. It was the middle of summer. They had nowhere else to be. Summer afforded them that opportunity. Throwing the football around was not the enjoyable part, though. It was simply an excuse for them to all come together, to hang out as friends without any cares in the world. That was what Logan enjoyed, and at this moment it was a football that brought them together in the street to do just….
Never open with the weather, he thought with raindrops beating against the glass pane behind him. The cool, autumn air dashed in through the slightly opened window. He wanted the cold. It was his sadistic muse, chilling his extremities to the point of numbness. His fingers hovered steadily above the keys, hoping for the inspiration that would lead to their movement, to their warmth. Writing wasn’t always this difficult. Clovis Galt was once a prolific writer….not to be confused with successful. As a younger man,….