Now published in The Broken Plate!

Inspired by characters found here

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The Rusty Knight

New material will eventually make its way onto this blog. In the meantime, here’s yet ANOTHER story I wrote and then forgot about until just now. THE RUSTY KNIGHT is a short story I wrote as part of a class called “creative writing in the community.” We were all tasked with writing a poem or short story aimed at a younger audience, and then paired with a young student (grades 4-7, I believe) to help mentor them in writing their own story or poem. At the end of the class both our work and the work of our young student were compiled and printed in a book and given to the families of the students.

The Rusty Knight

Tommy was a perfectly ordinary boy who lived in an ordinary house with a perfectly ordinary family. He went to a perfectly ordinary school where he learned perfectly ordinary things with his perfectly ordinary friends. Everything about Tommy was perfectly normal, except for his uncle Lermin. Tommy’s uncle Lermin was his mother’s brother, and he traveled around the world. He had a great mane of gray hair that stuck up wildly because he never bothered to comb it, and he wore a great big patchwork coat, like a quilt with armholes. Tommy’s father disapproved of him, and his mother was embarrassed by him. Tommy, however, loved him. On his infrequent visits, Uncle Lermin would always bring Tommy some kind of gift from his travels, and tell him all sorts of wonderful tales about his adventures.

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No Outlet

My first published story, from issue 3 of Laptop Lit Mag

So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land. –Peter Pan

Dank darkness, rocky walls, and dirt. These were the things that Humo knew, the things that had surrounded him his whole life. So what was he doing, digging upward, towards the forbidden and unknown?

Father, tell me the story about the Surface again!” begged a five-year-old Humo.

The shadowy figure of Humo’s memory would let out a loud laugh and relaunch into the tale, a tale of an endless ceiling, of wide open spaces, of animals and breeze, and a bright glowing ball called the “sun.”

Humo stopped to catch his breath, bracing his small wiry body against the safety lines he had cast. He took a sip of water from the moleskin pouch at his waist and rubbed the sweat from his pale eyes.

They had called him a heretic, spreading falsehoods about a Surface that no longer existed, one that had been destroyed by war. Humo still remembered the night they had crashed through the door of his home, how Mother had clung so desperately to Father, begging as they dragged him away. Fear had grasped his heart in a vise, like the great rock crushers that stood in the center of the village. After that, Mother had never really been the same. Her already-thin stature diminished further, becoming more and more wraith-like until one day she refused to wake up.

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