Tag Archives: short story

Chess #writephoto

Oswald stood at the window, stroking his strawberry blond beard as Eathwing gave the field report. A casual observer might think he wasn’t paying attention, but Eathwing knew that the king’s mind was taking it all in and planning the next move. Although known as a hot tempered man, Eathwing knew that this king was perhaps the greatest strategist of his generation. That was how he, starting as a thane of a small town, now had one of the largest kingdoms on the isles.

When the report was finished, Oswald swung around, eyes flashing under the flaming red eybrows.

“Gather the knights and let them know we ride at dawn with me at their head. We will join the siege of Domnall’s sea fortress. I feel it is about to fall and if I ride there, it will surely topple. That is the last defence on the sea route, so if it falls, Domnall the White will not be able to withstand our advance. We will have him yet!”

“A squad of Domnall’s best foot soldiers stand between us and our men on the siege.”

“Those pawns? My knights will wipe them out! We will taste victory!”

Eathwing nodded. “As you wish, sire.”

“Dismissed.”

After talking to general of the king’s knights, Eathwing went down to the deepest dungeon, the one others called “The Wizards Coop”. Making sure nobody saw, we went into a secret side room. A giant chessboard was set up, a game in progress.

Eathwing waved his hand. The red king and one of the red knights lined up against a white castle and three white pawns.

He scanned the board. Yes, if they took out the pawns and the castle they’d have the white king in check, but could they force a checkmate?

It all depended on how Domnall moved his own men.

Oswald the Red may be on the right track, but this game of chess was not over quite yet.

***

This was written for the writephoto challenge that is hosted by KL Caley. The photo at the top was given by KL, as well as the key word, “Chess”. Hope you enjoyed :)

Wreath #writephoto

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“You freaking idiot! It’s people like you who are destroying the country!”

I ignored the outburst, just like everyone else in the restaurant.

Well, not quite.

I ignored it because I had grown used to these types of things over the last couple of weeks being in town. The rest ignored it because it might be them the next time. They all were just like these two and any one of them could be in the next in a fight or argument, it just wasn’t their turn.

I had heard of the village, of course, and knew it was supposed to be charming, but after two weeks there on business, I grew to understand why it wasn’t the big destination it should have been.

A big part of it was that the political divide that I believed was ripping apart the fabric of society was even worse here than any place I’d seen. I was almost surprised that there was no real violence. And by that, I mean gun battles. Perhaps that was the next step.

Part of the problem wasn’t just the people arguing over it, it was he extreme to which it was taken. For instance, the people I thought should be acting from caring compassion instead pushed their agenda out of anger, spite and a weird sense of superiority. This got me even more than the ones who acted on hate, fear and self-interest.

The selfishness of the people went far beyond politics and economics. Every day actions were filled with it. People did the bare minimum for others out of duty to their employment, but no more. Others helped people, but out of deep felt obligation, not because of any deep warmth for fellow humans.

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Neighbors #writephoto

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I was walking down a residential section of the city when I stopped to look at the two doors. I smiled and gave the doors a tip of my black hat. It was possible I found my man.

Or whatever you call them.

A man walked out of the well-lit Number 4, stole a frightened glance at the darkened Number 2, then started to walk away.

“Sir, one moment,” I said.

The guy jumped. Then spun around. I could see beads of sweat appear on his forehead. People often don’t see me, so that he walked past me without a second glance isn’t surprising, but that frightened reaction, well….

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Sometimes You Just Have to Know Where to Stand

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The man had “Art Critic” written all over his face.

He frowned, took a step to the side and squinted.

Mag had to laugh. He reminded her of that governor who the ex had entertained a few years ago, the one who most likely never drank anything except for Bud and yet pretended to be a connoisseur of fine Bordeaux. Where was he from, Alabama? Texas? No matter. His expressions were just priceless as he twirled and sniffed the glass he obviously felt was oversized. He then held the glass up to the light before he almost choked on the huge gulp he downed. He pretended to love it, but it was obvious he hated every drop.

The art critic’s expressions were even more obvious.

She sighed.

Well, she’d have to rescue this one since he was most likely going to give her a zero-star review in the Times.

“Excuse me, sir.”

He looked her way.

“I believe that you are supposed to stand here. You know, right on this star.”

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Bridge #writephoto

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“Tom!”

The boy jumped then turned sheepishly towards the voice.

“What are you doing there, young Tom?”

Tom looked down at his feet, as if whipped by the stern words.

“Wasting time again, aren’t you?”

He glanced up at the lady and was surprised to see a smile.

He nodded.

The lady, Anne, moved next to Tom, put her hands on the battlements and stared out.

“It’s just, just, my Lady, it’s just that I wish I could go over there.” He nodded his head outward. “I wish I could cross that bridge and go into the village. I want to see what they are up to. I want to find children my own age to play with.”

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Island #writephoto

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“Avast, Matey!”

“Come on, Tom…”

“Captain Tom!”

“…Captain Tom, your honor, sir, I know Matt has been getting pretty fat lately and must out-mass an elephant by now, but isn’t calling him “vast” a little mean spirited? I mean, just asking…”

“Shut up Kyle. OK, let’s launch the ship…”

“The SS Sinker.”

“…The Dread Pirate Ship Black Skull!”

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Stamps #writephoto

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Although I guess I had always known, it was really at her funeral that I realized how different Mom was from her younger siblings. Looking down the row of mourners, I thought she might have been even more different from hers than I was from my own younger siblings.

It was brought home even more when I overheard Uncle Pat talking to Aunt Ann at the wake. I don’t remember everything, but the way Ann said, “She was so much like our mother in oh so many ways,” that struck me. Pat nudged her after that statement and tilted his head towards me.

They changed the subject.

Why? What was it about her?

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The Washerwoman

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(This story appears in my book, Seasons of Imagination. An earlier version was posted here years ago.)

“Careful, we don’t really need a drink now, do we? Gotta pay more attention.”

Stan stood shivering with delayed reaction as he watched the raging river flow by just below his feet. A week of unusually warm temperatures and pouring rain had melted most of the remaining snow creating a torrent in place of the usual babbling stream.

“They don’t call it ‘mud season’ for nothing,” Stan said out loud as his attention was drawn to the slick spot that had almost tipped him into the rushing water. The bank had eroded into the river taking a good chunk of the path with it. The mud around the cave-in made this collapse doubly dangerous. He’d only just caught his balance in time, his momentum carrying him to the edge of the void.

The reaction of his near fall had shaken him more than he cared to admit so he stood watching the water, waiting until his nerves had settled down. Mount Nodbadigat, which appeared to rise directly out of the river, caught his attention. He had seen this small mountain a thousand times but never noticed its unique shape. It looked like something but he just couldn’t put his finger on it. Trying to puzzle it out he unconsciously took his jacket off and tied it around his waist. Feeling calmer, Stan shrugged his shoulders and turned down the path away from the river and mountain.

The conditions were perfect for an early spring hike. Technically it would still be winter for a few more days, but how often does New Hampshire see 70 degree weather in the middle of March? Stan had played hooky from work to get out and walk off some of his cabin fever. He loved to see the seasons change and it wasn’t often he got a chance to walk in Nodbadigat State Park quite this early. He was glad he did, for it was beautiful, a monochromatic masterpiece built largely of browns and grays. The pines supplied splashes of green, but it was a dark green that tended almost to black in the distance. Many of the trees were beginning to bud and some shoots were sprouting, all of which added spice and accents to the stark and dramatic play of dark trunks and golden sunlight.

Stan stopped.

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Tree Man #writephoto

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We called him “The Tree Man”.

I used to beg Mom to pass by the Tree Man’s house all of the time, even though I knew it was many miles out of the way.

Sometimes she humored me and we took that detour.

The house was lost in a jungle of overgrown underbrush and grass gone wild. All of this was in the shadows of five giant, ancient trees.

Around the yard he had planted strange sculpture carved from tree trunks. There were several up front with a “For Sale” sign, but most of them hid and creeped through his semi-suburban, semi-rural forest. Over the years I don’t think one of the “For Sale” sculptures were changed, neither a new one added nor an old one sold.

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