Posts Tagged ‘write

Note:  This is the Point of View of the antagonist, Jackson.



Old man Ross couldn’t have taken longer inside the store.  I tried my best to keep my distance as I followed him.  My fingers tugged at the loose strings of my sweater, tattered and torn, just like my insides felt.  I cursed myself for wearing such heavy clothing during 95º heat, yet I didn’t have much of a choice.

I waited patiently beside my van as the object of my rage and hatred walked toward his car.  He didn’t deserve that Impala.  It should have gone to me, not to my dad’s war buddy.

I could feel adrenaline coursing through my veins like nitroglycerin as I pulled the gun out, which I had successfully concealed beneath the waistband of my jeans. 

“Stop right there,” I tried to project my voice and sound stern and strong, yet I feared I sounded weak.  The voices inside my head continued to taunt me and say that I was a failure, and that I couldn’t do it.  My dad’s voice was the loudest, and no matter how hard I tried, I could never ignore it.

He called me son and protested; yet his so-called term of endearment only fueled my anger.  “It’s too late for that, old man,” I spat.  “Get in your car, and listen to my directions.  Or else you’ll never make it to that party.”

I had anticipated more of a fight from the old man, yet received none.  I knew his son Ed well, and worked with him often down at the funeral home.  His son was a doctor, and I was simply an assistant.  Ed had mentioned his son Abel’s birthday party, and I knew instantly that it was the perfect time to track down Ross and confront him.

He drove too slowly for my taste, yet I remained patient as we made it to my dad’s house in Buckridge.  I ushered him out of the car with some force.  He needed to know that I meant business.  I rolled my eyes as he stumbled and I pressed my gun against his back.  “Come on, come on, get inside.”

He made some insignificant talk about cutting him some slack, yet I wasn’t having it.  I kicked the back of his leg, which sent him into the dirt.  It was befitting, for he was just as significant as dirt, if not less.

After getting him inside, I struggled to pull the zip tie around his wrists.  I knew he was old, yet he still looked like he held onto at least some of his former strength.  I let him know that I was going to the shed, since my dad’s tools were there.

I was going to make him feel the same pain as I felt when the soldiers in uniform walked up to my front door and told my mom and I that my father had been killed in action.  I was going to rip his heart from him, just like he had done to me.


Note:  This is the Point of View of the protagonist, Ross.



I couldn’t wait to get home for my grandson’s birthday party.

He was going to be turning six, and I promised my son and daughter-in-law that I would be there.  It was a sweltering day in one of Georgia’s most unforgivable summers.  I hit the grocery store on my way to the party for some last-minute items.

I went through each aisle to gather soda, chips, and also picked up a card that I thought Abel would like.  After checking out, I made my way to my Impala that I, regrettably, parked far away.  I was getting old and staying in shape wasn’t that easy for me.  So making small changes like walking farther to my car made a difference, or so I liked to think.

“Stop right there,” a voice said, and it took me a moment to decipher whether or not I was the one being addressed.

I looked around and saw that I was the only car parked in the area.  Damn, I thought.  I turned around slowly with my bags still in my hands and faced a man wearing a camouflage sweater and a hat pulled down far to shield his face.  His hand was extended, trembling slightly while trying to point his gun at me.  “Son, this ain’t a good choice that you’re makin’,” I began, yet he laughed nervously.

“It’s too late for that, old man,” he said.  “Get in your car, and listen to my directions.  Or else you’ll never make it to that party.”

I did my best to maintain my composure.  Fear that he knew my family and my plans gripped me tightly, yet I did as he said.  I followed his clear directions while on the road and ended up at a small ranch-style house in the middle of nowhere.  The closest landmark I had picked out was Clearwater Springs, a nice place to call home, or so the sign said.

The young man ushered me out of the car and I ended up stumbling due to my weak knee.  I muttered a curse under my breath as he jammed the barrel of the gun against my lower back.  “Come on, come on, get inside.”

“I ain’t as young and nimble as you are, junior.  A little respect for your elders would be nice right about now.”

He kicked the back of my bad knee and I fell forward onto the ground, dirt and dust spiraling around me.  I bit my tongue as I had been taught as a kid, knowing all too well that my tongue could be my downfall.  After all, that was often the cause of death in my family.  I sensed the man’s strength as he pushed me along, and decided the smart decision would be to not fight my way out of this—at least not physically.

I mulled over things as we walked into the house.  It smelled of wet dog and rotting chicken.  There were many pictures up of a man in uniform, who seemed to have fought for The Union back in the Civil War.  Other pictures were newer, and didn’t hold as much character.  I didn’t know who the people in the frames were, and still hadn’t seen the young man’s face to make any sort of comparison.

He shoved me down into a chair and pulled my hands behind the back of it before enclosing my wrists with a zip tie.  He checked the tightness of it and muttered under his breath as he got back onto his feet.  “Alright, I have to go get a few things from the shed before I get to work here.”

As he walked away, I turned around as best I could in the chair and caught a glimpse of his face as he removed his hat.  He wiped the sweat off of his forehead as he walked out.  He looked vaguely familiar, if my declining memory served right.  I spun around some more, my gaze landing on a jacket with a nametag on the front.  It read, “Rogers.”

Jackson Rogers, I thought with a grin.  “Well I’ll be damned.”

It was just one of those nights.

It was one of those nights where nothing felt right.

It was one of those nights where there was a silent ache inside of my heart, and I felt empty.  I felt alone, no matter how hard I tried to feel otherwise.  I longed for happiness, even though I couldn’t remember what it was like to be truly happy.  Every fiber of my being screamed for me to cry, and was in pain from holding everything in.

But I couldn’t.  I held on to the pain, for it was all I knew anymore.


     It all began with Bruce Coville.

     God bless that wonderful man. Bruce Coville, the fantastic author of The Unicorn Chronicles and many others, was the one who got the ball rolling, in my case. I originally read The Unicorn Chronicles when I was in 6th grade, yet that book stayed with me through the pain (and disbelief) of my dad being diagnosed with cancer for the first time when I was in 7th grade. I remember posting on his guestbook on his website (which I dug through earlier and found, and I’m horrified at my grammar and writing, dear heavens…), and also writing him a letter. Now, of course, I didn’t expect a response from this man. He, after all, was this incredible author and creator of amazing and wonderful worlds and characters, and I was just a girl in middle school with dreams of being an author. But, he did respond, and it wasn’t one of those automated responses that lacked personality or care. He was sincere in his response and in his answers to my questions (and there were several of them). The main thing I remember from his letter is that no matter what, I need to keep writing. I’m going to order The Unicorn Chronicles online today and re-read them all. I posted on his guestbook this morning (I really hope he doesn’t believe I’m some crazy stalker), and I’m hoping for another response. There are certain moments in life that can never be erased, both good and bad. Most of these moments either hold you back, or propel you forward. In this case, Bruce Coville’s wonderful works of fiction, and his caring replies to his fans, were the canon that launched me into the passion I now have for both reading and writing. I swear, and mark my words, please, if I ever become a published author, his name is going in the dedication section. I can see it now:


To Bruce Coville, the man who began my love of reading, which then transferred to writing. A man who took the time to respond to me when I was a mere 12 year-old dreamer, and told me that no matter what, I mustn’t stop writing.

“What cannot be said above all must not be silenced but written.”
― Jacques Derrida

“What cannot be…