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This is one that I started years ago and have yet to finish. It's definitely a draft revision, rough and cringeworthy in parts. I've recently given thought to rewriting it (and finishing it) from a different viewpoint—largely because of my vast ignorance in the hows and whys a State Police Detective would actually get about in a story like this.

Current running word count is about 7,288.

As usual, this is freely available and copyrighted under a Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license.

With a clatter, Roberta Marvis picked up the used dishes from the table and began scraping the scraps of food into the grimy steel sink. Bits of corn, chicken bones, crumbs of bread splattered into the stained basin with tiny splashes into what brackish water there was. The chicken bones floated, small chunks of torn flesh still attached. Muttering under her breath, Roberta flipped a limp strand of mousy hair back out of her eyes and stacked the plates and soiled silverware on the counter. She could clean it up later; right now she drifted from the drab yellow trailer kitchen toward the minuscule living room and her husband and daughter, from where sounds of "Wheel of Fortune" were emanating.

Four hours later the drab yellow was a dull grayish in the lack of light when Roberta went back to clean up the dishes. The corn scraps' heady aroma wafted up from the sink, but Roberta scarcely noticed as she cleaned the dishes with a lot of clattering and went to bed. Only later did she remember that the chicken bones that had been floating in the sink water had disappeared.

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This is another of the (few) completed stories I've written. It goes way back... to the first creative writing course I took in college... about 16 years ago or so. It's been ages since I've looked at it, but I can tell you it's rough, not very polished. I remember being inspired by Stephen King while writing this, too.

It's about 3215 words in length.

As usual, this is freely available and copyrighted under a Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license.

I

I stand on the edge of the rock, overlooking the ocean. It is windy, sand blowing in my eyes; I convince myself that's what's causing the tears to stream down my face. I look at my hands, and I wonder at the past four days.

I am high up.

The ocean looks so inviting.

II

I slung the duffel bag over the rail and onto the deck of the boat. Around me, people, some scruffy-looking, some well-dressed, traveled to and fro along the dock, working at their respective trades or enjoying the sights and smells of the fishing fleet in port. The day was relatively mild, with a clear blue sky and a light breeze coming in from the ocean. Out to sea there was a thin gray line of fog, about five to eight miles out — it would be in the bay by nightfall, with the wind. The air tasted of brine and was heavy, but not oppressive, with moisture, and the sounds of the tourism and fish packing plants carried over the water of the bay with eerie clarity.

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This is one of the (few) completed stories I've written, and it's mostly polished for my liking, though I tend to tinker with it from time to time. (Bad habit, that.) It's also short, about 2244 words in length. The title? Ah, the title. When I first wrote this (way back in a creative writing class), I had a title that was overly oblique and really had nothing to do with the story; it was more reflective of my trying to be clever with the inspiration for the story. I've since ditched it. It's for the best. Suggestions would be welcome.

As usual, this is freely available and copyrighted under a Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Go nuts.

"How will I know where to go?" the boy asked.

"You will know," his father said simply.

And so he found himself at the edge of the village at dawn the next day. Beyond the oasis of the village lay the vast expanse of the desert, yellow-brown sands glowing red in the rising sun. On the horizon lay the thin, dark line that was the forest. The morning air was silent and dry and filled with the acrid scent of cooking smoke—the boy breathed deep the aroma of spice-cakes.

With a single glance back at the village, he set out into the desert. He carried nothing. He walked in the direction of the forest, as he had seen the adults do.

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