The Inconsistent Ramblings of a Constant Story Teller(A short story collection)

Run Dry

Ulysses slammed his head down on the brown wooden table. His various pens and pencils along with the stacks of paper flew off as his head made a dull bonk sound when it made contact. On the one paper that had not flown off the table had but one thing written on it. On the very top of the paper in large letters read, "Run Dry," and directly below it in slightly smaller letters read, "Written by Ulysses Snow." The old man picked up his head off of the table and ran his hands through his once bright red hair. The distressed man looked at the piece of paper with his dark blue eyes and let out a long sigh of anger and frustration.

"Why can't I think of anything to write?" He asked himself. "I've been writing for years now and I can't seem to get this one story done." His raspy voice echoed in the small dirt hovel. The old man stood out of his chair with much trouble and slowly grabbed his cane. His wrinkly old finger wrapped around the weathered stick as he began walking towards the door. On his way out, he blew out the candles that lit his small home.

The small wooden door creaked open to reveal a bright summer day, with flowers blooming everywhere. Children were playing in the field to his right, and farmers fed their animals. Ulysses took a deep breath of fresh air, but it didn't seem to help his creativity. The man walked further out into the world and a small puppy ran up to him, rubbing up against him for attention. With much difficulty, the old man bent down and rubbed the dog behind his ears. The gray and brown dog playfully barked and ran away. Ulysses laughed, "What a great day."

"Old man Snow, Old man Snow!" He heard children yelling. Ulysses looked to his left where he saw a small group of children running his way.

"Well, hello children," he greeted, "How are you doing this fine day?"

"We are good Mr. Snow," one of the oldest looking children said. "How is that new story coming along? I would really love to hear it."

"Oh Jessie," The old man said, "It'll be a while now until it's finished."

"Oh, Mr. Snow," Jessie replied, disappointed, "Can't ya finish it faster?"

The old man let out another warm laugh that dissipated the children's frowns, "You know I can't, do that. That's like asking your father to grow the potatoes faster Jessie." He smiled at the young people, "Besides, have you even read all of my other stories yet?"

"Not yet," the oldest boy replied, "But I'm reading them as fast as I can so I can read you new one as soon as it's finished."

The old man laughed again, "Don't rush too fast you might miss something important."

"I won't," Jessie promised and the kids ran off to play another game in the field.

As the boy ran away, Ulysses yelled at him, " There are also other stories and books that are drifting around somewhere, read those in the meantime!" The boy turned around gave a thumbs up.

The old man hobbled around the small settlement. Walking by small dirt house after small dirt house, as many people of many ages waved to him or said a pleasant greeting. His wooden cane would need to be replaced soon. After some time of walking around, the old man with the almost broken cane walked past the music man's house. Mr. Rain's house. From inside of the small dirt hovel came music, just like any other day, however, today, much like most days, the music that was emanating from his house was not of his own creation. Music from "Before the End," as the townsfolk said, blasted out of speakers that lay hidden inside of his house. The music always differed, but everyone enjoyed it.

The old man knocked on the door of the small house, and not one second later, Abraham Rain opened the door and said, "Hello my old friend."

"Hello Abraham," Ulysses replied, "How is the new piece going?"