The Collection: Short Stories, Misfits, and One-shots

We have a 'Writer' in the Family

Any Harry Potter fans notice the little play I did on that line?  If not, I had to try.  (Aunt Petunia, "We have a witch in the family") Her hatred/jealousy was at least predictable as far as character can be.  

Well, this is at least another short story that I had once planned to submit to a literary magazine, but decided otherwise.  It's a bit of an exaggeration of how many families react when they realize their relative wants to become a writer, which somehow signifies that you are the equivalent of a starving artist.  I like to think that isn't completely true, but I'm an optimist.  

When I told my family that I wanted to not just be a writer, but an author and have something published I immediately was told that that was fine so long as I could find some way to support myself.  Bottom line, get a job that pays so you can write.  It was not a bad reaction, but I know that many families fear the job title of artist and writer because of the unpredictability of a creative market.  My only opinion on the subject is that if you love it, do it, but don't torture yourself for it.  

After reading this, comment, vote, the usual whatever makes you happy as a reader, but I'd like to hear your stories if you are willing to tell them.  I watched The Voice with my parents, and some of those parents are so supportive it's scary.  It's like, the entire time you're watching you're wondering what happens if nothing comes of it?  Do you pat them on the shoulder and tell them 'maybe next time', or do you lightly suggest that there are always alternative paths in life?  Sorry for the long beginning note, just had all this on my mind.  Without further ado, enjoy the story, and let me know if you liked it!  :)

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He drummed his fingers on the pleather detailing of the door, ignoring the annoyed looks from his sister and parents.  His gaze was set to the landscapes passing by, the pattern they made in complete synchronization with his music, as if the beats of the song fell into rhythm with his surroundings, or was he simply in sync for once?  Another song came on in the shuffle, and he furrowed his brow, the song interfering with the thought process he had fallen into.  With a sigh, he double clicked the only physical button on the iPod and flipped past more tunes that didn't work before finding the right one, his mind at peace again.  Sneaking a cautious look around the SUV he made sure his family wasn't trying to start an unexpected, or unwanted conversation, his fingers pushing lightly on the volume, his head bobbing a little, but not too much.

Around him, the world became his movie, the hero sweeping through the forest on a black horse- white was too cliche-, a band of enemies, - maybe - monsters was a better word- at his heels, their bows at the ready.  Ahead, the grass and pine needle covered ground transitioned into a sharp drop off, the hero's escape becoming more and more uncertain.  Wait, he halted his thoughts and supported his chin, escaping from what exactly?

His smile fell into a frown, and his sister shot him a look of irritation, as if wondering how she had gotten stuck with such a unique brother, but he was oblivious, his face almost pressed against the glass of the window.

The smile returned, and he continued, perhaps borrowing unintentionally from his beloved Tolkien, but who could say?  The sentence continued once again, - escaping from the clutches of evil industrialism.  Now that that was cleared up, he could see the wide open fields beyond the cliff, the blue, unpolluted skies of the character's freedom.  

Another thought came though, and he changed the outcome, the hero's horse coming to a dead stop, its nostrils blowing hot air, its eyes wide and entirely focused on the fall it could've just taken.  The hero, now just a worn and tired man, realizes how little his steed trusts him, and steps off the horse, sliding his sword out as the enemy approaches.  They halt, their bows fixed on him, and if they had been guns there would've been red dots all over the man's forehead.  He would die there, the true ending that heroes met, not the forced American happy, everyone lives ending.