Charles Beuck
Bio
Avid reader and writer of all things fantasy, sci-fi, and history. Lucky husband and proud dog dad trying to make the author gig work in my free time. BA in Psychology, and MA/PhD in Political Science, sometimes exert influence on my work.
Stories (10)
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Only 15 Years of Peace In The History of the United States of America
In the entire history of the United States of America there has been a grand total of 15 years when we have not been at war with someone. Big wars. Small wars. Wars waged on the open seas, in small rivers, across sandy hills, through dense trees, and high in the sky. The United States has engaged in the all.
By Charles Beuck4 years ago in Serve
The Ghost of the Lion of Panjshir
Tens of thousands dead and trillions of dollars spent in a twenty year struggle in Afghanistan, yet in the end the patient Taliban endured and have ultimately regained control of the country, renaming it the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan. Yet despite the withdrawal of the United States and its allies, one spot of opposition to the Taliban remains. The Panjshir Valley has once again risen up in resistance.
By Charles Beuck4 years ago in Serve
1896–1926: Claude Monet and the Water Lilies
There is perhaps no image more associated with the Impressionism Art Movement than that of Claude Monet’s water lilies. Comprising a series of roughly 250 oil paintings created between 1896 and his death in 1926, these beautiful, bright works were a triumph amidst personal lose and health issues. Monet’s second wife, Alice Hoschedé, died in 1911. His oldest son died in 1914 from tuberculosis. His younger son Michel was deployed to the front to serve in the French Army during World War I. Monet even developed cataracts which would eventually require two surgeries to remove them so that he might continue his painting.
By Charles Beuck4 years ago in FYI
One Last Piece of Chocolate Cake
Little Marco was the epitome of everything Detective John hated in the criminal underworld. Supremely fat, lazy, and not as smart as he thought he was, the man was as far away from Al Capone as John was from Princess Diana. John sat in his car at the corner, watching the obese gangster through the pair of old binoculars he kept for stakeouts. The obese man was practically spilling out of the booth he sat in at Giovanni’s. Red leather jacker blended in with the red leather of the booth. Hands going back and forth with mechanical precision between the plates in front of him and his mouth, you would think the man had recently escaped from one of those month-long dieting facilities. But no, Little Marco probably spent more time in his corner booth than he did in his own bed.
By Charles Beuck4 years ago in Criminal
Rotted Bins in Faded Grey
Jennifer turned off the dirt road to pull her canary yellow Jeep into the stone driveway of her new farmhouse. Well, it was more of an old farmhouse. Built in the early 19th century in fact. She had always wanted to own an old rural property like this one, but it had only been after her parents had passed away that she had enough money at one time to purchase it. The old farmhouse was your traditional, stereotypical faded red building, with an equally rundown red barn in the New England style out back.
By Charles Beuck5 years ago in Fiction
Truth of the Wanderer
The rod bent back in his hands as the bait sunk deep into the water was taken. Smooth, sturdy ash tugged hard, then hard again, and the hook was set. Waves of dark turquoise, tranquil and calm, gently lapped again the boat turned rickety by the passage of years.
By Charles Beuck5 years ago in Fiction
The Silver Golem
Tenderly Adrian organized the tomes, grimoires, and scrolls in the shelves lining the walls. The library was of modest size, covering all the walls of the main room on the first floor of the household. It even warranted a large, stained reading desk with several tattered padded chairs to enjoy it with. Most of the books lay scattered about, many had bent pages, and some were smudged with dust and dirt. Any proper librarian would have broken down in apoplexy at the sight of such a mess. Yet to Adrian they represented his hope for the future.
By Charles Beuck5 years ago in Fiction
The Shadowstalker of Zastava
Anyone staring down the dirt road would have been hard pressed to glimpse the shadowy form approaching past the rows upon rows of wheat in the deepening night. Had their eyes been sharp they would have seen the thin, delicate shadows of the tall stalks bending towards the figure moving through their midst. Passers-by might have tried to reassure themselves that it was the evening breeze up to its usual tricks, but the air remained still and the wheat itself remained straight. Only the shadows moved.
By Charles Beuck5 years ago in Fiction
