Dana Crandell
Bio
Dad, Stepdad, Grandpa, Husband, lover of Nature and dogs.
Poet, Writer, Editor, Photographer, Artist
My poetry collection: Life, Love & Ludicrosity
Achievements (14)
Stories (313)
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Painting Her Own Audience. Top Story - June 2023.
I originally considered spinning a fictional yarn about the mural I chose for the cover of this piece. There's certainly more than enough going on in the painting to spark any number of creative fires. Heck, it's even got a cat (two of them in the full mural)! After a bit more thought, I realized the true backstory behind the artwork is inspiring and heartwarming enough to stand on its own.
By Dana Crandell3 years ago in Art
Finding My Own Way
If you've followed my writing on Vocal, you may have read a story about my father I published a little over a year ago. On rereading that story, I decided that it wasn't exactly what I wanted to say for this new challenge. It does say a lot and I'll link to it at the bottom of this story, but please, don't jump to read it now.
By Dana Crandell3 years ago in Men
Going for the Gold
There it was, glorious and inviting, the perfect reward for his patience and planning. They hadn't even bothered to encase it. It was boldly displayed on a simple platform, completely unguarded. Tubs was disappointed in the lack of imagination, but not stupid enough to pass up such a perfect opportunity.
By Dana Crandell3 years ago in Fiction
Running For It
He would have to move fast. Even then, it would be risky. It had come down to speed and guts and the prize was in sight. The move had to be made now, and he was committed. They'd planned and practiced and this moment was why they had picked him, if it came to this.
By Dana Crandell3 years ago in Fiction
Joyride. Top Story - June 2023. Content Warning.
*** Content Warning: Although humorous, this is a ghost story. Contains descriptions of after-death experiences. The aged leather of the barely-padded seat felt welcoming and familiar, or at least it would have, if he had any feeling in his spectral buttocks. Phil sighed, or would have, if anything existed in his translucent chest to hold the air it would require. The memories of his senses would have to suffice. His cold, unfeeling hands curled lovingly around the cracked bakelite rim of the narrow steering wheel.
By Dana Crandell3 years ago in Horror
