Gary Pressman
Bio
I am the founder of a photography and speaking business called "Inner Migrations" which is a lecture based business detailing my life as a Game Ranger in South Africa, I am also an author, "Soul Safari" available on Amazon.
Stories (2)
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CHERRY BLOSSOMS FROM THE SKY.
HIROSHIMA...PRESENT DAY. MUD.I was dreaming about mud, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic cadence of the trains steel wheels on the tracks. Mud, hot tropical clingy mud. Suddenly in my dream a thunderous drone, aircraft flying in formation, heading out to sea, Cherry Blossoms....Ships of war waiting like grey mountains in a shining ocean of early morning light. Big red circle. leather helmet.. a red scarf...a wave, a grain of humanity....A long drawn out scream....
By Gary Pressman4 years ago in Fiction
MIDNIGHT TRAIN
THE MIDNIGHT TRAIN. Going from somewhere, going nowhere. Hello pleased to meet you. My name is Hans, yes Hans, you know, that nondescript figure in a grey suit that occupies your mind for a full nano second on the subway or on the street corner as we all bustle and crowd our way to earn a salary. I guess in Japan I would be called a salaryman which is what they call the millions of grey clad worker ants who toil in the huge breathing body of Tokyo..Anyway once again my name is Hans, an extremely ordinary German man with narrow features and if you look carefully a shade of a haunting in my spectacled eyes.. I have a sister called Greta, or at least I had a sister called Greta before she was whisked off to Monaco by a Armani suit with a man inside driving a Ferrari. She now lives amongst the Casinos and palaces and no doubt thinks of me from time to time whilst rattling her jewellery. Yet every year on a certain day she phones me. A special phone call, not a catch up phone call, not a gossip phone call, and definently not a boring gotta phone brother as I haven’t spoken or thought about him for a while phone call. No it is a comfort call, a call that brings back a night many years ago, a night that wraps itself around us still and once again we are scared little kids. Kids who, one dark moonlit night were confronted by something ancient, active and indescribably evil. So after so many years of my brain mind pumping a dumbbell of horror it is time to put it down, get rid of it and walk away from it. It will always be there on the floor but no longer picked up and exercised as a weight that brings no gain, only slow trickling black rain.
By Gary Pressman5 years ago in Horror
