Gunnar Anderson
Bio
Author of The Diary of Sarah Jane and The Diary of Sarah Jane: Between the Lines. Has a bachelor's degree in English from Arizona State University and currently resides in Phoenix with his wife and daughter who inspire him daily.
Stories (50)
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Brodde's Nightmare
The sky was filled with the glow of a blood red moon as I trapsed through the baren woods of the countryside. No sound filled the air, save for the whistling winds and the creaking of old, dead wood swaying back and forth. I stepped lightly among fallen leaves and twigs that made barely a rustle in the dark of night. The wind grew louder as the shadows enveloped and threatened to consume me. Yet, within the darkness, I felt the eyes upon me; bright and yellow as they always were. I turned to look in the direction the hairs on my neck pointed when standing on end, but the amber glow would fade as soon as I made contact with them. A chill ran down my arms and my spine as my legs turned to jelly. I wanted to run from them. I wanted to scream for help, but my mouth filled with dirt and gravel at the opening, and I heaved it at my feet; my throat rubbed raw from the mountain of it that fell between my teeth. The eyes were in front of me and they were beside me, and they were behind me. They were all around me, closing in, waiting for the right time to strike. I fell to me knees and prayed to the old gods, hoping they would hear my plea, and spare me the death or at least make it quick. No relief came as the growl grew from the spaces between the trees, louder and louder, until they drowned out the wind. The growling was all I knew as I felt the lunge and the stabbing pain that radiated through my chest. I closed my eyes tight against the darkness. The red sky quickly turned to blue and green as a woman sang to me her song.
By Gunnar Anderson2 years ago in Fiction
Songs of the Forest
Snow crunched under their heavy gait as they trudged through the dense forest. The winds were still, but they could hear the faint humming of the trees around them, except for Booth, who broke away the branches that barred his path. He did not believe in the silly fairy tales that the village folk muttered to them. Instead, he simply scoffed and continued to drink the flagon of ale they had served him. Before long, they reached an outcrop where one of the trees had fallen, not yet dead with the brush that still protruded from the branches.
By Gunnar Anderson2 years ago in Fiction
Adrift
Soft snow crunching under my bare feet. A cold wind encasing my naked body and whipping my hair about my head. Another step, and my bones become numb. The tingling raking through from head to toe making it hard to breathe. Was I breathing, or was it simply the idea of it? I was not aware to the feeling, if my chest was heaving at all or if it was a figment of my imagination. Another step, and I’m taking in the trees around me. Barren except for the heavy snow that coated the bare dead branches. The blizzard swelled around them and hid their tops from view; the shapes of their canopy drawing into a blur of darkness. Ahead of me is a vast expanse of white wilderness and a shadow, shorter than the rest. It protrudes from the vast expanse of snow with two limbs stretched out like someone waiting for an embrace. The arms waved and I felt a pull towards them. They seemed welcoming. They seemed familiar. Another step, and I made out the distinction in their body. The slimness of their neck, the faint whipping of hair, the separation in their legs as they stood there trying to steady themselves. Their features were still too dark to make out. A step, and I could make out the shape of their head. Another showed me the blue of their eyes. Step, and I could reach out to touch them, before falling into the cold, snowy darkness.
By Gunnar Anderson2 years ago in Fiction
Missing
The unmarked Crown Vic rolled up the gravel road towards the abandoned farms house and its adjacent barn. A sea of red and blue flashed against the mid-afternoon sun that streaked across the property, casting shadows longer than the buildings were tall. Detective Jesse Andrews parked the car within the shade and just on the outside of the blue sawhorses they used to barricade the crime scene. As soon as she had the door pushed open, a cold winter wind caught her hair and whipper it around her face. She tied it back with a rubber band and flipped up the collar on her coat to keep the breeze off her neck. As situated as she could be, she stepped up to be amongst the other officers.
By Gunnar Anderson2 years ago in Criminal
