James Stratton
Stories (10)
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Fog
He swept the old blue broom gingerly across the floor. The broken pieces of dishes clinked together as he swept them into a small heap. He surveyed the rest of the kitchen. There were all different colors and shapes of glass. Some were green and sapphire from their cups. There were more pieces of pure white from their dishes. There were clear pieces from the bottles of vodka and rum. All of this overlaying the dusty floor made his heart sink. There was so much left to do. He hadn’t even touched the blood yet. This was definitely their biggest fight.
By James Stratton4 years ago in Fiction
Last One In
Last One In He couldn’t feel his nose. The scarf wasn’t doing a very good job of shielding him from the biting wind. He couldn’t believe he had gone all the way out here. It was the dead of winter. Trees caked in snow jutted up from the ground like dark skeletal hands. The sky was blind to the barren landscape as a thick white cloud seemed to stretch on forever. His eyes felt dry as he stood on the banks of this frozen pond. His gloved hands were shoved deep into his pockets and he flexed his arms for warmth. His breath puffed out in wisps that floated away into the air. He pulled his snow cap lower around his ears and then quickly shoved his hands back into his pocket. He could smell his acrid breath which irritated him further. His mouth was dry and his stomach was empty. This trip had not been planned. All because of those cursed texts.
By James Stratton4 years ago in Fiction
Blink
The movie stopped. He sighed irritably and clicked the play button. Nothing. He clicked it again. Nothing. He clicked a few more times, rapidly tapping his trackpad. He snorted and clicked the long black line that appeared under the movie. He went back 10 seconds and the movie resumed. For 10 seconds. He grunted and shut the computer screen. He looked over at his router and saw only one of the little green lights was lit. It flashed on and off, taunting him. He shuffled over and unplugged the router. The green lights died and he stared at them. He counted in his head, whispering every other number while twisting the cable in his hand. He nodded and then jammed the cord into the back of the device. The light blazed back to life with a solid green glow. Then it flashed rapidly and he began to tap his foot. He sighed heavily when the slow, deliberate blink returned.
By James Stratton4 years ago in Fiction
Sleeping Dogs
Sleeping Dogs The two men sat across from each other at the metal table. They were sitting in a small diner that neither of them had been. This place had been chosen for this very reason. It was neutral territory. It was on the side of the highway, miles away from anywhere. They looked at each other coolly. One was in a three-piece suit and looked extremely out of place. His pencil thin mustache lined the top of thick lips. His face was round with dark eyes set back into their sockets. His thick fingers laid on the table not far from a small white cup of black coffee. He had on a large gold pinky ring that made a metallic clang as he drummed his fingers along the table. His thinning black hair was combed straight back. Steam rose from the coffee the fatigued waitress had set in front of him some minutes before. His feet were arched in his expensive Italian loafers. They leaned against the side of the bench he was sitting on. He felt the weight on his toes keeping him from tapping his feet. He was both tired and wired. He couldn’t let the person he was sitting with know just how nervous he was. The rest of his boys were on their way and he needed to stall so the man sitting across from him wouldn’t disappear. He was the most deadly when you couldn’t see him. It’s why he was hired in the first place.
By James Stratton4 years ago in Fiction
Desperation
He was in the cemetery. The moon was half full and not providing much light. She had asked to be buried away from the city so he couldn’t count on the light pollution. He didn’t remember how he got here. He had taken off his headphones when he got out of the car and shoved them into his back pocket. He had blared her song and openly sobbed, occasionally wiping away the tears and snot.
By James Stratton4 years ago in Fiction
Home
Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. His hand reached blindly to his right, his fingers ran over the wood grain of his desk towards the vibration. There was a spot of wetness, then the cold metal of his glasses. His hand continued to sweep blindly to the right. He felt his marble coaster, the familiar round shape and smooth surface. The sweaty glass perched on it hung precariously over the side. The glass felt more than halfway off. He grabbed it and lowered it beneath the desk. His head was down in the crook of his arm. His tongue, feeling sticky and large, parted his lips and caused an involuntary swallow. He raised it slowly to his face. His mouth opened and closed, searching for the straw he knew was there.
By James Stratton4 years ago in Fiction
Home Sweet Home
Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. His hand reached blindly to his right, his fingers ran over the wood grain of his desk towards the vibration. There was a spot of wetness, then the cold metal of his glasses. His hand continued to sweep blindly to the right. He felt his marble coaster, the familiar round shape and smooth surface. The sweaty glass perched on it hung precariously over the side. The glass felt more than halfway off. He grabbed it and lowered it beneath the desk. His head was down in the crook of his arm. His tongue, feeling sticky and large, parted his lips and caused an involuntary swallow. He raised it slowly to his face. His mouth opened and closed, searching for the straw he knew was there.
By James Stratton4 years ago in Fiction
Decadence
The bathroom was a complete wreck. Towels had been flung every which way. All of the toiletries that had been so carefully placed were scattered all over the white tile floor. A bottle of expensive mouthwash had shattered, the dark green glass glittered on the floor. A small blueish puddle pooled next to a white rug that was greying. A silver electronic toothbrush lay vibrating against the pristine, porcelain bathtub. The florescent bulbs in the white ceiling gave the room a stark and clinical look. It was very minimalist considering the opulence contained elsewhere in the house. A tube of toothpaste was next to a spilled container of cotton swabs. She wouldn’t have to clean this up. Ever again. A muffled groan came from the toilet.
By James Stratton5 years ago in Fiction
The Mistake
He was exhausted. His leg was killing him. And he was desperate. His tongue was coated with a slimy film that tasted like copper. He spat on the old dusty boards. The spit looked ruddy and thick. Miller knew blood when it saw it. He was panting, the hot air burning his nostrils and the back of his throat. He looked around the old, dilapidated barn. The roof was barely held together. Rays of light pierced the solitary window at the top. The panes were broken and cracked. He watched the dust motes float lazily in the sun. The world blurred and he shut his eyes. He rubbed them with two fingers while still holding the gun. He could feel the sweat soaking his eyebrows. It was sweltering. He had sweat through his shirt. This was the first time he had actually stopped since everything happened. He had abandoned his car on the road. It was no longer drivable. He had kept looking the rearview. He had forgotten about that massive pothole. When he had hit it, he remembered cursing it not one week ago. The car rambled and sputtered for another mile or so. Miller wasn’t sure exactly how. He had bled pretty badly over the seat. He ripped a sleeve from his button down shirt to make an emergency bandage for the wound. Since the shirt was red, he couldn’t see how badly he was still bleeding. He glanced down to check and the color had merely grown darker. Though it did looked pretty soaked. That could be sweat just as easily as it could be blood he attempted to convince himself. He still couldn’t believe that old security guard had gotten him. The old man had taken advantage of his surprise when his own gun went off.
By James Stratton5 years ago in Fiction
Fireworks
Bugg was almost done with his last drawing. His given name was John but his mom always called him her “Bugg”. He liked that better than John anyway. He had drawn a blue circle for the face. A red line for the mouth. He drew two large squares for teeth. He had used his old crayons. He had to use them because all the markers had dried up. They would only make the faintest mark on the page. No good for drawing. His little tongue was slightly sticking out of his mouth as he drew a small rounded U for the nose. For his Dad’s glasses it was two black circles with black lines connecting the larger blue circle. Then one small black hump in the middle of the two black circles. He put two black dots in the middle of each black circle. He tilted his head slightly and looked at the photo. He put down the black crayon and picked up the blue again. He drew over the small u shape for the nose again. He set that crayon down and looked at the ones that were still outside the box. He looked them over carefully. Then he looked back into the box. He selected the green crayon. The tip of the crayon was worn down to a nub just past the wrapper. He clenched his hand around it making a fist. He then put it against the paper and ran the crayon up and down vigorously making spiky green hair. He put the crayon down and looked at the drawing. He nodded once and turned the drawing over. He reached to his right and found a roll of scotch tape hidden under more drawing paper. He pulled a small strip and tore it off. He then folded it onto itself and placed it on the middle of the paper. He did it two more times, putting the folded pieces of tape beside each other. He stood up and turned the paper back around. He looked over it and again nodded once.
By James Stratton5 years ago in Fiction
