Kale Sinclair
Bio
Author | Poet | Husband | Dog Dad | Nerd
Find my published poetry, and short story books here!
Stories (284)
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FOOD
Somewhere in South America The moon was full and hung low to the earth. Shadows cast by the tall trees danced beneath the thick canopy, while multiple jaguars could be heard growling and moaning in the distance. In a vast clearing, set at the fringes of the jungle, an enormous stone temple, adorned with nightmarish creatures crafted from solid black marble, sprouted up from the ground. Constructed by an unknown race of ancient builders, the top of the temple rose above the clouds, making it impossible to view with human eyes. Ten figures of various heights, their outlines obscured by the flowing lines of their dark black robes, stood in a circle around a giant bonfire. The scent of charred wood and burnt flesh wafted over the figures as they mumbled their secret incantations. Blood-curdling screams rode the wind, informing the hungry jaguars to keep their distance, but the scent of cooked flesh was making it hard to keep them at bay. As the final human sacrifice was burning to their death, a tall, dark figure emerged from the main entrance of the temple. Plotting his course with precision, the shadow walked over to the circle of praying zealots, and placed his meaty right hand on the shoulder of the shortest member in the circle. The small initiate stopped his rant and removed the dark hood which concealed his horribly scarred face. “It is time,” whispered the tall, cloaked shadow.
By Kale Sinclair4 years ago in Fiction
Hands up, Cowboy
P A R T . O N E Massachusetts, 2004 The autumn air was hot and thick. Beads of sweat were aggressively cascading down my face, dripping onto my rifle. My eyes were heavy and bleeding, my body ached and my brain was pulsating. My weapon was locked tight to my chest, its long barrel pointed south with deadly intention. The woodland was vast, which made it an ideal place to disappear. My spot was perfect. Buried beneath a hefty pile of broken sticks and autumn leaves, I became invisible.
By Kale Sinclair4 years ago in Fiction
Horns
PART ONE August 8th, 2013 9:00 A.M. Arthur, Nebraska The crowd was larger than projected. The increased capacity of unexpected townsfolk was cause for a change of plans. The Court House was too small and too hot to peacefully accommodate those attending the town hall meeting. About an hour ago, Quinn Foster, Nebraska’s beloved Governor for the past seven years, shuffled everyone across the scorching pavement - leading them into the pork scented First Baptist Church. The old pews filled quickly, as aggravated residents of Arthur County crammed their way inside. Sweaty hands were soon raised in the air, casting out waves of horrid body odor. The two wooden doors of the doomsday structured church were both open, allowing the smoke from the priming BBQ pit next door to waft in - combating the armpit aroma. Four chairs sat in a staggered row at the front of the church. Each seat was filled with a concerned, sweating citizen - waiting to debate their positions.
By Kale Sinclair4 years ago in Fiction
Finnegan's Marigold
PART ONE 7:30 A.M Dover, New Hampshire The barking alerted us of the imminent invasion. Dark wings swarmed in the sky, attempting to blot out the sunshine. Finn and Rosie were racing the track they carved out around our house, barking at the clouds. The two-legged, red-headed Guardian of the grounds who maintained the perimeter of our land was down on all fours, working in the yard - planting perennials. I had just finished plucking my fourth earthworm from the soil when the barking started. The red-headed Guardian must have created some kind of invisible barrier because while she could roam wherever she wanted, Finn and Rosie were restricted from wandering beyond their track. Luckily for me, the juiciest worms lived in the soil just past the limits of the invisible fence. I needed to quicken my pace.
By Kale Sinclair4 years ago in Fiction
Mercury Bluffs
Chapter 1 September 4th, 10:22 A.M. State Beach, Martha’s Vineyard Blood-curdling screams rode the crimson waves and crashed hard against the hot sand. Two of the three teenage lifeguards on duty began to pierce through the chaos with their Kiefer Pealess whistles, alerting any remaining swimmers that there was a shark in the water. Beach goers of all ages were suddenly thrusted into a panic as they rushed to gather their scattered friends and family members in desperate attempts to retreat to the safety of their vehicles. Beyond the red buoys which marked the limit for all swimmers, Bree scanned the water with her Marine Rescue binoculars and saw three gray dorsal fins breaching the roiling water indicating that these were now hunting grounds. They were tactically circling a lone sloop which didn’t appear to have any souls on board. Bree’s heart quickly sank to the depths of her stomach, fearing the worst.
By Kale Sinclair4 years ago in Fiction
Brown Paper Box
Boston Massachusetts, 2022 Zachary is sitting in the driveway inside of his idling, government issued, green Ford Fusion sedan smoking a cigarette and listening to the Dave and Chuck the Freak morning show. Satisfied with their discussion on asshole of the day, a crude discussion about another billionaire calling himself an astronaut after making a quick fifteen minute visit into space, he kills the radio as well as the car. Removing the dangling keys from the ignition, he pulls down the sun visor and removes a laminated memorial prayer card clipped to the mirror flap. As he stares hard at the old face on the card, he reaches down into a secret compartment beneath his seat and pulls out a silver flask with a faded Marine Corp sticker on the front. He unscrews the tin cap and takes a long gulp. With a heavy sigh he twists the cap back onto the flask, returns it to its hiding place then stares hard at himself through the mirror of the sun visor. Slamming the visor shut he reaches into his pants right pocket, removes a pack of evergreen chewing gum and pops two pieces inside of his dry mouth. Chewing vigorously, he gathers his cellphone from the magnetic dashboard dock, stuffs the prayer card into the breast pocket of his blue button-down dress shirt and exits the vehicle.
By Kale Sinclair4 years ago in Fiction
Curly
Soapy Consequences I will never forget the taste of that dirty bar of soap my mother used to wash my mouth with after I stuck my tongue out at her in a childish act of rebellion against doing the dishes. She scrubbed that dirty bar, the one she used to wash those dishes, so passionately across my tongue that when she was finally finished scrubbing and removed the bar of soap from my mouth, the bar was no longer white, but red. My tongue was numb and I couldn't taste anything for two days.
By Kale Sinclair5 years ago in Families
It sounded human...
Those days were bleak and somber. My mother would exclusively care for my baby sister, providing her with all of the bare necessities a baby would need. At least, far better than she had ever provided for me. In her coal eyes, the first born was always seen as more of a curse than as a blessing. I would frequently overhear her praying at odd times of the day and of the night. Praying to someone or something that I had no idea even existed. But I knew she was praying. I knew this because of the way her frail hands were either pressed together or holding rosary beads. Sometimes she would squeeze her rosary so hard she would puncture her palms, letting her old blood coat the beads a deep red.
By Kale Sinclair5 years ago in Horror
