Oscar Richard
Bio
An artist, an alchemist; quixotic, schmaltzy, fervid... Probably pompous, and perfectly, ordinarily self-deprecating.
Achievements (1)
Stories (18)
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Mercury
As has been before, often ominously and always mystically promulgated and shared, like rare rich fruits around a little familial camp, are stories of dragons. Sometimes an intellectual creature, capable of talking and of tearing towns down. Sometimes shrewd, sage.
By Oscar Richard3 years ago in Fiction
The Polecat Princess
There was a nation at a particular time in a particular place, unknown to most, which had a famously wise king. He was known for his careful, strategic way which won him many wars with hostile others; the people of the country loved and served him for many years, all in love with his genuine charisma and strength.
By Oscar Richard4 years ago in Fiction
A Caprice
Part 1 - The Portly Pitiful Policeman - An early autumn morning defines the beginning of this story. Rising with a heavy degree of pride and effort, Mr. Gabriel John Dolby woke early for his duty. His pair of, fat, sunken eyes, which changed from their sulky state usually only in rage, shone dimly, with a dignity deep behind a glaze of fatigue and despair that thickened daily.
By Oscar Richard4 years ago in Fiction
Putnam Robberson
“Careful, careful. Doubtless I’m a wobbling bottle, but a bottle can fall and break not. I’ll bite another nail and avoid a fresh set of tangents. If the translucent glass figure of my being smashes then I shall only lay there shattered, not dissolved — and certainly not dead. Should I be intact upon this potential drop I shall wait for a fool to pick me up and put me on the shelf. “No! Get your mouth away from me. There’s nothing in me: I’m not new.” And I’ll sit, cosy, upright, peering out, writing my letters however I please, with my resolutions secure and protected, ignorant of that aligned around me on the shelf. I’m an active ornament, a funky rogue rendering no followable trail. Pick up my pooh and see just how fresh it is. Did I go left? Right? Was that little branch snapped by my movements or by a lost but carefree monkey? I am gone. I don’t need to be a ghost. No one is watching me, rather me them. Leave the jungle! Let autopilot fly you out. And you’ll die never connected to your true self, fettered to the influences of your dreadfully similar brethren. And me, I shall be an anonymous bottle, open, empty, devoid of carbonated conventions, filled with delicate insight, — perhaps precious — quiet and groomed with self-respect, adding to the modest flavours of my simple soul, like a relaxed wizard with wisdom and mansuetude swimming through his veins, for man had trampled on the moon, drenched the earth in blood and lost any quasi interpretable translation of love there ever was: how can I be a part of that? I am careless, I am gentle, and I am nothing like you.”
By Oscar Richard4 years ago in Criminal
The One Who Talks to the Flowers
Introduction I’ve been told I exited my mother’s womb swiftly and without any significant delay on an early Spring morning; and I pretty much assume my mother cradled my soft head still stained with amniotic fluid only lovingly, in a state of special, classical, maternal euphoria, with total care. Assumptions are all I really have when it comes to the years I spent as a vulnerable baby — those and the odd parental anecdote. I think that’s how most people recall their baby-years — barely; it’s all so hazy, fragmented, partial: you never hear anyone recounting the difficulty of learning to walk, do you?
By Oscar Richard4 years ago in Fiction
