Rick Allen
Bio
Rick Allen reinvented himself not once, but twice. His work explores stillness, transformation, and the quiet beauty found in paying close attention.
Stories (11)
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Wait for the First Snow
The first snow doesn’t always arrive with ceremony. Sometimes it begins as a whisper—almost mistaken for rain—until a single flake drifts past the kitchen window like a paused thought. I don’t rush to greet it anymore. I’ve learned to let it arrive in its own quiet way. So I just stand by the table, one hand resting on the back of a chair, and say softly, “It’s time.”
By Rick Allen2 months ago in Humans
The Archivist's Room
Miriam Hale had learned to measure time by the way dust settled. It drifted through the shafts of desert light that crossed the library’s high windows, bright as river water at noon. In the stillness before opening, she walked the aisles, touching spines as if greeting neighbors. Forty years in this small-town library had taught her the weight of silence and the comfort of routine.
By Rick Allen2 months ago in Fiction
Mapping the Distance Between Two Souls
We share a roof, but our hours are oceans apart. I write and paint early; she works in the afternoon and evening. The rhythm of our lives passes like tides—each returning when the other withdraws, leaving small traces of what we’ve made. Clay dust gathers on her side of the house, and the scent of turpentine hangs on mine. Somewhere between the two, in the space neither of us owns, something quietly grows.
By Rick Allen3 months ago in Humans
The Visitor Who Never Left
Rain has a way of making the house feel occupied again. It softened the edges of silence, filled the gaps between the floorboards, and carried faint echoes of how the place used to sound—Julian moving between rooms, the low hum of his record player, the kettle beginning to whisper before it boiled.
By Rick Allen3 months ago in Fiction
Where the House Keeps Secrets
Michael had owned the house for seven months before he went near the attic. It wasn’t fear, exactly. Not then. More like… reverence. The way you walk quietly through an old cathedral even if you don’t believe in God. The attic was part of the house’s spine—old beams, warped boards, a ceiling door with a brass pull-cord that swayed when the windows were open. He passed it every morning on the way to the shower and never looked up. It felt respectful not to.
By Rick Allen4 months ago in Fiction
The Light at Miller's Dock
The trail down to Miller’s Dock had narrowed over the years, overtaken in places by roots and brush. What once was a foot-worn path now felt more like a memory than a route. Calvin moved carefully, stepping over slick stones and ducking under branches. The lake wind stirred the treetops, but everything below held its breath, as if waiting.
By Rick Allen5 months ago in Fiction
Her Voice on the Wind
The wind was already rising when Eloise turned the key in the door for the first time in years. It stuck halfway, swollen from salt and neglect, but with a hard twist she forced it open. The house gave a small groan as if surprised by her return. Inside, the air smelled of lavender, old cedar, and something sharper—salt maybe, or time. She stepped over the threshold, her boots echoing on bare wood, and paused in the entry. Nothing had moved. And yet, everything had changed.
By Rick Allen5 months ago in Fiction
