Stewart Brewer
Bio
Stewart Brewer has a curious mind and enjoys learning new things. He also enjoys reading books of many different genres. It is his love of reading that sparked his interest in writing.
Stories (6)
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Deadbolt
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. "The first sentence is always the hardest," I groan after a frustrating hour and a half of writing. I slam my laptop shut and shove it aside. "You said writing would help me relax, Dr. Steve, but it isn't helping … at all! It's just stressing me out even more, if that's even possible," I exclaim, throwing my hands up as if pleading to the heavens. The vein to the left of center on my forehead pulses now with each beat of my heart. "Go! Take a vacation! Write a book! It'll be relaxing, he said. "Does it look like this is helping me relax, Dr. Steve," I shout to the empty cabin. What good does it do to pay a therapist for advice like this," I ask myself. My heart pounds as I exhale forcefully. "You've got to get a grip. Breathe, just breathe," I coach myself. Inhaling through my nose and slowly out through my mouth like I practiced with Dr. Steve helps ease my anxiety and my mind drifts back to Tuesday afternoon.
By Stewart Brewer4 years ago in Fiction
Ignus
There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Neither were there heroes… The scaly beast's razor sharp claws barely miss slashing E's throat as he dodges just in time. Instinctively, he pivots, thrusting his sword deep into the dragon's chest. The sword comes close but misses the mark. It is stuck in the thick, black scale covering the dragon's heart. Recoiling from the blow, the dragon falls from the mountain cliff, taking E along with it. Twirling as they plummet together towards the jagged rocks below, the dragon spreads his wings, righting himself at the last moment. Hanging on with all his might, E dangles perilously from his sword protruding from the dragon's chest as it flies back to Mal Un's castle. As they disappear from sight, an ominous black moon winks in the foggy night sky.
By Stewart Brewer4 years ago in Fiction
Dark Sweet Death
I don't remember much about the day I died, only the taste of something dark and sweet. I had planned to get up early, but things took a turn. Glancing at my phone while trying to snooze the alarm, I realize I'm already late. No time for a shower or a shave. In a panic, I throw on clothes. Rushing to the car I drop my keys while trying to juggle coffee, a laptop bag and my lunch. I bend down quickly to pick them up when the awful sound of my pants ripping makes me gasp. Startled, I spill hot coffee all down the front of my last clean shirt. It is at this very moment I realize this will not be a good day.
By Stewart Brewer4 years ago in Fiction
Eli's Owl
Eli tears out of the house running barefoot down the dusty, gravel driveway leading to the old barn out back. The rusty screen door bangs twice as it slams shut. "Eli don't be late for supper," grandma yells, but Eli doesn't hear. He's already too far away. Now that he is six years old and all grown up, he loves exploring more than ever. He runs almost the whole way to the old barn, stopping only once to lift up a couple of flat stones looking for roly-polies. "Hi there, little guys," he says and shoves a couple in his front jeans pocket.
By Stewart Brewer5 years ago in Fiction
Angel's Heart
Gasping for air, my heart pounds like a boxer working a heavy bag. The cool, night breeze makes me shiver after my dip in the cold, dark sewer. Sewers are the only place they don't monitor. My lungs ache from holding my breath. Feeling a bit dizzy from hypoxia, I strengthen my grip on the rough rebar steps leading up the side of the storm drain. Maybe hypoxia triggers memories, or maybe it's the adrenaline...I don't know. My mind wanders as I remember the way the sunlight gently caressed her hair and face on our day, making her seem more angelic than human. For a moment, I remember everything, the way she always covered her mouth when she smiled, the way she laughed with her eyes and the way she spoke volumes with only a look. Mostly, I remember the way she made me feel. I remember every detail, except one. Something's missing from my mind's eye. I can feel what it is but can't make myself remember. It's like being tongue-tied, knowing what I want to say but being unable to find the right word. I hate this feeling. Am I losing my mind or maybe repressing her memory? My foot slips off the slippery rebar step. Struggling against fatigue and the weight of my wet clothes, I pull myself up the rungs, out of the water and onto the cold ground. No time to rest, I have to move before they find me.
By Stewart Brewer5 years ago in Fiction
