Zachary James

Joined June 2021

6 stories

Bio

I try to write things from time to time.

Achievements (1)

Runner-Up in From Across the Room Challenge

Stories (6)

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To the Storms Without
When I was young and the summer sky would bristle with deep velvet clouds, my mom would wrap herself in a blanket as heavy
By Zachary James3 years ago in Poets
By the Pricking of My Thumbs
“I trust you know why I’ve brought you here,” the man said, his dark eyes locked on the woman across from him. His long fingers trembled as he lit a cigar, a thin black mustache quivering above his upper lip. He inhaled, let out a puff of white smoke. It hovered, thick, between them.
By Zachary James4 years ago in Fiction
Pragmatism. Runner-Up in From Across the Room Challenge.
My father raised me to be a pragmatic man, a thinker, a mind before a heart, so when I see you for the first time I know I won’t say these things.
By Zachary James4 years ago in Poets
The White Marble Dust of Our Bones
I've burrowed into the chambers of your heart, nestled myself into an atrium and settled in. Sometimes, at night, I like to walk the corridors of this home
By Zachary James4 years ago in Poets
Pop Rocks and Marigolds
The doctor exited the room, leaving the young couple alone. It was hot that day, and Eddie McCormick, a pockmarked boy with a tuft of greasy orange hair, slouched in his chair and wiped sweat from his forehead. He reached for the girl on the bed, his hand landing softly on the small bump of her stomach. She exhaled, her wet eyes falling to the vase of marigolds on the bedside table, their petals the color of the sunrise just as it crests above the horizon.
By Zachary James4 years ago in Fiction
The Father of the World
One of the great ironies that still remained in the world was the simple fact that Mobius Richards hated children. When he was a child himself, he often sought refuge from his schoolmates, hiding out in quiet, under-utilized corners of cafeterias and libraries. During those formative years, he loathed every one of the forced interactions he had with others his age, instead preferring the company of teachers or janitors, principals or crossing guards, and, when no adult was available or willing to indulge him, he preferred to be left alone with his thoughts, thoughts he deemed too mature for the likes of children. And as he grew older, his distaste for children never waned. He watched from a distance as those younger than him, the Final Generation, grew from infants to teens, and he secretly relished the impossibility of conceiving any children of his own.
By Zachary James5 years ago in Fiction