HUCK
BROWNE
Writes
It's true. A picture paints a thousand words.
But it never tells the whole story.
For that, you need characters, setting and plot.
You need to write.
They are all men now, living in different states and countries, but one still maintains his childish wonder, ever seeking to make a memorable day that becomes a cherished story.
Some Writing
Huck is writing his second novel, while finding an agent for his first. He knows this will happen, because he believes in
Venus Williams who said: "Just believe in yourself. Even if you don’t, pretend that you do, and at some point, you will."
In the meantime, here are some short stories (under 100 words).
"The difference between the almost right word and the right word is the difference between the lightening bug and the lightening."
- Mark Twain
Stories with less than 100 words
ICE BIRDS
My mother often told people, “He was always a quiet child.”
No. Not always. When I was little, I asked many questions.
“How did the lake get here?”
Annoyed, she blew cigarette smoke before mumbling, “Icebergs.”
“Ice birds?” I was puzzled.
She turned the car radio up to tune me out, so I sat, imagining those birds.
That week, my teacher asked, “Does anybody know how the Great Lakes formed?,” and my arm rose with the speed of a cobra.
“Ice birds.”
She was puzzled.
“Birds. They flew over, dropping ice.”
She laughed. The class joined.
That’s when I became a quiet child.
HIDE-N-SEEK
As a little boy, my friends would run and hide, as fathers counted with closed eyes.
Not me. My dad always worked.
My body grew, along with my curiosity.
“Who is he?”
“Is he like me… down there?”
I began to sneak and peek.
Once, I saw mom washing him… down there. Vigorously.
He saw me.
I panicked, running over his belt on the floor, not stopping until the basement, where I slid behind the water heater.
Hearing him stomping above, I finally knew what it was like to play hide-and-seek with my father.
CITY GIRL
When friends ask, “What happened to your NYC girl?,” I think of that photo. Her white skin and black hair, mirroring the cow’s coat, as they stood together, staring with big eyes.
“Trying to make me look thinner?,” she asked.
I remember laughing.
The truth? I wanted to capture her.
But me and that cow with her five stomachs were no match for that smaller mammal with her five-hundred ideas about how and where to live.
Only her arm remains in that photo. The rest of her is folded behind the cow.
“Back in the city,” I reply.