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Anthony Stauffer
Bio
Husband, Father, Technician, US Navy Veteran, Aspiring Writer
After 3 Decades of Writing, It's All Starting to Come Together
Use this link, Profile Table of Contents, to access my stories.
Use this link, Prime: The Novel, to access my novel.
Stories (99/0)
Higher and Higher
The wind was calm, but the string was tight. It focused on her big smile and bright eyes. Then she let go, the address tag grazing her coat. It reveled in the joy of her ever-shrinking eyes and boisterous laughter. She waved and jumped; the tag jostled in the wind as though waving back.
By Anthony Staufferabout a year ago in Fiction
The End
The ejecta rose quickly, chasing the station like a cat on a mouse. The minutes passed slowly as the crew watched the firestorm rage across Earth’s surface. They had front row seats to the end of the world. The final command came as the fiery maelstrom swept the last of the unscorched earth into its flaming maw. The onboard computer indicated the convergence point to be Washington D.C.
By Anthony Staufferabout a year ago in Fiction
Between The Fences
5. The Black House Cassidy was awakened by the sound of choking and retching. The odor of sulfur was pungent in the air, and as she looked bleary-eyed to the corner where Frankie was emptying her stomach, her own belly began to rumble a protest. She sat up slowly and noticed a door to her right. It was obvious that it was the front door to the Black House, and through the border windows the sunshine was a deep red hue, like blood. Nearly everything around her appeared as though it was part of an old black and white television show. The red light from outside only lit a select few items in the house, like the door trim and molding and the joints in the hardwood floor on which they sat. Frankie, still dry heaving, sat next to another door in the room. It was shut, and the contents of it were hidden from them. Above them was a low ceiling, but it was only about three or four feet wide, indicating a second floor walkway beneath the second floor ceiling. The girls were in a foyer.
By Anthony Staufferabout a year ago in Fiction
Between The Fences
3. To Grandmother’s House We Go Vera Grassly was 74 years old and wheelchair-bound. She lived alone, but got around well enough on her own. Shayla was her daily aide, yet spend more time reading and studying than taking care of Vera. The septuagenarian was a veteran of Vietnam, spending years in the early seventies as a translator for the US Army. Vera had graduated from high school and went directly to Rice University on a language scholarship. Cassidy didn’t know how many languages her grandmother spoke, but she knew it was quite a few.
By Anthony Staufferabout a year ago in Fiction
Between The Fences
As a writer, inspiration can come from the strangest of places or at the strangest of times. Many times, it’s the inspiration itself that is strange, and the event that gave rise to it is as boring and mundane as it gets. So it was with this story. My wife and I were removing our solar light strings from the fence in our backyard in favor of ones that would be brighter. I remember reaching over the fence to try and dig out a piece of zip tie that had gotten stuck between the slats.
By Anthony Staufferabout a year ago in Fiction
You Have No Power Over Me
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. It was me… it was my bathroom. But it wasn’t mine. What I was feeling was inexplicable. What I was seeing was not. My hazel eyes, in the reflection, were more of a gray. My eyebrows were a bit bushier. My mouth was drawn up in a sneer. And the scar on my right cheek should have been my reflection’s left cheek, but it was still on the right. I wasn’t looking at a reflection… I was looking at another me!
By Anthony Staufferabout a year ago in Fiction
The Delicate Sound of Darkness
I don’t even know how to start this… I’ve never been one to consider existentialism as anything more than a hobby. And religion? PLEASE! But, I’ll tell you this, for someone like me to be sitting here, in a musty, concrete basement, writing my last words that nobody will ever see, the concepts of existentialism and Hell are two things I wish I would’ve spent more time on. Who knew?
By Anthony Staufferabout a year ago in Horror
The Cat Lady
Luke stared down at the dirt-stained, neon green golf ball. It was the final hole, and he needed a hole-in-one to win. The windmill before him creaked with age as the blades spun slowly, the plastic tunnel he was aiming for a black hole behind the blades. Bringing the club head back, Luke was ready. Of course, as was his luck, Luke’s cell phone vibrated insistently in his pocket and threw off his aim.
By Anthony Stauffer2 years ago in Fiction
I Am Stanley
They say that even the most far-fetched fiction is based on at least a little bit of reality. ‘They’ weren’t lying. I don’t know why I feel the need to write this down, but it’s a story that needs to be told. Right now, I’m sitting on a bench at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk, the funnel cake stand to my right and the shaved ice stand to my left. The pungent salt breeze moving lazily over the Pacific tickles my nose, and the sun shines down bright upon the page. It’s been a year since that fateful night when my crazy new life began.
By Anthony Stauffer2 years ago in Fiction
Nature of Destruction
The Earth is 4.5 billion years old (assuming you hold true to science and believe in the evolution of the cosmos), and, if stretched out over a mile, then the 6,000 years of modern human history would encompass less than one-eighth of the final inch. Yet, in those six millennia, the human race has accomplished wonders unlike anything the world has ever seen… but it’s also committed acts so heinous that it makes us wonder if we truly are a benefit to this planet that we call home. How is it then, in all of the millions and billions of years of Earth’s existence, that a species of animal has arisen to cause so much strife and despair in the face of so much wonderment and ingenuity? Why are humans such a dichotomy of good and evil, of love and hate, of the simple and the complex?
By Anthony Stauffer2 years ago in FYI
The Torrent Express
My eyes flutter open, the world a blur until I rub them for a few moments. My body feels as light as the air, and I find it very disorienting. I sit up slowly and gaze around, trying to get my bearings and figure out where I am. Wherever I am, it’s moving… as the entire room undulates slowly. Tchk tchk… Tchk tchk… that’s the subtle sound I hear coming from under my feet. The sound is familiar to me, but my clouded mind can’t quite place it. The room I find myself in is quite opulent, the couch I’m sitting on and the surrounding décor all Victorian. There is another couch on the opposite wall, not more than eight feet away, and a man sits there staring at me. Not in any disdainful or questioning way, but in empathy. To either side of us, the remainder of the room is lined with dining tables. Each seat is full, and I notice that all of the people in here are in dressed in the same style as the room’s décor.
By Anthony Stauffer2 years ago in Fiction
The Candle In The Window
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Charlotte stopped short, the sweat beading on her forehead and her breath a torrent as it rushed in and out of her chest. She could hear the voices behind her, the white men shouting their threats of rape and lynching. But those voices were hushed as she stared at the candle in the window. She found it quirky that the flame didn’t brighten the room behind it, but only sent its light as a signal to her… beckoning her.
By Anthony Stauffer2 years ago in Fiction