Brooke Duran

I am far past sixty and married, but these effects are due to my condition and sufferings, for I am only a bachelor, and only forty-one. It will be hard for you to believe that I, who am now but only a shadow, was a hale, hearty man only two years ago, a man of iron, an athlete at his best! Although stranger still than this fact is the way in which I unfortunately lost my health. I lost it through the act of helping to take care of a box of guns on a two-hundred-mile railway journey one winter's night. Let me elaborate. I belong in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. One lonesome winter's night, two years ago, I reached home just after dark, in an ongoing snow-storm, and the first thing I heard when I entered the house was that my dearest childhood friend and schoolmate, Enoch J. Heydari, had died the day before, and that his last utterance had been a wish that I would take his remains home to his poor old father and mother in Ohio. I was greatly startled and grieved, but the...

Alora threw open her rundown, scrappy, smelling like it was wood with mold door against the back wall. It was pitiful. Not an ounce of concern was held in her mind for the piece of wood that sure looked, plus smelled like that alone should break it. No concern was held in her mid for much anyone, or anything currently. She was simply happy to be back in her crappy apartment after a long day of work. Sure, the living space was dull and had to be infested by rats, if not something much worse, but at least it held a bed. A falling apart, frayed, dusty bed, but a resting place, nonetheless. She did not want to wash off her smeared with makeup, plus the gross sludge of the day face, so she did not. She left the black lines that were highly defined under her eyes since there was no one to judge her in her dark, dreary-draped apartment, or so it seemed so why should she try? Alora Finamore spent every waking moment of her life trying to impress somebody who was anybody, well, at least when ...

Don’t get me wrong. I love it here. Who wouldn’t? It’s quaint. It’s cute. It’s redundant. It’s boring. Everyday, I feel like around a million people have only bright smiles to offer me, mustard instead of ketchup, and the seafoamy shade of green dirtied with the brown. Oh, sure if is perfect. Anyone would dream of living in America’s “good-neighbor city” of Middleton, Wisconsin just not me. I am suspicious of that sunshine of a grin that must be hiding something. I think it is nothing big or notable that we house a Mustard Museum. (Mustard, seriously?) I only notice the dirt when I look at the ground and am, I supposed to be happy about that? I’m no farmer. I’ve always been a runner through anything I could in the small Wisconsin town. Tell me how it’s the #1 small city to live in America. Make me want to run away from it even more. (It is actually the worst town in the universe.) That Middleton mug that you bought for your dad last time you were here, the yellow one lettered by thick...

Margaret Lucinda Brennan was so excited that day, it was difficult to sit still. She always felt like a bee constantly buzzing from wonderful flower, to gorgeous flower. She felt so adult (startlingly) and so childlike at the same time. She was at the beginning, and though she felt forever away from her destination, she felt like she was standing next to it already. It was all very mind-numbing, jubilant, and progressive. She was an adult. She had finally moved out of her hometown of Tazewell, Virginia and was ready for a new adventure. Though the place that she was moving to, artistic Chapel Hill, North Carolina, wasn’t that far from scenic Tazewell, she was ready for this stage of life. She felt like she had been ready for a time close to forever, and now it was finally happening. She felt like she was already jumping up and down like a new born rabbit that had just barely discovered it’s legs as she was sitting next to her mother, Patricia Marina Lassig Brennan in the minivan so old...

As the sun set, the desert wasteland that lie before me glowed a scarlet, eerie sort of red. It was redder than blood. It was more barren than a cavern. It was more desolated, plus lonely, like a haunted graveyard that barely any heavenly angels came from. I think that we all could have found our own comparisons to those deadly ideas, I knew that at least I could have. The scarlet liquid that travels through each and every one of our veins. Yes, it brings us to a beautiful life tense, surely to be enjoyed, but it is hidden, and once each of us cuts our skin open, the red stain on that now lies on our sleeve, if it does anything, it prophesies of death. Why is that? Is it unfamiliarity? Is it mystery?? Lets peer inside ourselves for a closer look. It takes in whole, around 60 seconds for the blood in your body to complete one track. It goes first to your heart to your extremities and then it returns, a simple, unfrightening, there and back again. Blood moves through the body much li...

Here are the two books that I published on Amazon and their summaries and links! Hope you enjoy! ❤️❤️❤️ This novel tells the classic love story, reaching an international audience with the character's difference in nationality. The main point in the first section of the book that tells more of this romance, that in matters of love, it doesn't matter what country a person comes from, family they grew up with, or even age that they are for there to be a true honest future for them. It starts on the streets of New York, Rachel Branson is late for work. The taxi cab that gives her an entertaining ride in her rush is driven curiously, by someone that is an immigrant from Mexico and claims his name is Taxi Cal. He could be joking. He is a young, immature high-schooler. Before Rachel is even sure of what exactly she says to him, she asks him out on a date, to which he accepts. Neither of them is very sure what they should think of the other while their dates roll in and out with each ...

She sighed and became so breathless that she felt as if she put the weight of the big, blue, happy world (except for her) down. She clicked to send the text message on her small, silver phone, that she had trouble pushing the vowel buttons down on. She had just sent the message, as even more of a trail of her family’s never-ending texts of jokes where they all made sense, but only part of her family understood even part of her simple, meek mind. Oh no. Had her large sigh snagged any attention from her co-workers? One in particular; how she always longed for one more glance those dark, hidden, deep brown eyes, like he would ever notice her as more than what she was. A frizzy brown-haired, clear blue-eyed, short high-school girl. They couldn’t be that far apart in age, could they? She even remembered her trippy feet sauntering clumsily in her old gray sneakers’ freshmen year past his, in his home, in the senior hallway. Even his feet were handsome enough to make her blush. Her eyes that ...