David Paulsen
Bio
I attended the University of Washington and obtained degrees in literature and political science. I also have my own website where I blog about writing and review classic literature under the heading ‘Book Reviews Nobody Asked For.’
Stories (5)
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The Last Wand of Astar
There weren't always dragons in the Valley. At least that’s what Helen had been told growing up, but dragons used to be everywhere and if they used to be everywhere why didn’t they live in the high western peaks of the Enchantments? That part didn’t make sense but the dragons were here now, tucked back into the little piece land that had become their prison—at least what was left of them.
By David Paulsen4 years ago in Fiction
Boxes of Broken Men
Grandfather died fourteen days ago on a sunny day in June. It was a weird day when we buried him because dad wouldn’t stop talking about how everyone loved grandfather even though the attendees at the service were his bartender, his barber, and his immediately family. I pointed this out to my younger sister and was promptly told don’t be an ass. Maybe it was rude, but I was pointing out a fact.
By David Paulsen5 years ago in Fiction
At the end of a Long Day
“What do you think murders do at the end of their day?” I paused with my beer on the tip of my lip and eyed John over the rim of my glass. I pushed my hand up and swallowed a mouthful of beer and set the pint back on the coaster. The coaster was a little crooked and I adjusted it parallel with the edge of the table. My mom always told me not to do that because people noticed that I made everything level but I couldn’t stop. Or wouldn’t. Take your pick.
By David Paulsen5 years ago in Fiction
The Barn at the End of Ritchie Lane
I loved the old barn at the back of our property at the end of Ritchie Lane. It wasn’t love in the sense of infatuation—that would be weird—and it wasn’t love in the sense of comfort, either, which is normally what love is confused with. No, it was love in the sense of peace as it was the only place I could get away from my father’s wrath. Wrath was normally associated with the wrath of God—or Gods, take your pick, I don’t believe in either—but I guess the correct sense would be to point out being wrathful is associated with vengeance or retributory punishment. In this case, is it wrathful to beat a child when they are clumsy and spill things or drop plates? Or when they talk a little too much? Maybe I’m annoying and that’s why father roughs me up from time to time, but I’m just a kid and I got a lot of things going on in my head and the constant beatings maybe contribute to my shaking hands that lead to me dropping things that lead to the beatings. A perfect circle, if there ever was one.
By David Paulsen5 years ago in Fiction
Ruin
I knew they had it. I knew they had my locket. It wasn’t enough that the world had fallen into rot and ruin, the water tainted, the skies the bleak color of ash and smoke. It wasn’t enough that food was scarce and field rats had become a delicacy. It wasn’t enough that sickness and war and death were now as common as the tulips in the Netherlands used to be plentiful.
By David Paulsen5 years ago in Fiction
