K. Marvin Bruce

  Terah rushed up and stood protectively in front of her.   Scanning the woods, he saw nothing.   “What is it?” he whispered urgently. “Let’s keep goin’,” Lindsey said.   “Night’ll be settlin’ in soon.” It had been a cloudy spring day and the woods were encased in shadow.   Trees had begun to leaf out and spotting a cave, or at least a protective jumble of rocks wasn’t easy.   The encroaching darkness drew Terah’s thoughts back to Wednesday.   He ached with hunger but knew complaining would help nothing.   She had to be feeling it too. The Pennsylvania hills here were ancient.   Americans equate mountains with the Rockies, new and sharp.   These ancient eroded Appalachians had hosted dinosaurs in their day, but time had worn them down.   The elements and their constant falling and blowing were even now breaking rock to dust.   “There are some cave systems around here,” Lindsey said, “but not many.   There’s Crystal Cave an...

At least it looked like a castle.   Weary with fatigue, Terah lacked the motivation to cross the bridge.   The energy required to lift even one worn boot was too much.   He stood staring across the expanse that married New Jersey to Pennsylvania along I-80.   Probably because the Appalachian Trial, this interstate bridge had a pedestrian lane for vagabond hikers like himself.   Back when he was at least partially employed, he’d driven through the Gap many times.   The dramatic cliffs along curves that teetered above the Delaware River would be an inspiring sight, he always thought, if one didn’t have to keep one’s eyes on the road.   Now that he stood here, oppressed by the magnitude of nature and his own insignificance, he rubbed his eyes on a dirty sleeve.   A castle?   In Pennsylvania? Back in his Scotland days he’d visited many medieval castles.   America was just being “discovered”—“exploited” was the more accurate word—when the ...

I don’t often get the chance to write two posts on one weekend, but a combination of circumstances have made it possible today.  First, it’s a holiday weekend.  Second, I had two stories published the same day (July 1) and I like to give the links as soon as I can. The second story, published under the title “Prom Night,” appeared in Exterminating Angel Press: The Magazine ( here ).  The original title was “The Death of Oil City,” and the story was written (or overwritten) about five years ago.  Many journals turned it down. This is, in many ways, a biographical story.  I don’t often try to write a first-person narrative as a female.  I know many editors who say men can’t, and shouldn’t, do such things.  The protagonist for this story, however, had to be female since, in this situation, so much had to be lost. It’s my celebration, or mourning, for a small town.  Oil City, Pennsylvania actually exists.  I went to high school ther...