A. J. Schoenfeld
Bio
I only write about the real world. But if you look close enough, you'll see there's magic hiding in plain sight everywhere.
Achievements (9)
Stories (99)
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The House of Jordan
The House of Jordan Characters: Jordan Lee is the eccentric, spoiled child of a billionaire tycoon who has been cut off financially but has been allowed to live in the smallest of the family's mansions. Jordan decides to rent out 5 of the rooms in the mansion to students of the nearby university in order to earn money. Jordan is constantly concocting crazy schemes to make money, create entertainment, regain an allowance, go on adventures, etc and always ropes the five tenants into doing all the work. Jordan is recognizable by wearing thick square framed bright yellow glasses, oversized pop-art design sweatshirts, and a long silky yellow and green scarf that frequently smacks other characters in the face. However, Jordan is always portrayed by a different recognizable actor/celebrity in each episode and could be male, female, short, tall, thin, chubby, and of any ethnicity. While Jordan is central to the storyline, there are only a few cameo type appearances in each episode. Jordan never remembers anyone’s name except Riley.
By A. J. Schoenfeld3 years ago in Humor
I Am My Father's Daughter
1. My Dad was a Master Storyteller No one could tell a story like my Dad. But I’m going to do my best to give two of his favorites a try. The all-time classic was the story of a fateful hunting trip with his Uncle Ray and his tote-goat. I sat in many parties and heard him tell the tale many times throughout my life. The recounting was always the same and always resulted in a room full of side-splitting laughter. First, Dad would set the story up. Uncle Ray loaded the buck they had got onto the back of the tote-goat to pack it down from the mountain. He jumped on the front and revved the engine. The front of the tote-goat popped up into the air making Uncle Ray slide down to the back. At this point Dad began acting the story as much as he told it. Raising his hands over his head, Dad would show how he tried to pull down the front of the tote-goat followed by miming Uncle Ray's reaction. "I pulled down on the handlebars and Ray went no-no-no-no." Dad would then jump into the air as though being shocked by a cattle prod. He went on repeating the actions until everyone was laughing so hard they couldn't breathe, “I kept pulling down on the handlebars and Ray kept yelling 'no-no-no-no.' I'd let go, the front tire would go jump back up so, I'd pull down again and Ray would yell 'no-no-no-no.'. Finally, I stopped and we realized when the front tire had jumped up, Ray had slid backwards and the tine of the buck had gone straight up his butt!" Apparently, Uncle Ray never went hunting again after that. But no worries, there were other epic stories.
By A. J. Schoenfeld3 years ago in Men
The End
Thick acrid smoke weaves through the undying vows whispered between lovers clinging onto each other’s hands. Fear tears at mothers promising final lies of comfort as they draw their children close. Minds race with memories of triumphs, regrets, and lost loves. Believers and doubters alike beg for mercy from the God of their youth. Flight Attendants shout instructions in calm steady voices that belie the panic of their pounding hearts. Pilots desperately try to save the doomed vessel. A hundred stories never told plummet from the sky in their metal tomb. Together they slip into a watery grave of oblivion.
By A. J. Schoenfeld3 years ago in Fiction
The Old Crone in the Mirror
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. It couldn't be me. My mind cried in pain as I tried to comprehend what I saw before me. The woman staring back at me wore the same purple sweater, golden teardrop earrings, and oval pendant necklace as I did. She even had the same heart-shaped face, dimpled chin, and high cheekbones. Her deep set blue eyes had the same flecks of turquoise, long eyelashes, and arched brows. Like me, she had her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. But her skin hung loose around her chin and sunk in a bit too much below her cheekbones. Creases spread like spider webs at the edges of her tired eyes and lined her high forehead. Silver streaked through her curly black hair. The woman in the mirror had clearly lived decades longer than me. Seeing myself aged beyond my years made my heart race and I gasped for breath as I stared in awe at the woman who wasn’t me in the mirror.
By A. J. Schoenfeld3 years ago in Horror
The Owl
No one knows I'm here. No one ever has to know I was ever here. Brett frantically wiped the counter, the doorknobs, his wine glass, erasing the past few hours. What else? His heart pounded as his eyes flitted around the room. Lightswitch, box of chocolate, record player…Is that everything?
By A. J. Schoenfeld3 years ago in Horror
Norma's Clouds
Every night at midnight the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. No one else ever seemed to notice them, but they always mesmerized Norma. She would stare out the window at night and watch them in the pale light of the moon as they flitted around twisting into beautiful shapes reminiscent of powerful dragons, ships of exploration, majestic castles, graceful ballerinas, and a thousand other things. She imagined herself floating among the wispy formations flying on the back of a fire breathing beast, perched in the crow’s nest of a creaky wooden vessel, gazing out from the window of the tallest tower, spinning and leaping on her tippy toes, or embarking on many other adventures. She would whisper her gratitude to the clouds at night, grateful for the momentary escape from reality before drifting off to sleep where the purple clouds wrapped her in their comforting embrace and pulled her deeper into her imagination until morning.
By A. J. Schoenfeld3 years ago in Fiction
Final Farewell
"If the walls could talk what stories they'd tell," Josie thought as she walked through the familiar front door. It felt strange to be here again after so many years. Everything had changed, the furniture was gone, the pictures no longer hung on the walls, the smell of fresh baked bread didn't permeate the air. Yet, everything felt exactly the same.
By A. J. Schoenfeld3 years ago in Fiction
