On day 4 of my “December Daydreams” collection, I find inspiration from Jill M.L. Kanewischer’s site name, “Cats Out of the Box”. Jill has such a wonderful, positive vibe to her site, and is one of my favorite top commenters. Switching it up, instead of writing poetry, I decided to write a short fictitious story. Continue reading “December Daydreams 04 – “No More Secrets””
I have but a few clear recollections of my childhood, most memories were learned secondhand or written in an eggshell-colored baby book, fashioned with honest intentions, or so I later imagined from prehistoric Polaroid pictures. I was an average looking chameleon with golden hair, optimistic eyes, and born by accident in the backseat of a stolen lime-green ‘65 Chevy Nova, in Loxahatchee Groves, west of West Palm Beach, Florida. By accident, I mean that my sperm donor and his wife, Mr. Gerald and Catherine Darcy, were running insurance scams in South Florida, instead of being on bedrest in Jacksonville. They labeled me, ‘Colin Ryan Darcy’, even though I was born without my father’s eyes. Continue reading “Born by Accident”
Many years have passed since I roamed the sinful streets of Ft. Lauderdale, and though my mind is currently mired in regretful lows and lost opportunities, few experiences compare to the night I first met “her”. It was transformative, mentally metamorphic, a rare moment in time where I felt bliss without bourbon or “beans”. To this day, I can’t help but traverse time to relive the experiences of callow years. As weak eyes shut, a desperate internal clock ticks and tocks, minutes pass as I’m transported outside The Chili Pepper, music pulsating, drumming in my chest. Continue reading “Moving Forward (rev 002)”
I’m posting a few random character descriptions that I tweeted tonight. It’s a fun exercise when my brain hits the wall for writing other things.
- Diane had dozens of fine auburn braids woven together like a nymph’s crown. She wore shiny sapphires dangling from her ears, matching the deep pools of her eyes. Like tiny crystals, her skin sparkled as it bathed in city lights. Her dress clung to every curve.
- Jack reminded me of Grandma’s old oak dinner table. He was short and stocky, an immoveable man. His dirty blonde hair hung lazily in wrinkled brown eyes, with a face formed from the struggles of war and wild nights. His belly was a barrel of bourbon…
- Rachel recognized the mud-caked fat face of the freckled arm boy. Brady, seventeen years old, was barely older than her burdensome brother James. He had a British nose, and squinty mouse-colored eyes. He smelled of poverty and wet stables.
Copyright © 2018 – Brian Nettles. All Rights Reserved
Quiet as a library, I admired the mountain’s ghost-colored crown as it reflected in the lake. It was as if Zeus himself had hammered it from white gold. As tiny air bubbles surfaced in slow motion, I thought to myself, how poetic. Relief arrived as I exhaled the crisp night air. Continue reading “Moving Forward (Short Story)”