Stories - FD Thornton

  It’s a froggy ass morning here on the sandy hills of South Central Georgia, where the coastal plain meets the piedmont. I’m dressed down in my old Alamo uniform of sweatpants, heavy t-shirt, and sweat jacket. With the curtains pulled open wide to get the full view of the heavy froggy air. I’m surprised by how few cars and semi’s have passed on the highway. I guess everyone got an early start this morning just to beat the day. But I’m comforted by the distant sound of an ambulance, for the fifth day in a row. After a night of tossing and turning repeating the same dream about going to some conference with a Swamper I didn’t know, meeting his family, and riding on a dirty air boat. Yeah, that kinda dream. Anyway sitting here in the relative quiet of the morning, there ain’t much to say other than I have to drive 30 miles (again) in the rain. To have my bi-annual echocardiogram done at the hospital to see if I’m still alive. I suppose I could be a little pissy about having that ...

  I’m considering working on something new this morning, Considering I already have two stories completed and a poem waiting in the wings. But with me that happens every once in a while, where I got more energy than I need in the creativity department. Still I felt like working on something new, not that it’s the beginning of a great piece, just the same old talk about, talk about I usually spin. I got a doctor’s appointment in the early afternoon. A 30 mile trip (one way) through the construction zone know as US Highway 441. There I’ll meet with my Nephrologist NP, and she’ll let me know how my kidney function is going. She’s one of many specialist I’ll be seeing over the next few months, just to reassure me that I am alive. In case I haven’t figured it out yet. Next will be my Cardiologist NP, then the Tech that checks my defibrillator function. Then I have an appointment with my Cardio-Surgeon who will be performing another procedure on my heart. Then an appointment with my Op...

  I can hear what I can only describe as the theme to the Lion King bleeding through my study walls, as I was about to touch the keys of this keyboard. I don’t know if it’s a sign from God, or if Good Morning America is just trying to fleece another Grandma to buy Broadway tickets or both. But the sun is shining   just as bright as when that old baboon held up the lion cub. So who am I to say? I took a picture of myself this morning, than easily picked out every flaw I saw on my saggy face. My skin looks like loose fitting clothing on a skinny man. Although I’d much prefer being a skinny man with plenty of wrinkles. Then this once   fat old man wearing a loose fitting skin suit that still makes me look fat. But enough about me, how about you? Got any features you care to tear apart this morning? It’s funny how the ego and wounded self-respect turns most of us into our own worst critic. But such as it is with humankind, always comparing notes. Falling in love with some...

FD Thornton   With trembling hands and a flare for the dramatic, I take my meds. Looking out the window at the clouds that had descended to the treetops. I wait for the morning sun to erase the dew and give me my promised sunny sky. Sounds pretty dramatic, don’t it? Kinda lovely in the way the words form a picture you can almost see in your mind. As an observer of life I guess that’s what I’m suppose to do. Dream up words that paint descriptions in the imagination that only words can do. But today in a world of expanding visual media, we’ve all gotten a little lazy, with our words and our descriptions of the things we see. Settling instead for half-truths we take as Gospel. Never seeing how the other half lives. It’s sad in a way to see lazy writing, where arguments become insults and ignorance is praised instead of frowned upon. There’s much to be said for simple country living, but when you exchange simplicity for ignorance and spite. Well that’s another matter altogether. I ...

Lakewood Church After an interesting night of sleep, I awoke to yet another one of my crazy dreams. Within this dream I was working crazy long hours at this particular job, that kept me away from normal family activities. Most of which had to do with church. Growing up I was used to my family bouncing from one new mission church to another. But this time I suppose one of those churches caught fire, as we would say, and had become very popular. I recall getting dressed into what I had to wear after work and heading over to a service. The church was packed, and through the crowds I finally saw my dad standing next to a wall. As we embraced he covered me with his jacket, as if something was wrong with the way I was dressed. I kinda laid on his lap and seemed to fall asleep. But I was awake enough to notice that whole vibe of the church just didn’t seem to feel right. For one the church my parents would have helped start, appeared to be out of their hands. And there was a new minister ...

Mr. Whipple   I just got through writing a pretty little poem (if I do say so myself). And the very next thought I had was, “Two-Ply Toilet Paper”. Needless to say, I had to chuckle to myself at the thought. But I guess inspiration often works in mysterious ways. So as a write, in the loosest sense of the word, I often find inspiration in interesting places. In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m not very polished with my work. I mean I read other people’s work and think, Damn! Why can’t I write like that? I was trained in the world of analytics. I started my work life wanting to be an architect and trained as a draftsmen. I worked in multi-color printing, then went through a 4 or 5 year phase of just existing. Then that turned into fatherhood and forced labor at whatever I could find. Until another 15 year phase of just existing, till the last 10 or so years where I tried to rebuild myself. Till I became this. The broken down wrecked hull of a man you see today. But that’s ok...