Stories - FD Thornton

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...

It’s 5:30 in the afternoon, supper is simmering on the stove, While outside my office window, I can hear a Norfolk-Southern train carrying empty car carriers back to Brunswick. Even through the double pane windows I can hear the wind howling outside. I could imagine how it would have sounded if we still lived in that shotgun shack back in Alamo. But despite my daughters complaining, I’d much rather pay the higher rent just to stay warm. It’s been a year since we moved into our “deluxe apartment” here. And despite the lack of an apartment manager or a full-time maintenance person, or the pounding of little feet upstairs. Anything’s better than freezing our asses off in that drafty old house with no hot water and 1912 electrical wiring. Some may say, “Don’t you miss the charm of an old farmhouse”? Not when I had to do all the maintenance to the house. While the damn landlord rode around in his golf cart three times a day like a Goddamn prison guard. But I again digress. After stirrin...

Image: Adobe Firefly   When I opened the curtains this morning all I could see was a shabby reflection of myself staring back at me. Gone was my clean shaven face and my combed back hair. And what stood before me was a shaggy faced, uncombed haired old man, in an oversized sweatshirt and mixed matched sweatpants. I looked like an aging frat boy dragging his way to an early morning class, looking about as good as I felt. But that pink strip at the bottom of the skyline was finally giving way to a questionable blue/gray skyline. That hadn’t made up its mind yet, rather it was going to be cloudy or sunny. Feeling like I had something caught in my throat, I cleared the passageway with a grumpy old man cough. But with my gummy vitamins melting in my mouth, I felt like a kid again being rewarded for taking his medicine. Life has a funny way of reminding you of who you are. Rather you’re an office manager, a store clerk, or a Wall Street tycoon. Each day you put your pants on one leg at...

  With supper going and the window cracked open, I’m watching the sunset on another chilly day in South Georgia. I wrote a little story this morning but didn’t publish it, so after printing up about 50 pages of forms I need to fill out. I spent the rest of the day laying on the bed with a heating pad and comforter, doom scrolling the day away. Sitting here now, I swear I can hear kids out at the playground, but I may be wrong. It’s hard to tell with my wife’s TV blaring in the living room.     But such as it is in the life of a man on disability and retirement. Living on a fixed income with most of whatever I saved going to pay old hospital bills and for such luxuries as groceries. But I really don’t mean to be so cynical, it’s just a defensive posture I’ve developed over the years to protect my sanity. But given my history of mental illness, you can see how far that has gotten me.   I don’t mind talking about myself and my many faults, unlike a number of th...