Stories - FD Thornton

Pinterest   On yet another shitty morning, the rain slowly pours outside. The pills are scattered in their usual 4 4 3 pattern across the pad, as I stir my morning witches brew to swallow them all. Scattered across my mind is a Madonna-like figure in all her glory baring herself to me. In a seamless dance of attention unlike most women I’ve known. But now that the pills are gone and there’s nothing but the rain and the visions in my head of her lingering attention. But beyond a symphony of poetic words, my mind drifts to nothingness. While the rest of the world blows its horns and screams down the highway. I remain ignorant to the noise, while still hearing it. Offering my mind up to relentless silence that rings in my ears. For the sake of the words, my testament stands. Unholy in its voice, unloved on the face of things, most deeper than I care to be know. For I am more than just the sum of my parts: passion, water, light, earth, and air. So today in this moment of revelation...

  After a surprisingly refreshing nap I hear the distant cry of an ambulance’s siren in the distance. Through the walls of the apartment, I hear the sounds of a cartoon playing in the living room. In the kitchen plans have already been made for tonight’s supper, while outside the slightest of breezes can be seen blowing through the first of springs leaves. As for me, I’m still in a sweater with my pull-on boat shoes, minus a boat. The walls of the study remain a lite tan color, with not a picture on the wall. With me sitting here recording in vivid detail the thoughts of a life, even my closest family don’t seem to care about. For my children find me inhospitable and grumpy, because of the cadence of my voice. Never thinking that’s just the way many of us were taught to speak to sound like a man. But more and more I feel like a man out of time. Separated by distance from all I ever really knew. Surrounded by a village of strangers, that never accepted me as one of their own. Leav...

  The sun is reflecting rather harshly off my monitor this morning. Leaving a faint ghostly reflection of myself pasted to the screen. It is a brisk cool morning hovering around 33° but still the sun is as bright as a spring morning. In this season of Ramadan and Lent, I suppose reflection and sacrifice are the name of the game. In my own mind thoughts of purging and reflection shine through in the many troubling dreams I’ve had over the past few weeks. Much like the dream I mentioned in my last writing “Dreams”, uncomfortable scenarios have been coming up in my mind. With individuals from my past and present I suppose teaching me lessons I need to learn. But such as it is with dreams for interpretation can be cloudy if anything at all. So I take each moment in stride and stay aware of my surroundings. Keeping in mind my present circumstance and the fears that often rise up. So in this season of reflection and giving, remember to always be grateful for what you have. Never abus...

  Not Really After what was essentially a peaceful, but yet busy day. My wife and son have ruined it in a matter of seconds. First I got up before dawn to make the 30 mile track to the hospital to have my echocardiogram done. That in itself wasn’t too much of a bother, excluding the parking and the waiting. Then I made the 60 mile track to another city to get the medicine I needed. After the next 20 mile track back home it was noon time and as I lay my sore hip and back on the heating pad. My dear wife reminded me she needed her medication refilled as well. So I called her pharmacy (yes, we have to use different pharmacies) to have her prescriptions filled. Needless to say, I laid down for an hour or so, then got up, drove to her pharmacy and picked up her medicine. Once I got back home, it was time to start supper. I was going to get me a glass of sweet tea, but the tea pitcher was empty. So instead of throwing my son into a bad mood, I decided to brew the tea myself. Mainly b...

  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...

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...