Stories (29)
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Distracted by the Surf
Early one morning while vacationing at the Outer Banks, Nicole and I wanted to walk on the pier to see the sun cresting over the ocean. After getting a few award winning shots, (you’ll probably get to see them on a postcard at the gas station soon) we started walking back to scour the sands for trinkets and treasure. In the hazy distance I saw a seagull pecking at a lump just at the edge of the surf.
By Aaron Thompson4 years ago in Journal
Deciphering the Mind Codex
The young girl, no older than ten or twelve, is running through the thick, damp, forest with the heedless abandon of one chased by nightmares. The thick bed of fallen leaves help to muffle her footfalls, but also hinders her momentum. She can’t run as fast on the soft ground, plus I know in an omniscient sense, the freshly rain on the leaves could betray her feet, and send her tumbling to the ground. I watch the frightening scene below me with rapt attention, but I’m unable to help, call out, or give direction of any kind. I am but a formless, silent observer hovering above, unnoticed, invisible.
By Aaron Thompson4 years ago in Humans
Journal of Broken Dreams
I open the drawer, pull out the floral-patterned journal and set it on my desk. I have not added an entry in weeks, and the mental dam is threatening to burst with words of insight begging to be written. Most journals are private affairs of the mind shared between the writer and pages, no one else. We all have locked away secrets, desires, or mental ramblings that need to get out but are not meant for human digestion. This journal is different. I do get the benefit of sharing secrets with an unobjective, non-judgmental, inanimate object, but soon my daughter will read these sacred pages. Nervous waves wash over me as I think about her eyes reading these intimate words, but it is the only means of communication I have with her. Distance prevents her from writing me back, but that doesn’t stop me from imagining the scene. I fall into wistful imagination as I watch her open the journal and begin reading. Her thick, tight curls of spun gold fall into her face as she reads. She stretches a small hand up to tuck the errant curl behind her ear, never taking her eyes from the words of wisdom written just for her. Her smile fills my soul with warmth. There are pensive times, as well as incredulous looks, but after each entry she sets the book down, careful not to bend a single page to glance at me as if to say, ‘Good job Daddy’. Her cherubic, dark chocolate eyes shine at me with a reverence like only a daughter can give to her father. Arms outstretched, smiling with the single dimple she hates, she hugs my neck.
By Aaron Thompson4 years ago in Families
