Blaine Coleman
Bio
I enjoy a quiet retirement with my life partner and our three dogs.
It is the little joys in life that matter.
I write fiction and some nonfiction.
A student of life, the flow of the Tao leads me on this plane of existence.
Spirit is Life.
Stories (62)
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The Grape Vine
Granny set the plate of homemade biscuits on the kitchen table. “I made these this morning,” she said, “and I held some back for you.” For Granny, morning meant not too long after dawn; she liked to get her work, especially baking, done before the day got too warm.
By Blaine Coleman4 years ago in Fiction
The Wood Duck
And when there came a fork in my Path, I chose the way less travelled. Robert Frost I slowly released the safety on the shotgun, and though my thumb barely moved, an audible ‘click’ sounded and both wood ducks were instantly in the air, weaving through the maze of trees like a thread through cloth as they rushed for the shelter of the forest. Since I had set up there a half hour earlier, my gun was already pointed toward the area where I had seen two wood ducks feeding just after dawn, so I sighted quickly on the male…
By Blaine Coleman4 years ago in Fiction
Edges
Luke Johnson glanced out the window then leaned back in his seat with a sigh. That chair by the window was his opening on the world outside. His hospital room was on the 11th floor and in clear weather he could see as far as the east end of the city, where he had once lived, to where the river rounded the bend and came into view, no longer hidden by trees. He would watch the last stars fade in the lightening sky, morning mist burn away in the sun and the city come to life. Something about the clarity of crisp morning light made things clearer, revealed details lost in the glare of midday. Delivery trucks unloaded goods at the small stores far below, followed by early shoppers and pedestrians. It felt like the last real connection he had with the world outside… and at those times he wanted to get out, to just go, anywhere.
By Blaine Coleman4 years ago in Fiction
The Pit Stop
The overhead fluorescent buzzed, flickered, and then came on full. A moth flew from the windowsill, battered around the light a few times and then landed on it. No heat. Rachel had warned him that the mosquitoes swarmed up in the evening from the salt marshes around the cottage, so intense at night that the screened porch was the only place outside they could be avoided. But even here, miles inland, the shrill sounds of insects filled the night air, louder even than the buzzing light. Strange bird calls echoed from the pine forests around the marsh.
By Blaine Coleman4 years ago in Fiction
