Carl Parker
Bio
Free - spirited artist, author and nature lover.
Stories (4)
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To the Cubby and Down the Rabbit Hole
The first day of school, the REAL first day; I was six and nervous as hell for first grade. I didn’t always get along with people so well, was somewhat bad, and stuttered like a son-of-a-bitch (another result of divorce, I suspect). School felt daunting and strange. I knew I’d have problems down there at the school that was right down the street from my two-storey house. Shit, we’re forced to go to school, they make us. Fuck. My deep disdain for adults began early and I had a problem with authority, already.
By Carl Parker5 years ago in Fiction
Golden Flower, Golden Hair
It was the best summer as I walked out the front door of our 2 story house. I was 6 and adored the summer. June would come as school was about to finish, the anticipation for freedom would come into my mind, and the restlessness got to be overwhelming. My wait was over and the warm summer day unfolded around me. I could hear the morning birds. It was like they were singing to me. A perfect little breeze came up, just the right amount of coolness to keep one comfortable. What a great day! I felt so alive...I felt so free! This was the way life was supposed to be. Everything was so vibrant. I put my feet upon the new grass of our front yard. Mom had just bought me new Adidas and I was excited to wear them. I always loved getting new sneakers. Ah, the smell of fresh grass. It was invigorating. I walked around the yard and noticed a fat bee. I watched it for a bit and continued out onto the street. Kyle was there, on his old bicycle, chomping on bubble gum as usual. He was my age and one of those kids that liked to crack jokes a lot and some people were annoyed by him. He didn't bother me, I liked him, and he was my friend. Truth was, I was a bit of ham, myself. Kyle and I talked for awhile, he gave me a piece of his Hubba Bubba, and I continued on my way. I was looking forward to seeing what else the day had in store.
By Carl Parker5 years ago in Confessions
A Murder Of Crows
Another day was being annihilated by the creeping hand of approaching dusk and the 12 crows flew toward the old red barn. With keen eyes and the blue-black sheen of their feathers, the wise birds found a perch. They surveyed the area and locked their gaze upon the open front of the barn. After some squawking, shaking and a little hesitation, they all flew into the big structure.
By Carl Parker5 years ago in Fiction
My Passion, My Voice, My Path To Inner Peace
Back, way back, when I was a wee lad, I dared to dream of being an artist. Yes, it's a big dream. Imagine having art collected around the world. That's a tall order. I tell you what, though, I'm sure glad little me wasn't afraid to dream big. Fast forward to today and you'll find I did become an artist with work collected around the world. It's an amazing life I lead. But, alas, it's not all fairytales and gumdrops.
By Carl Parker5 years ago in Confessions
