Catherine Brooks
Bio
Weaving tales and stitching stories in this Wondrous tapestry called Life.
Stories (12)
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The Gulf of Good Fishing. Content Warning.
The moon appeared to be sliding out from behind drifting silver clouds, its light illuminating a wavering strip on the surface of the Gulf, a glowing path leading to a glowing treasure, thought Jeremy, as he stood at the helm of the old fishing boat. The low hum of the engines could be heard purring softly below, pushing the sixty-year-old craft smoothly across the calm waters. The boat was outfitted with a wheelhouse for protection against inclement weather, and a wide open stern deck for pulling in crab pots or setting nets or, occasionally, lining up lost tourists who wandered into the obscure fishing outpost along the waters of the Gulf of Mexico, hoping to catch red snapper or grouper. Below deck, a small, spartan salon, kitchenette, head and v-berth. A tiny captain’s quarters. I could live on this boat, thought Jeremy. After tonight, though, I could live anywhere.
By Catherine Brooksabout a year ago in Fiction
Mourningreed. Runner-Up in the Neolomicro Challenge.
It couldn’t be said he wasn’t cold yet. Indeed, the morgue kept him chilled, but draped in colorful Indian quilts, a vibrant dichotomy that belied the stillness of him. My breath shuttered. We had shared a milkshake just the evening before. We both knew his journey was coming to a close. But you’re never prepared. My soul leaked, watering my vision. I took two steps and kissed him one last time on the forehead. Godspeed thy journey, father. The hardest part here is over.
By Catherine Brooks2 years ago in Fiction
Farley
We move like light, at speeds that would make space travelers dizzy with envy, if, in fact, homo sapiens were evolved enough to travel in space. Not possible. Their atomic constitution will not permit it. It is a physical impossibility, rather like time travel. Not happening.
By Catherine Brooks3 years ago in Fiction
Lewis. Runner-Up in Return of the Night Owl Challenge.
It was Mama’s illness that brought me back east. Mama’s illness and sister’s craziness that disrupted my 22-month streak of success. I’d still be in diapers if we measured success like we do the growth of babies and toddlers - or in training pants at least. My birthday present for my 31st year was an early morning phone call that pulled me reluctantly from a vivid dream that involved wolves and moonscapes and a lone owl in a desolate, charred tree. I was on a high ridge of smooth, white, circular-pocked stone. Along the edge popped up the head of a massive gray wolf with sapphire-yellow eyes and silver mane. He stared at me, then hopped up and started trotting to the east, silhouetted in the low glow of a crescent moon, followed by one, two, three - I counted nine wolves when a shriek pierced the night. I glanced to the west, and there was that owl in that leafless tree, a barn owl with no barn in sight. Eyes fixed on me, not thirty feet away. It swiveled its head toward the lupus, then back to me, then let out another piercing shriek before silently spreading its wings and launching into the night. In the dream, the owl was as big as the wolves, the night a silvery-blue studded with stars, the air warm and pleasant against my skin - like a soothing, loving hand. I watched the owl circle around the edge of the ridge, when my nerves jarred with yet another shriek and the entire scene dissolved like water poured on a chalk painting. I bolted upright in bed, and the shrill came again.
By Catherine Brooks4 years ago in Fiction
The Chimney
It was a cold drizzle — stark gray skies undulating with silver, white and pewter clouds. The wet seeped through the skin, through the bones, and reminded one of how dismal a day could be, how life could be, at times. Dark and cold and soul permeating.
By Catherine Brooks5 years ago in Families
