Christine Nelson
Bio
I have a background in chemistry and a love of nature. One of my greatest teachers proclaimed that creativity is our birthright. I’m here to actualize that in myself.
Stories (13)
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Coming To Rest
*Republished from my personal blog. One of the challenges I routinely face is living with the effects of a painful medical condition. I should point out that my condition is not related to misfiring neurons causing a perception of pain with no external stimulus. There is a physical trigger and thus the pain itself is a physiological and completely normal response to what is going on internally. Pain is a biological necessity for our survival, either directing us away from an external source to prevent further harm or slowing us down in order to heal from infection or injury. It’s what I do with my mind in the midst of the symptoms, however, that leads to the greatest suffering.
By Christine Nelson3 years ago in Longevity
Bitter Work
The holidays used to be such a disappointment for Eva. She would spend hours cooking and cleaning, setting the table just so, only to have all her guests call to cancel one by one. Jeremy’s car broke down, Angela’s cat had the sniffles, Kathy was so sorry but Mortimer suddenly developed gallstones and she had to get him to the ER. Eva would settle in at the head of the table and glower at each empty chair, silently admonishing her absent guests. One day you’re going to regret missing out on my company, she thought as she ate a forkful of mashed potatoes. And my cooking. After the fourth year of broken invites, Eva stopped asking people to come. A year later she received her first invitation.
By Christine Nelson4 years ago in Fiction
Five. Three. Dark.
Delta reached through the bars of his cell stretching as far as he could. Epsilon was snoring loudly in the next cell over and Delta was determined to wake him. With a final forceful shove, Delta nudged his fellow prisoner. Epsilon snorted and glared through the bars.
By Christine Nelson4 years ago in Fiction
One Last Look
When her family suggested she transition to a retirement community, Maeve had remained calm and gentle. She hadn’t fought or argued and had acknowledged a greater need to simplify. She agreed that her children’s lives were too full and too far away for them to simply check on her more frequently. Maeve knew that what her children were asking of her had come from a place of love so she calmly acquiesced. All she requested was a little bit of time to say goodbye to her space. Her family agreed and left her to privately prepare for her departure.
By Christine Nelson4 years ago in Fiction
Lost Souls
Lila had never thought of cemeteries as frightening spaces. To her they had always felt tranquil, like quiet sculpture gardens where one could contemplate the brevity of existence. They had a certain somber energy that lingered in the memorial wreaths and mementos left by loved ones, but nothing that felt dark or dangerous to her. The newspaper headlines were a stark reminder that the dead were far less dangerous than the living.
By Christine Nelson4 years ago in Fiction
Ashes! Ashes!
“Have you ever really thought about it, Meyers? How so many of the rhymes people sing as kids are related to death?” Detective Larkin looked down at his partner who was hunched low beside a fire pit. “I wonder if it’s to soften the blow,”he said sadly while shaking his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.”
By Christine Nelson4 years ago in Fiction
A Little Slice of Heaven
Darren usually didn’t struggle with traveling for work but this particular trip had been draining. The clients had seemed perfectly satisfied with everything during the development phase but once he presented the proposal in person they found nothing but flaws. He had worked on the project for three months and now he was going to have to start all over again. It was nothing less than infuriating.
By Christine Nelson5 years ago in Fiction
The Agreement
The Laramie barn had been at the edge of the small town of Spruce Hill since the earliest days of its founding. The ancient building was the first thing to be seen when drivers crested the steep hill leading into town. Its weathered sides were bleached a silvery gray and creeping vines had worked their way up into the open loft. The doors had long since fallen away and a portion of the roof had collapsed. In its decades of disrepair the barn had come to acquire a legendary status among the children of Spruce Hill. Like so many old buildings spoken of only in whispers, the Laramie barn was rumored to harbor ghosts.
By Christine Nelson5 years ago in Fiction
