Nathan Baxter
Bio
Something of an introvert, something Of an extrovert. I am only who I need to be at any given moment and that’s why I write. So that my stories may be like me for you. Only what you need at any given moment.
Stories (6)
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The state of a Dragon’s soul
THE STATE OF A DRAGON’S SOUL By Nathan Baxter The thrumming of rain, the howling, and whistling of the wind through ancient untouched forest, sounds of undisturbed nature going about its life. All these sounds rose up the mountainside to a large well-worn opening creating a perfect lullaby for a hibernating dragon at the edge of the world.
By Nathan Baxter3 years ago in Fiction
The State of a Dragon’s soul
THE STATE OF A DRAGON’S SOUL By Nathan Baxter The thrumming of rain, the howling, and whistling of the wind through ancient untouched forest, sounds of undisturbed nature going about its life. All these sounds rose up the mountainside to a large well-worn opening creating a perfect lullaby for a hibernating dragon at the edge of the world.
By Nathan Baxter3 years ago in Fiction
Die-ers Remorse
My mind is a prison and these times alone where no one occupies the chair by my bed are like my yard time. As I lay dying…. Hahaha yeah no if this is meant to be my memoir my last scream into the void I should probably keep it authentic. This bed, this room, these four walls and the contents inside of them are my existence and the single window right beside me is my entire world. A view of the road and the backyard though it was my world it played out like a movie unreal and unrelated to me even when familiar faces appeared playing in the yard or walking past. The end had come quietly at first not with the drama or theatrical flare I had liked to put on as humor for those I loved. Certainly perhaps there was fear at first for the briefest of moments, anger? Definitely I raged inside the cell in my head, shook the bars and demanded an appeal to a trial I felt I hadn’t even been present for. Although mostly what I felt was guilt, regret not for myself but regrets about those I would soon be leaving behind. Would the little bit of my spirit I put into things be enough to sustain them or would the nostalgia be crippling like the death grip songs from my past had on my chest I could only hope that they were stronger than me and could live for more than the past when your future is stolen and the present feels like this it’s hard not to escape to the past the feelings of health and youth while fleeting offer a bit of comfort I found I often lost myself to rambling in these final days but writing my thoughts down like this on this small journal did a bit to relieve the turmoil to beat the dead prison metaphor again the diagnosis of terminal felt like a death row sentence and I would die believing I was innocent to the end though I knew my crime was negligence a false sense of immortality a sort of hedonistic pursuit of things that kept me content and made life worth living it had snitched on me to the universe and declared my time up though while ironic that’s why I couldn’t grant myself the hypocrisy of regret. It was funny how I could feel my time growing short I had always worked well under pressure procrastination pushing me to each deadlines doorstep perhaps these hastily written words would be my magnum opus it’s not like I’d get another shot either way if nothing else they contained a raw purity none of my previous works held even in talks of loves or passions nothing quite inspires like death, death does not allow one to be coy or meek at least not those who wish to die well and yet here I sit my sword a pen and no hill to die on simply conjuring obstacles and demons to face to give meaning to a life of relatively dull thrills it had gotten harder to write my hands felt like stone when it got to be too much I’d lay back and stare out across the horizon imagining I could see the future but for me the horizon seemed impossibly close with a fast approaching sunset and night was coming cold and fast i tugged close the blankets and bid it come I had little left worth saying and I was impossibly tired so I breathed out my breath shaking hands with the night before departing for whatever waited on the other side
By Nathan Baxter4 years ago in Fiction
Nostalgia’s web
I still go out to the barn. It smells of wood rot… and memories, the kind that tie you up like spider's thread and hold you hostage in a cocoon waiting for your vitality to be drained by the realization that those days are gone and will never come again.
By Nathan Baxter5 years ago in Fiction
Chain Code
CHAIN CODE By Nathan J Baxter A nondescript man sits in a dark room, his face illuminated by a single computer screen. A mug full of coffee that had long since lost its heat sat untouched next to a half eaten pastry. The only door in the room was directly behind the man. It suddenly burst open revealing a sterile hallway filled with impersonal fluorescent light that spilled into the dark room. A disheveled woman in a lab coat and glasses rushed in, closing the door behind her and returning it to darkness.
By Nathan Baxter5 years ago in Fiction
