Patrick Roberts
Bio
Hello, I am a coach, a writer and an analytical Chemist. I am an eclectic mix of characteristics. I like to write poetry and creative writing as well. Please follow me, reach out to me and help me improve and put out my best content.
Stories (6)
Filter by community
Tater Time
Tater Town Cast aside the shadows and the doubts of where they are going and where they had been, the fistful of weary travelers stumbled into “Tater town Café and all you can eat Potato bar and diner” at a little bit before midnight to ease their achy bones. Weary from the road, the travelers were halfway home, a long lonely drive across the plain states with a stop here in Carson, Nevada. Unbeknownst to them, they were in for the night of their lives!
By Patrick Roberts5 years ago in Horror
The Marked
A few weeks after my 18th birthday in 1991, I headed down to “Bizzy Bee,” my favorite little hole in the wall record store in my home town of Naperville Illinois. I drove the 3 miles from my house to School Street in downtown Naperville and parked my little old, silver, rusty 1983 Honda Civic right in front of the quaint Yellow and White colored Victorian style house turned record store. A small neon blue sign flashed on and off with “Bizzy Bee” printed on it hung above the front doorway. Armed with a fresh $25 “Bizzy Bee” gift certificate, courtesy of my older brother, I exited the aging Civic slamming the driver’s door with a satisfying thud!
By Patrick Roberts6 years ago in Beat
Historic Beauty
As I walked through the pale white double doors leading to this beautiful dome, I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride and joy as I gazed up at this historic monument that I was witnessing before me. I struggled to take in all the wonderful beauty that was unfolding before my eyes. At first I wasn't sure how to capture this iconic ceiling. I walked around the perimeter of the room and just marveled at all the glorious beauty that was around me. Granite tile polished to a high gloss, illuminated each historic step. In the East wing, there were many depictions of impressionist artwork. Monet, Manet, Rockwell and Degas all lined the walls of the wing. Thin brush strokes combined with life like portraits lined the hall, each more beautiful and breath taking than the last. To the West was the hall of the more surrealist painters. Picasso, Dali, and Magritte all found a place here. As I gazed at each unique shape and misaligned figure, I began to realize that these were all great works of art and each worthy of appreciation but this still was not exactly what I was looking for on this very day. I took a stroll to the North wing which lead me to the more modern art section of the museum. Warhol, Lautrec, Munich and Metzinger all could be found here. For me it was a very interesting depiction of exactly what modern art meant for each generation. For earlier works of art, cubism and surrealism definitely played a part in framing exactly what the works of art would look like. After this I veered into the main hallway and had a look up at the incredible domed ceiling that was some 30 feet above my head. This is where I spent the rest of my time that afternoon. I went with a "panoramic" approach but that wasn't giving me the desired effect that I was after. I kind of gave up on the perfect shot for a little while instead focusing on the wonderful landmark that was right in front of my eyes. I stopped to wonder at everything that was around me, the history, the beauty, the incredible attention to detail and I was completely moved. My attention then wandered to the fact that many incredible historical figures stood right where I was standing and gazed up at this remarkable ceiling just as I am doing now. A certain feeling of solidarity came over me and I began to realize that we are all connected in this world, none of us are the same but we are all together in this incredible world and I then realized that I was such a part of something greater than myself, a part of something greater than I could ever imagine! I took a step back and surveyed the shot and looked long and hard at the ceiling. It was at this point that I decided to really get a good set shot, I tried the action shot with my camera but that didn't elicit the desired result for me. I fumbled through the settings once again to try portrait setting but that seemed to not give a true color to the shot. I finally settled on the pro setting and adjusted the color temperature down a little bit and adjusted the shutter speed slightly higher as it was a very well lit room with combination natural light and artificial LED lighting. The result is what you see here, this glorious shot of that magnificent ceiling with untold souls who stood, walked and admired the ceiling just as I had on this very day. I will never forget my visit to the Smithsonian museum of art in Washington D.C. The ceiling and setting were simply breathtaking and I am forever grateful that I took a trip there.
By Patrick Roberts6 years ago in Photography
The Death of Time
A fearless warrior strewn across the hardened battlefield, Time stands like a gothic giant, slaying all in its path. Tried and tested, but never solemnly challenged, Time is the most mortal of enemies, never giving up and never surrendering. Time cannot be bargained with, negotiated with, pleaded with, or reasoned with. There is no way of "finagling" your way out of Time's death grip. No amount of money has ever bought one second of time! None shall escape the tenacious grasp. All the mighty warriors of the day, no matter how strong, bold, or courageous have eventually succumbed to Time. Time takes on all, young or old, big or small, strong or weak, time simply does not discriminate! With precious little of it available to us, we all would do our best not to squander the gift that we have. Damage being dealt, the effects are permanent, ever scarring and unrelenting, time streaks across your soul like the devil with his flame-tipped-painted pitch fork, for there simply is no evading Time. Psycho as it may be, all simply must succumb to Time's fatal grip. The steady-staccato march of Time traces across your life, your soul, your entire entity, slow and steady, ever present no matter the level of resolve, or the degree of fright. Time will stand alone, undefeated into the grasp of night, the darkness burning, bleeding to your subconscious accepting its inevitable FATE, its purest of heart and present of motive, Time simply is... the answer to all of life's riddles, all of the questions answered shall be witnesses by the entitled deity within, with its omnipotent heart and ominous soullessness, Time stretches the boundaries between Mortal and Immortal, confinement and freedom. Try as we may, we simply cannot outrun, out maneuver, outpace or outfox the tenacity that is time. What is Time? As mortals, we simply are not capable of fully grasping all that is time. We can quantify it, qualify it, name it, obey it and eventually all succumb to it, but we can never fully understand it. All mortals live, breath, exist and die in short pointless lives, ever present behind the watchful force of Time. Who, if any of us, qualify to look time in the face? Who, if any of us, are qualified to defy Time? We do what we can to the best of our capabilities to slow down the onslaught of the deathly march, the inevitable last stanza, the chivalrous prey with final, the end of existence. Until one last effervescent soul, so pure of deeds, so bereft of intention, so benevolent of heart and deep sole purpose that Time will be able to take no grasp, no purpose for such an individual. Time would have no recourse but to re-group, re-compose, and counterattack. The pure mortal soul would present an admirable advisory, one that would upset the victor, to defeat the undefeatable, to truly reproach and de-throne the master. Time would have no choice, no re-course, but to bow to the immortal one. Light shining down from above, the immortal one would taste a victory a billion years in the making, a taste sweeter than the sweetest nectar from the most beautiful flower ever witnessed. The savor would be replete splendor in the immortal ones mouth. For it would be this day that Time would backtrack, taste defeat and retreat across the wasteland it has left in its path. The immortal one, through noble deeds, a heart as pure as the water from the deepest springs and intentions as pure as the lords own tears, rises up triumphant on this very day.
By Patrick Roberts6 years ago in Poets
The Succulent Serpent
The silky, subtle serpent slithered it’s smooth, shiny scale-clad coat across the sunny, special spectacular surface laid forth by man. With steely sublime successive confidence, the sneaky serpent slides softly past all that he surveys. A pawn to this world, the serpent surprises the successive steam and substance to fulfill his mission, his journey that he is on. Guided by a split tongue that supplies a succinct sense of smell, the serpent stalks his prey with steely stillness and dedicated focus. A slight simmer of the summer sun, disturbed stalks and the animal freezes, still like a stop sign. Silence is his key, smell his weapon the stunner sulks softly along the sunny field surveying the field, smelling the air and stalking his prey! Suddenly, from the brush, the super skillful prey shoots with sublime speed, the stalked is bound and determined to survive. The serpent takes to speed, swiftly sliding, slithering, stalking, and stammering with successive speed in hopes for success where the prey ends up in his screaming stomach. The prey, not wanting to become supper, speeds up and soars with solace and something scary to stay away from the serpent. Super stoked for more, the serpent strives for speed, succulence and success, the serpent does all he can, lays it all out for the suppertime meal to snatch up his supper. But the prey is swift and surely determined to survive on this sunny September day. Story is as stories go and this one is not meant to go slow, the serpent stretches, slides and strives to see the savvy prey that is just past his scaled grip. The slippery prey slams on the brakes and slips past in a stoic spot just past some slimy stones. The slithering serpent is stymied, sunk and starving, he starts out and slowly seeks the shiny prize, but somewhere the sun is setting on this September day, and the serpent is starved. Searching, seeking, staying the course, the serpent is sure the prey is somewhere, something lurking in the swamp, the sway is ripe with sustenance. The sneaky sucker snuck out through the screen and streaked across the sunny field, legs a blur, staggering speed the prey sends his special successive delivered smattering success. The prey, not stunned, stuck in stupor, bewildered with the sickness, straightens up and screams across the September sky—streaking in the summer sun filled field. A silver-stomached, surfer—stereotyped stranger strains into view and surveys the scene. Slivering with silky-smooth softness, the serpent stoops and stretches to see the new sights. Somewhere, in the slight brush, the sneaky prey sulks along, steaming with solemn soullessness as he contemplates his next sneak! The snake suffers, the surfer streaks his shiny silver board and the prey shies away. Suddenly, the smooth serpent springs to life, seizing the moment and simmering with speed and stealth, screams down the September field sure to get the prey this time. The surfer surmises the situation and sees the situation happening before him. The prey stuck in sand, sees the sure-surfaced situation, seemingly over, stopping the situation and seizing the circumstance. But the serpent is not to be denied on this sunny September day, sliding past the slumbering surfer, over the silvery stomach, past the salt encrusted surf board, the serpent slithers on. Slowly, stealthy he stalks the slippery, surprised prey. Talking stalk and boldly on purpose, the serpent waits at the precipice of the sun drenched stalks. The prey, feeling so sublime, sees the sun and September afternoon, thoroughly believing he is in the clear. Foiled by none, confused only briefly, the serpent scores the succulent feast on this September day!
By Patrick Roberts6 years ago in Petlife
The Eagle and the Gauntlet
A razor winged aerialist effortlessly soars deep across the bleak horizon, talons pointing fierce as the winged death stalks his prey. A glimmer of light caught the mighty birds’ attention as a mature male Salmon crests the water top anticipating to mate with a willing partner in hopes of a successful propagation of this ichthyic species. But it is not to be on this day, as the ever present Eagle soars overhead confidently surveying his territory. An equal not found, a true majesty unsurpassed, the Eagle makes another sweeping pass, planning his assault on the unsuspecting Salmon below. For this is what this species was designed for, mighty talons of steel and a scalpel sharp beak designed for tearing and ripping flesh from bone and cartilage, the Eagle is in his true splendor today and every day that the sun sets splendidly in the East. For the Eagle can sense its prey, unsurpassed vision, acute hearing and a deathly touch, no prey stands a chance once the Eagle makes up his mind and focuses all his efforts on the task at hand. Far off in the distance, the rider appears. Gauntlet firmly affixed, the Eagle suddenly has new purpose, new focus and renewed energy. The juicy Salmon waits just below but the Eagle will have none of it on this day as the Gauntlet’s pull is far too much, too alluring to waste, too tempting to pass up. Shinning off the setting sun with a glimmering repose, the Gauntlet calls to the Eagle, bending his will and changing his determined focus, the Eagle changes course and makes a dead line straight for his new target. For the Gauntlet’s calling cannot be resisted or ignored, it must be made center of attention, paramount of focus, intrinsic decider of fate and nobility, the Gauntlet has power unsurpassed over the Eagle and today is the day of reckoning for the mighty one. A final tempt of flight, willing fate to bend his will, the Eagle forgets the juicy mating Salmon splashing surreptitiously below in the silky stream and follows his natural lead and mastery of the talon to recoup his final mission, his final journey. The Eagle, pierces the twilight with a primordial scream heard from the heavens, nails his target front and center. Landing with a penetrating thump, the Eagle realizes now he is home, safe and secure content with his mission, the Eagle accepts his fate and settles in for winters slumber. The Gauntlet, full with purpose and responsibility, allows the Eagle to roost—confident in the future and reassuring in the essence, the Eagle realizes he has arrived, he has chosen correctly, the Salmon be damned, the Eagle now realizes the truth of the situation, he is right where is meant to be, doing exactly what needs be done, the Eagle and the Gauntlet can now be one.
By Patrick Roberts6 years ago in Petlife
