An Unmolested Flower / First Person / Tell you how I really feel / Writing Blog / Horror Blog

 Who don’t like wildlife, right? I do, and to see a sign, such as pictured in my blog from yesterday, I wondered, “What the hell are people in Florida doing to the wildlife?” I’d like to think they’re doing nothing and that this sign was a joke, or just an antiquated artifact that has gone unnoticed. I will say that it was humorous and had to share with all of you.

The flower below, that’s a different, unmolested, if you will, picture of just that, a flower. It truly has no significance other than to potentially draw a crowd over to my blog and get some reads, which I appreciate.

I’ve been working on two pieces, one, what I think will be novella length about an old guy, such as me, walking, yes you heard it, walking, every. single. day. This character is loosely based on me, as the narrative is in first person, which I try to stay away from. There’s something about first person that I’m not good at. I don’t know if I’m just too close to the character and it gets uncomfortable at times, or the story sometimes gets to redundant because aren’t all of our thoughts that way most days anyway?

The second piece I’m working on is a more complicated piece about a school house, loosely, and I mean loosely, based on Dark Nest. The structure of the school house in the story is completely different and of course it is in the rural area of my favorite city, Stevats.  After all who doesn’t like a little more dysfunction happening in Stevats? I know that I do, even though Stevats is just a fictional map of the imaginative part in my brain.  So I will end this post with a peek under the covers of my first person narrative, if you want to read on, feel free. Thanks for stopping by!

Walking is a way to focus on what little health I have. In my age, health is a bar of gold, and to keep it from tarnish, I had to get into a routine, so I walked. I wasn’t about to let my biology lead me to an early grave. I ambled, a shuffle of music playing in my ear phones, tuning out the local meth head by not making eye contact. I strolled slowly weaving in and out of streets that looped through neighborhoods mixed with trailers, stucco homes, and modular houses. The localities I wandered were not trailer parks. These places were nestled in flat sandy lots in Florida where the wife and I nested during the winter.

Most think of Florida as the sunshine state, this winter was far from it. It barely reached sixty five every day, and the sun, well it hid behind an overcast sky. We still were away from home; this was home away from home for us. We were from Stevats, in the northern states. Stevats was a small town that had harsh wintry conditions of snow, rain, sleet, more snow, gray skies continuously that lasted, if we were lucky, six months. Unless you were into winter sports you pretty much holed up in the house and were infected with the “winter blues”.  I say infected loosely.