J. Delaney-Howe
Bio
Bipolar poet. Father. Grandfather. Husband. Gay man. I write poetry, prose, some fiction and a good bit about family. Thank you for stopping by.
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Stories (100/0)
Looking
His profile picture drew me in. He was ruggedly good-looking, wearing an old camo hat. He had beautiful blue eyes and a scruffy beard, and His plain t-shirt highlighted his broad shoulders and toned chest. His jeans fit just right and looked dingy as if he had been working outside in a dirt pile. His work boots were well used. You could see the veins on his hairy arms, and it was evident from his picture that he was a blue-collar guy.
By J. Delaney-Howe3 years ago in Pride
My Firekeeper and I
We have a great thing, my fire-keeper and I. He knows the things that will speak to my soul. Like how I love to sit by the fire and how he listens to my ideas as I ramble. The fire he keeps, and tends to so diligently, as if he was created for this very job, keeps me warm and sets my creativity ablaze. On a windy fall night, it is next to the golden glow that I have my best ideas, thoughts, and plans for new creations. It is within the circle of warmth my fire-keeper and I have discussions about big things. Like how awesome it is to be sitting by the fire on a crisp night, after our daily work is done, and keep vigil with the farmer on the next hill harvesting his corn at night before a drastic weather change marks the end of Indian summer. We talk about love. We talk about death. We talk about ourselves as a couple. We talk about our dreams and where we will be in five years, ten years. We talk about growing old together and having our children and grandchildren come home for the holidays. In this circle, it is safe to speak of such fragile things. In this sanctuary, we are far away and protected from the cold realities of the world.
By J. Delaney-Howe3 years ago in Humans
The Songs We Sing
With four children in our house, we read stories all the time—stories after lunch, when it is time to calm down and get ready for a nap. Stories before dinner, while dinner was cooking in the oven. And, of course, stories at bath time. We had a book that was waterproof, full of silly little bath time stories. Reading was a constant activity in our home until bedtime.
By J. Delaney-Howe3 years ago in Families
Just Get There
As she sat in her father's chair by the fireplace, exhausted, Jessa stared at the heart-shaped locket and chain piled in her blood-stained palm. The gold shimmered in the late afternoon sun shining through the cabin window. She knew it was her mother's locket, but only because that is what her father told her. She has no real memories of her mother; just recycled memories from her father's stories. Now that her father was dead, the stories were all she had left of her parents and their life before the collapse. The stories and the locket. She slumped back in the chair, dropping the locket and necklace on the table next to the chair. Physically and emotionally exhausted, she drifted off to sleep, her father's final words resonating in her head.
By J. Delaney-Howe3 years ago in Fiction