B.B. Potter
Bio
A non-fiction writer crossing over to fiction, trying to walk a fine line between the two.
Stories (14/0)
Don't Be Afraid of the Old
Age is a gift of the genes. Age is also a gift of luck. We all know folks who at 60 are old. They may look old, they can act old, they are old. The old were lucky to avoid accidents and fatal illnesses. Do you know elderly people? That word alone can make Gen X, Gen Z, and Millenials cringe.
By B.B. Potter2 months ago in Humans
Stranded in the Mojave
A hank of hair blows into my eye, escaping from my ponytail. A scattering of dust whips off a cracked wooden fence post into my other eye. Momentarily blinded by this double ocular attack, I stop to get my bearings. "This Mojave wind is messing with me," I complain to Wren.
By B.B. Potter5 months ago in Fiction
Blue Falling
Blue tetrominos falling, rapid succession Tetris on my mind
By B.B. Potterabout a year ago in Poets
sky jewels
Bright desert vista blue turquoise set in silver echoed in the sky
By B.B. Potterabout a year ago in Poets
Escaping Trolls
February 24th started out as an awful day, and it worsened as it progressed. Early that morning, I had driven forty miles to take a friend to the hospital for scheduled life-saving surgery. (Happily, that was successful.) Later in the day, I had accompanied a loved one to a doctor's appointment, only to find that the soreness was due to lung cancer. Not the best of days by any means.
By B.B. Potter2 years ago in Humans
Sweet Remembrances of a Simpler Time
"I could run like the wind and ride my bike like there was no tomorrow. Oh, I loved to ride my bike." Matilda smiled, brown eyes twinkling under lavender plastic-rimmed glasses and cotton-white hair as she remembered herself as a young girl in the 1930s. Quickly I looked for something to write with, something to write on. When she started out this way, there would be a story erupting soon. If not a cogent story, then wisps of memories - names, places, events - that I could weave together later through both gentle urging and more pointed questions. This was family history, and she was the last of that generation to tell it.
By B.B. Potter3 years ago in Fiction
The Way Home is Longer When There's a Bull Behind the Wall
"It's a bull!" Logan shouted, eyes wide and wild. I couldn't believe it! We had moved out of the city that summer. As I was in fourth grade and responsible, Mommy said I was in charge of walking him home from school, since he was just a first grader and we didn't have any friends yet. That long, horrible walk, uphill both ways, through wind and snow and whatever else would face us in this new world of California suburbia. Maybe an earthquake or a wildfire. But, a bull?
By B.B. Potter3 years ago in Fiction
