Daniel Charles Porter
Stories (13/0)
The Last Friend
A note sits atop the parlor table. It is not really much of a note, just the obligatory apologies and good-byes. I didn’t really feel like writing at all but it seemed like it was something I was supposed to do. I say I didn’t feel like writing but the truth be told, a part of me felt like writing pages and pages and draw out every little thing that I was sorry for, every misstep, every transgression, all the hearts I may have touched and those I wish I had touched more. In the end I realized that no one was interested in my final score and I kept the note brief. Apologies to my kids and thanks to a couple ladies I wish I had done better by. I added a p.s. at the end to the person who finds the note.
By Daniel Charles Porter2 years ago in Fiction
- Top Story - January 2022
My Friend, Jennie
We had finished our breakfast some time ago and now Jennie and I have just been sitting here, enjoying our cocoa and each other’s company. The Lakehouse has been a favorite haunt of ours for quite some time and an easy choice for starting whatever adventure we had planned on any given day.
By Daniel Charles Porter3 years ago in Fiction
The Opportunity
He can feel the cold and wet soak through his trousers from where his knees press into the frozen ground. Before him are rows of two-inch corn stalks, dark green, withered and covered in frost. It is July 5th and his crops should be tall and green and vibrant. This is his third failed crop this year and it feels like the weight of all the world is pressing down upon him.
By Daniel Charles Porter3 years ago in Fiction
Stupid Little Hearts
I can feel the incredible weight of the antebellum door as I turn the knob. I wonder how many people have passed into this building in the past two hundred-fifty years. Pirates, slaves, barkeeps, business men and now myself. A tiny bell tinkles heralding my arrival.
By Daniel Charles Porter3 years ago in Fiction
The Painter of the Gods
There is something about the village all abuzz with excitement that I find exhilarating, even if I am not directly involved. The crowd of men and maidens press against me as I struggle forward. For a moment, there is a break in the crowd and I half notice a movement from the corner of my eye. My hand, almost involuntarily, jerks upward and snatches a small stone from the very air and, in one fluid movement, launches it back to where it originated, smacking hard against my brother’s head. Anger contorts his face as he grips his ear, blood already trickling down his neck. Stealing myself for the expected assault, I relax as his friends start laughing. He joins in, still gripping his ear and sending me a sideways glance that lets me know that this isn’t over.
By Daniel Charles Porter3 years ago in Earth
Baahir
I push the wicker door of my bungalow open and am assaulted by the morning sun. I close my eyes and tip my head as if I were striding in to the gale. Jesus Christ, I hate mornings. Well, it isn’t so much the mornings as the fact that they are so early in the day. A clever God would have put them later in the day. Of course, he would probably discourage me going to sleep drunk every night, as well.
By Daniel Charles Porter3 years ago in Earth