Herman Wilkins
Bio
An old writer of new stories. I love chronicling this journey called life for myself and my fellow humans. I also am a filmmaker for New Media, Film and Television.
Stories (4/0)
Father's Day For Father Figures
My Father's name is Herman, as was his father before him. Herman Jr. he was called in Mississippi and Memphis and all points north and south of the Mason-Dixon Line. He is Herman the Second in business ventures, and Herman the Maestro to his buddies, even though he is shy to sing and tone-deaf. He got the nomenclature because of a born-too-soon- predilection towards picking the best music for any gathering, private, public or anything in between. He is Herman the Fat to his brothers and cousins even though in old age he is anything but.
By Herman Wilkins2 years ago in Families
Three Summers Of The Vine
Sweltering heat that only a child can relish. The height of Summer, the 3rd of July, Byhalia, Mississippi, 1983. I’m young enough to have the smell of rain be a sweet surprise on a mid-summer’s day and old enough to remember it four decades since. Perhaps the thousand tiny impressions created by the rain has more to do with the song of the cicada that accompanies it. Or perhaps the simultaneously intermittent, yet continuous, aroma wafting from the kitchen of the five room shotgun shack, a stone’s throw east of Byhalia in unincorporated Dixie.
By Herman Wilkins2 years ago in Feast
Almanac Imperium
“There weren’t always dragons in the valley.” The corpulent and wizened old man begins to recite the words from the Holy book, but thinks better of it with his enfeebled mind. “As the book says, it was at one time barren, in the time of fires and smoke that seemed to seep from every vein of this world, devoid of water. Nearly devoid of life until the great ones deigned to grace us with the remembrance of who we are, all in this world, who we were and who we would become.” The old man’s face falls with his animated gesture, all of him seems to settle into the weariness that comes with war and age, no matter how high born, even he, the son and father of barons.
By Herman Wilkins2 years ago in Fiction
