Mike Nelson
Bio
Mike Nelson is a retired chiropractor who writes fictional accounts of major events in his life.
Stories (3/0)
Harley Kincaid
Leaning back in the old rocking chair, I rested my feet on the porch railing. My big boots resting on the porch railing, provided a frame for me to look through as I gazed out over the front yard toward the road in the distance. Dust hung in the still air marking the passage of a car long minutes ago. The open window behind me brought the sound of my wife and boys cleaning up our dinner dishes as they talked and laughed through the operation. I sipped the last of my iced tea and felt the contented fatigue that comes after a long physical day.
By Mike Nelson3 years ago in Criminal
The Black Book
Little Black Book Little Black Book The place stank of stale beer, cigarettes—and regret. The dim lighting, masked the dated saloon fixtures and clientele from deeper scrutiny equally. Without exception, the figures leaning over their drinks were solitary, alone with their thoughts, or their guilt. People didn’t come to a place like this for pleasant conversation, or for the ambiance. There was no juke box to liven the evening. The only sound, the muffled clank of filled glasses on the scarred wooden bar top, or the rattle of whiskey bottles being returned to the shelf broke the quiet. A silent hockey game played itself on the television mounted above the cash register at the end of the bar. The bartender knew how to mind his own business, and so did everyone else. This place was the place you go at the end of a chapter in your book of life, or at the beginning of the next one. It was a place to contemplate what went wrong.
By Mike Nelson3 years ago in Criminal
The Little Black Book
Little Black Book The place stank of stale beer, cigarettes and regret. The dim lighting, hid the decrepit saloon fixtures, and clientele from scrutiny equally. Without exception, the figures leaning over their drinks were solitary, alone with their thoughts, or their guilt. People didn’t come to a place like this for pleasant conversation, or for the ambiance. There was no juke box to liven the evening, only the clank of filled glasses on the bar top, or the rattle of whiskey bottles being returned to the shelf. A silent hockey game played itself on the television mounted above the cash register at the end of the bar. The bartender minded his own business, and so did everyone else.
By Mike Nelson3 years ago in Criminal
