Nick Blocha
Bio
I am a writer, actor, painter, and director who uses all forms to look at this world. As creators, in whatever form it may be, we are truly capturing and releasing life, sharing it with one another. There is nothing more special than that.
Stories (10/0)
Spire of the Mind
There weren’t always dragons in the valley. For years long before, it was a place of greenery, of peace, where hominids roamed openly and in abundance. They prospered together, in great palaces carved into the earth and hanging homes woven into the trees. Their technology was massively open and complex, far beyond anything that could be found again or matched in a matter of centuries.
By Nick Blocha2 years ago in Fiction
Half A Can of Grape Soda
She used to tell him that a racoon is not a typical pet one should keep. It’s a stinky, trash eating thing that belongs outside. But for whatever reason, this particular trash bandit was able to sleep on a small, cat bed below the end corner of Mikko’s bed. The kind of cat bed a cat would refuse to sit in, as it wouldn’t hold up to their standards. Mikko loved the fat, grey and black racoon, and would often sit there and play with it, throwing a little bouncy ball he picked up from one of those vending machines in the mall. Mikko would throw and the racoon would chase after it and return, clutching the thing in its front paws. He never let the racoon out of his room, always refilling a bowl he snuck out of the kitchen one morning with water, and stealing food from dinner. He was happy with it, for a time, as Mikko was not the kind of kid to make friends. He often would have walked home from school alone, even though other kids had lived in his neighborhood. So, when a feeble racoon scratched at his window in need of food, love, and warmth from the rain one night, Mikko was more than happy to have a friend.
By Nick Blocha2 years ago in Fiction
Shelby and the Pumkorn
Where has this world been? That was the question Shelby would ask to themself often. It was obvious that this place was ancient and things had happened before. There were stories that they had heard or could make up, but nothing was written. No histories survived from the before. Instead, all they could do was piece together what might have been with the shards of the past. Destroyed ruins, long overgrown and reclaimed by the green or purple vines. In the end, whatever was, whatever used to be, no longer really mattered.
By Nick Blocha3 years ago in Futurism
And I, Like Her
The cool air of the pre-sunrise morning. I’d forgotten what it was like, how sweet and crisp it felt. I’ve been up with the sunrise here in Houston, but never outside for it. This air is where I truly thrive, the calm before the rest of the world wakes up. As cool as it is, this is still May in Houston, TX. I can smell the humidity and coming heat.
By Nick Blocha3 years ago in Families
Old Soft Bristles
The first few days were weird. I hadn’t realized how introverted I had become, how much time I had spent at the nursing home with grandma. I stayed in bed until eleven. There was no need to get a job, not for a long time. I did nothing but sit in the sun. Around two, I went to a coffee shop up the street from my apartment, had a rose and cardamom latte and a bowl of granola totaling $23.45. I figured I could spend that kind of money on granola now. It was nothing to the new bank account, but never having more than three thousand to my name after years of working, it still felt like a sin. I drew a swirl of lines and scratches along the page of my sketchbook. I drew the static-like dots I see when I look up at the sky. I drew these things, because I didn’t know what else to do. In elementary school, I would make frequent visits to the underpaid counselor and would annoy her with things like, “I just don’t know what to draw.” My tubes of paint sat in their drawers. My brushes in their cups. I didn’t want to do anything except sit there. It wasn’t until day four, that I decided to open my grandma’s little black book.
By Nick Blocha3 years ago in Families
Rainstorm
Yesterday, I got caught in a rainstorm. I wanted to go for a walk, to prepare for all the hiking I plan on doing in March. I ended up going further than I planned and got stuck under that bat bridge for about forty minutes. My dad did come and pick me up, as he was on his way home from work and we now live together. I felt a little like a child, embarrassed only to myself that I needed saving. I was ill prepared. I didn’t even think about the rain, I just ran out there because I really wanted to. And for it, I got soaked, stranded, frozen. And I loved it.
By Nick Blocha3 years ago in Wander
Carry On
I do despise Valentine’s day. No, I don’t hate love. I don’t hate seeing people in love, or being in romantic relationships. But Valentine’s day hosts the majority of issues we see with the condition, the disease rather, that so many people clutch onto like they would a root when dangling off a cliff.
By Nick Blocha3 years ago in Humans
