Patty Brown
Bio
I write in the early morning. The quiet lures me. When the house is asleep, I can travel in my mind, and words begin to flow. There is no yes or no, just where my heart wants to go.
Stories (3/0)
The Return
Someone once asked me, "What was it like, what was it like when you arrived on Earth? What were your first thoughts?" And in one breath, I replied, "It was an eerie feeling being all alone. The breezes whispered to an empty world. The morning glories climbed in abandon over disheveled old houses. No lights were on. No music echoed from the open windows on their porches. The cars seemed to be parked in eternity, with flat tires, chipped paint revealed rust, and broken glass was everywhere. Deer were always by the front steps munching on tulips. It must have been spring, and I might add, at last. A decade had passed since my parents had stepped foot on the Earth. The story began here as flowers were blooming and trees were turning green, Earth was still spinning, and new life was beginning in the wildness that humans had desecrated. And of course, I found myself here all alone. I was very afraid.
By Patty Brownabout a year ago in Fiction
Longings
Every night, I boarded the train. It arrived as I drifted off to sleep. I could hear it coming. The rhythmic sound it made and the longing call of its whistle. Every night, I would travel to places I had been before. I would disembark the train and the conductor would nod, as if he knew me. He would remind me the return train arrives in three hours. I hurried off the train, I wanted to return to who I was before. I wanted to watch my fears, bad choices, and the blatant disregard for myself again and again. I wanted the opportunity for a second chance. And somewhere between dreams and reality, it was being offered.
By Patty Brown2 years ago in Fiction
Epiphany
The holidays were packed away. January was settling in. It was like every other January she could remember. It was gray. It was finally cold. The landscape was the rawness of graphite barren trees, all of their fall leaves had been collected in piles by the edge of the road she was walking on. On brisk days, the leaves would come back to life, swirling and dancing in the winter wind, then landing haphazardly, between branches, in fences, and hanging from unopened windows. Always near dusk, in the blue hour, she would bundle up and lace up her running shoes, and head out for a very long walk.
By Patty Brown2 years ago in Fiction
