Ryan Bingham
Bio
I don't subscribe to the idea of being much of a scribe, but for reasons I can't describe, I had to try.
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I'm a filmmaker and cinematographer, writing was my first love, so I'm here to practice that.
Stories (5/0)
Longfellow
Bart Longfellow had been a fat kid. Shy and sweaty under the arms, his physique was a direct antonym to his surname. He was surprisingly rotund given the food shortages, and his bones were peculiarly thin, he was so bulbous, in fact, that it was a minor feat of the human anatomy that the bones could withstand the excess weight. He moved with a morose gait, but he never lost his upbeat attitude or love of puns.
By Ryan Bingham3 years ago in Fiction
Cherished Things
My nephews. These three boys bring me softness and love and laughter and youth. They're unique and beautiful. So are your nephews. My siblings. My friends. The shit-eating-grin-feeling of being utterly lost in a foreign land. I cherish stories and the inspiration they bring. I cherish belly laughing at shit talk with fellow troublemakers. I cherish a stolen afternoon cocktail with a friend; a surprising act of kindness from a stranger. New trees passing by the window of a car or a bus or a train. I cherish walking through a new place in the morning to see how it wakes up. I cherish newness as a whole, experience. I cherish good, thoughtful food shared with the right people. A glass of a wine on a warm night beneath orange light within earshot of foamy shores. Dogs barking in the distance. The sound of wind in the trees. When my heart slips on a banana peel after SHE texts me back. Responding with a stupid grin on my face. A foamy latte near a window in a cozy sweater. Reading a book so good I can't believe it. Feeling connected to a stranger whose words are the same as my own heart's longing or head's hoping, The feeling of being understood. Spontaneous sex. Spicy food. Bitter beers. Loud music. The sun warming up my t-shirt for me after a crisp dew. Spotting a friend I've been looking for in a crowded place, seeing them, then knocking over garbage cans and children so we can hug it out. Truly not caring what anyone thinks because I'm safe in the company of my chosen family. A medium rare steak with caramelized onions so juicy and salty and right. The memories of eating steak with my grandpa. Warm apple pie and ice cream. Sand in my toes, stars in my eyes. Being so in awe of nature it restores my wonder and curiosity. Reveling in that feeling of being small. The fleeting notion of connectedness with all living things throughout the history of the universe. Being made of Sagan's star stuff, the same heat as Hendrix, Cleopatra and the beggar on Broadway. The relief after crying, wishing I'd done it sooner, but glad I finally did. Pride. Not arrogance, but the resolute smile of having done something right. Comedy. Laughter. Love. Dick and fart jokes. Beautiful women, the delicate slope of the low back to the hip. Photography. Light. Composition and color. Poetry, insanity, painkillers, curiosity, mezcal, pot, head banging, mountains and wisdom and love with no goodbye--
By Ryan Bingham3 years ago in Poets
The Benefactor
It was a most ordinary start to what would be the least ordinary day of Billy Rankin's life. He took his toast with his usual honey and butter, tore yesterday's page off his A Day in History calendar, revealing a headline from July 11, 1924 which read:
By Ryan Bingham3 years ago in Humans
