Ryan North
Bio
Midwesterner, husband, father, entrepreneur, designer, performer, director, writer, and bartender. Cheers!
Stories (4/0)
Just One Night
“Just one night. Just one night…” Jack muttered to himself. He was sitting on a bail of hay and staring into the feedbag he was given with ten dollars in crumpled one dollar bills. Ninety dollars more would follow if he could make it just one night in the old barn. Strips of light from the setting sun pierced the voids between the barn’s wooden slats. Dust filled sunbeams gripped the ground and crept up the wall onto Jack’s black overcoat. Looking down, the pattern reminded him of the jail cell he reluctantly called home for seven and a half years. The thought of his captivity turned his stomach. Reminders of his crime and his time plagued Jack at all hours of the day, but especially at sunset. Perhaps it was the impending darkness taking over the light of the day that set him on edge. The jail cell projection on his chest seemed to mock his efforts to hold fast to the newfound light in his life… his love. His Elanor. She carried his heart and stoked his yearning to… as Judge Hanes put it, “turn his life around, b’fore it was too late.”
By Ryan North3 years ago in Fiction
Decay
When one sense is taken away, the other senses become sharper to compensate. What about when they're all taken from you? Hello? I’m just talking out loud. I mean, not really talking. But my thoughts… my thoughts are all I have left. My thoughts. My memories. Visions of my past. Do you know how difficult it is to build a solid vision from memory? Do you remember what you did three days ago? Do you remember what the lobby of the bank looks like? I mean exactly? Do you remember what color your toothbrush was? Memories are fleeting. They just fall away. Crumble. Why don’t I remember more? It’s getting harder. But, I find that by organizing my favorite memories into folders and saying them out loud, I’m able to hold on to them.
By Ryan North3 years ago in Fiction
Fatherhood Ball
I am a proud descendant of many generations of fathers. My father John was a father, as was his father - Donald, and his father before him - Erva. Preceded by Harry North, John North, John North, Zachariah North, Edward North, James North, James North, John North, Lord Dudley North, Sir John North, John North, Edward North, Roger North, Roger North, Thomas North, and Sir Thomas De Northwood - born in 1350.
By Ryan North3 years ago in Families
Ciao Papà
Part one of three: “Real Old John.” After a failed early career as a theoretical physicist, I opted for a completely non-related job working as the Assistant Director of Activities at a small memory care facility called Ebenezer’s. I have always liked old folks. I think they’re adorable. We have forty-nine residents, three of which are men named John. There’s Young John who is eighty-five, Old John who I think is ninety-four, and now - thanks to me - there’s Real Old John who says he’s one hundred and four years old. When he was found, he had no wallet or ID. I say, “thanks to me” because I’m the one who found him standing on the sidewalk near our house. I was getting home from work one night and there he was, standing there in his brown sweater vest, leaning on a cane and looking pale and lost. I knew almost instinctively that he had dementia. There’s a look in their eyes, like they want to say something... like they want to share their stories, but their brain won’t allow them. The police canvassed the area with no luck and a search of missing persons came up dry. So, Real Old John got his name from being a John Doe. I was even interviewed by the local news about finding him, but no one stepped forward. Eventually, the State placed him at Ebenezer’s where I have pretty much adopted him. I like to think we have a bond. He calls me “Operator” which I don’t understand, but that’s okay. He doesn’t call anyone else “Operator.” He doesn’t have a lot to say, but his cute wrinkly face smiles when I walk into his room. He reminds me a lot of my Grandpa. I often think about Real Old John and that he has no one in his life. No one to care for him. On more than one occasion, I’ve found myself with tears in my eyes. Just - stupid raw emotion. Maybe it’s because I know he’s near the end of his life and I selfishly want more of Real Old John. Maybe because he reminds me of my father.
By Ryan North3 years ago in Futurism
