Category: Non Fiction

To Post or Not to Post

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Non Fiction, Poetry, Rhyming, Short Stories12 Comments

I read that question, “What’s on your mind?” I type my words into the empty box, place my finger on the return key, and stare at the screen…and stare…and stare.

I’ve filled the little white space with my thoughts. In my mind, I know that it’s the most beautiful thing that’s ever been written in the history of writing. But still, there is some part of me that just can’t convince my finger to hit the post button. So the minutes tick off the clock and the sweat runs down my arms and drop into pools on the floor. My mind begins to doubt itself. After all, this is the place that all my family and their friends go to when they want to know the last time someone farted.

What if I’ve done something dumb.. like typed ‘hit the post butt’. I better check again just to make sure. Even worse, what if no one likes what I have to say? What if I check later and see that nobody has liked or commented on it?

OMG! What if my friends and family are sitting around the kitchen table right now laughing at my futility? What if I go to work tomorrow and my co-workers are huddled around the water cooler, glancing over their shoulder at me and snickering; asking each other if they read that garbage that I had left for them.

What if, because of my post, the alien life forms that have been watching us through their viewing screens decides that they’ve had enough and send their laser-eyed zombie robots to put an end to us? How could I possibly live with the knowledge that I single-handedly destroyed the world?

Oh wait…

So I click the magical button that throws my words into cyberspace. Now there’s nothing to do but chew on my fingernails and wait.

Oh, the agony and the joy of it all.

Facebook Post

Facebook is a wicked but wonderful world

Like a house built out of glass

I let my thoughts and emotions unfurl

To any who comes scrolling past

I cry out to those passers-by

Not knowing if they hear my plea

But still I know that I must try

To get someone to stop and love me

Will you be the one to share me with your friends

Hurry, my time in the newsfeed fades fast

Or will you be the one that does not hit send

And just keeps scrolling on past

My Dad

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Non Fiction, Short Stories17 Comments

He worked at the local grain elevator by trade, but that’s not who he really was: he was a music man by heart. Although most of that music had faded from his life long before I was old enough to know the difference between my siblings and the family cat, I still remember the occasional gatherings of his old crew. They would sit beside a bonfire on a warm Saturday night, drink Schlitz beer from the can, and cuss like nothing I’d ever heard before. They shared their stories freely, a few might have been true, but most probably weren’t. My mom always said that the first liar in that group definitely didn’t stand a chance.

They played real music. The kind that you knew came from somewhere deep inside them. He managed to keep it well hidden most of the time, but every once in a while he would let it out, and when he did, it soared. On those special nights, I would ride along on the notes of their music until I was no longer in my small town of Wakenda, but somewhere distant and foreign. I floated gently on the rhythms of their instruments until dreams overtook me. I could tell from his voice that he was singing a lament to the boy of his younger days, traveling the country with his band. However, those days were gone now, replaced by the responsibilities of fatherhood.

The rest of the world saw him as just another, gray, grizzled, old man with dark stains, from tobacco juice, at the corners of his mouth. As the music swelled though, he appeared to physically change. His hands regained the agility of youth. His fingers twisted from age, that could barely grip his beer can, now would fly up and down the strings of his guitar with ease.

He quickly became that young boy and with every verse, his voice did a little flip on the end. It was nearly impossible for me to control myself. I wanted to jump up and start singing and dancing ‘the Wakenda stomp’ with him. I really had no idea how far into the night they played. Their music would carry me along on some journey until his voice would lull me into the darkness of sleep. When I woke up the next morning, they’d be gone.

I’ll always remember his advice to me. On one of those nights as the light from the bonfire danced in his pale blue eyes, he gently squeezed my shoulder and said, ”Remember son, every now and then you have to sing, dance, and howl at the moon.”

That was my moment with my father. I didn’t have to share it with any of my brothers or sisters. It was mine and I kept it.

There is No Place Left to Hide

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Non Fiction, Short Stories1 Comment

There’s No Place Left to Hide

As an ‘older generation American’ I am often amazed at how dependent we have become on our technology.

My son Matt Brotherton, over at www.mabrotherton.com talks about the robots (I’m so old I thought they still called them spiders) that keep track of the movements and purchasing habits of every consumer. They collect data and analyze your personality based on every website you’ve visited, every post, every comment, every like, every phone call and every tweet you’ve made. Technology knows and understands us better than we know ourselves.

Take our favorite pastime for example. No I don’t mean baseball or (get your mind out of the gutter); I’m talking about posting on Facebook. This is the epitome of our lack of privacy. There’s only one rule, and it is as simple as it gets. If you put it on the internet, it belongs to the world –FOREVER – it is no longer yours. No amount of adding words to your Facebook post about how your stuff is your stuff is going to keep it from them. Those little robots are always working and showing you ads and things that it believes you want to see. It will even count that day you accidently clicked on ‘that sight’.

So if you’re like me, by now you should be worried about what else goes on and just exactly who is watching who do what. We already know that every keystroke on our computer, tablets, cell phones, laptops and GPS systems are closely monitored.

But it’s even worse than that. Every time you step out your front door (unless you’re living off the grid in some remote wilderness, in which case you can’t read this anyway so you don’t count) you are being tracked. By satellite radio, store security cameras, traffic light cameras, cameras that monitor the highway and weather, and on and on and on….It seems it’s true, big brother is always watching. Some studies say that the average person is seen on 75 cameras every day and in a lot of the bigger cities, it’s can be more than 300 times a day. Conservative estimates say that there are now over 30 million surveillance cameras in operation in the United States today. That is not even talking about the fact that since 2011 there are more cell phones in the United States than people. Each one with a camera. It’s estimated that the average household of 2.6 has about 24 ‘traceable‘ electronic devices.

Now, I’m not one of those government conspiracy guys that believes ‘Donald Duck Trump’ is watching me through my TV screen like it’s a two way mirror. Although, I know he would if he could. (I ‘m pretty sure he thinks he can do anything he pleases without repercussions.) Besides, we all know that only people who own the cable company can really do that. (I’m just kidding billionaire cable company guys. Please don’t send your goons after me) But it does appear that it is impossible to avoid the all-seeing eye.

Yes, I know…There are still people living in America (Land of the Free and Home of the Brave) that believe in privacy. They should be free to live their lives the way they want and what they do in their own backyard is their own business. If you are one of those naïve few, it seems “I’ve got some ‘splainin’ to do to you Lucy.”

Our privacy is gone. Vanished, caput…it went extinct along with hand written letters, a computer mouse with a roller ball, VHS tapes and the phone book. Is it a good thing or a bad thing, I will leave that up to you to debate.

I do have this final thought, a personal message from me to the youngest generation. Once you let yourself become so dependent on a thing, it’s nearly impossible to live without it when it’s gone. The recent ‘Ransomware’ attacks have taught us how quickly something we rely on can be snatched away. It’s not too late to change how you react with your friends. So please don’t let technology replace your humanity. Texting is a good thing…but just do your future self a favor and get up and go hug someone every now and again. You’ll be surprised at how good it will make you feel.

Why Do I Write?

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Non Fiction, Short Stories60 Comments

Why do I write?

There was a time when the words flowed from my hand and dropped onto the paper with ease. In those days long ago I walked with Kings and Gods and we talked of love, war, happiness and sorrow. I shared my dreams with you and could make you laugh or cry with the press of my pen. I scattered my words into the rain so that you might feel the mud between your toes as you ran barefoot through the puddles. I showed you where to find golden trees that glittered with a thousand lights. I could share with you a sunrise that splashed orange marmalade and pink chiffon onto a deep blue canvas. With the ink from my soul, I tattooed my stories into your thoughts.

But I left the muse of my youth behind as life pushed away the youthful dreams and parked it’s minivan on my inspiration. Time covered the mounds of words that lay strewn in piles upon my desk and hid them behind mortgages, 401k’s, and cable bills. Children rushed in and out taking with them my every thought. My life was consumed and I was content. I no longer had a use for words and tossed them into the attic of my mind. Over the years they lay there in the dark, alone and hoping that someday my muse might come again.

Age has little more to do these days than to pry open all the doors of my memories. It has found my words of forgotten rhythms and emotions and dropped them haphazardly into the forefront of my mind. I see that the ink on those words that I once drew from the well of my youthful imagination has dried and faded; but it has not disappeared completely. Now they are with me again. They may be tarnished and blemished but they still cling to life. I will attempt to take those words and clean them until they shine again. They still believe in me and I need to believe in them.