VIII days into Camp NaNoWriMo, and yep, I’m writing about B III now. Well, damn, the last six months, and I’m already so far behind. The vaccine does cause fatigue, doesn’t it? I’m still alive, and with my second dose, who knows. “B’s Dead To Writes”
Thursday, July 8, 2021
Chronicle 007 ~B’s Dead To Writes~
158 Days Without B III
Just Me Baby B,
Did you have a good day? I’m sorry for the title card if they ever make your story into a movie.
Your story or ours, in case you’re wondering where I’ve been today. 2,200 more words down, and I know you’re thinking to yourself, Daddy should be further along than this. Do you remember the last NaNoWriMo we did, and we stayed out in the chill? Well, I did, but you didn’t want to leave me alone out in the darkness but Braxton, writings my life? Then why was I at the Day Job when you needed me the most? I despise those people, and then I came back, told you to shush, and went to sleep. You stood guard always. Braxton, I don’t mean to be rehashing all this, but I was working on your novel again. It’s still untitled. Beyond Boys: Braxton Barks Bradford.
No disrespect to the LGBTQIA community (that’s a lot of letters, ain’t it)? Anyway, all my titles seem to come off as GAY. Speaking of not, I talked to your aunt a few days ago, B. Have you seen her?
The last time Carolina Bound was around, I ordered onion rings at lunch, and you were peeved; I didn’t bring you anything. It’s the little stories like that which might make a good book, Braxton. That’s if I ever get it done, and I will; it’s for you after all. So was the album I never finished, and what about my tattoo? Oh, I’ve had my run-in with needles B with COVID-19 and all. I’ll never forget that you saw me through what THEY think was the worse year. 2020
2021, the only year that beats the one I was born into. Who knows B III? In all honesty, I was hoping the vaccine would do its worst, poetic justice. I shouldn’t talk like that. Living, I am alive, more like existing. But you saved my life more times than I can remember. I wish you could tell me what you want from me. Every day I remember the vet and that look you gave me as they told me the worse news ever. Smarty-Pants. Braxton, you said, “I want to go home. Can we go home, Daddy?” I wrote my name, and you ended up in a box. Will a book be any better? My B’s Dead To Writes
Always and Forever,