Member-only story
Fiction
Call Me Parris Island Johnson
Camera fades in. The background is a rustic, sunlit porch. A porch swing gently sways, and wind chimes tinkle softly. A young woman with a sun-kissed complexion, wearing a plaid shirt, cutoff jeans, and cowboy boots, sits on the swing. Her long, chestnut hair is tied back in a ponytail.
Well, howdy y’all! Name’s Parris Island Johnson, and I reckon y’all are wonderin’ just what kinda girl I am.
First off, lemme get somethin’ straight ‘bout my name. Yup, you heard it right. Parris Island, like the Marine Corps trainin’ base.
Y’see, my daddy was a Marine, Semper Fi and all that, and my momma done thought it’d be a hoot to name her baby girl after the place that whooped him into shape.
Now, my daddy ain’t ‘round no more. Momma never ‘xactly knew who the daddy was, since she was datin’ three or four of them jarheads at the same time. Reckon she had a goin’ away party with all of ’em, and whoops, she was left with a remainin’ present — me.
