While I am aware that no one comes to my ALS blog to read my attempts at fiction writing, that is what we’re doing today. I just don’t feel like writing about real life at the moment. I started this story ages ago and the following is just an excerpt. We’ll get back to ALS on Thursday.

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On the first day of the year, the weather turned. She woke up itchy, scratched at her skin, and lit a candle (because it was still dark at 6:20am), searing her eyes on the blackened match. The rain beat at the window like many tiny, persistent fists. She felt nervous, as she had suddenly the night before, in the small cave-like restaurant, though she couldn’t have said why. The impending return to work, perhaps, or the money trouble. She had been having bad dreams and didn’t want to start the new year that way.

A kid at the adult table, she thought—an odd non sequitur—and went to the refrigerator to pour herself some juice. The light from the fridge was shocking after the soft light of the candle and she closed the door quickly. Her stomach was sour, her eyes still burning from the match’s spicy sizzle. Despite this, and the nerves, she was not discontent. She had a song in her head; it was one of his. Read More>