Tag Archives: fiction

Still Life

There is this man sitting on a camel colored leather couch in front of a giant flatscreen TV that hangs on a white wall. He has a computer in his lap and a cell phone next to him and an iPad sits on the round wooden coffee table. It looks as if someone has been carving into the coffee table, and there is really only one potential suspect for this, but another possibility is that this is the way the table has always looked.

Sometimes we look around a familiar room or even a neighborhood and see things we swear we’ve never seen before. Entire houses seem to have appeared overnight. We search for children who exist only in picture frames. Children who turned into something different and moved away.

But back to the man. He has information coming at him from at least six different directions. He looks down at the woven rug beneath his feet and remembers trying to return it because it was just a little more pink than he had anticipated. But then he got used to it, and the sun from the tall window faded all the colors anyway. The rug is worn down, fraying at the edges, and this is a little bit like the way the man feels. The hair on his temples has gone gray and he feels frayed at the edges. In fact, he feels like throwing any number of devices at the window or the wall or the TV. Read More>

Humor Me

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>

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