Tag: short story

let it go

A short story.

“A widower takes audacious measures to overcome his personal guilt over his partner’s death.”

“Did she make you cry
Make you break down
And shatter your illusions of love?
And is it over now?
Do you know how?
Pick up the pieces and go home.”

– “Gold Dust Woman” by Stevie Nicks

*

That night, Trevor watched The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and the next morning he called-in sick to work. Rachel Brosnahan. She looked just like her, only without the blond hair. He had watched the season from the beginning, and it was funny and painful in equal measure. And then there was the flashback, to when Midge did have blond hair, and it was like he was instantly-transported to his past. He couldn’t even pay attention to the show: he was so transfixed by this celebrity, this actress, out of his reach; a candle to his former flame. An imitation. As the show played, he reclined further in to the couch with his bottle of Wiser’s. He couldn’t remember the last time he touched his glass but he knew he was too-far-gone to reach for it now. From bottle to glass. He took a swig and let the TV carry on while his eyes darted around his living room of their own accord, looking for anything to rest on that wasn’t her. Why was he still watching? Because it was like a photograph he never took. A post he never saved. She was an idea, and then Rachel made her real again. It was coming up on ten years since Liz had died and try as he may there wasn’t any way to get around it. To relax. To take his mind off of her. Elizabeth Greer. Every show he turned to seemed to be a love story. His coffee table was strewn with artifacts from a life he knew before: trinkets from other girls that stood testament to missed opportunities; books he had stopped reading who knows how long ago, when his memory began its deadly choke-hold. That was the only way he was able to remember her now; her face, her manner: through the eyes of people paid to mock him and his affliction, as far as he was concerned. Rachel was beautiful in her own way but paled in comparison to Liz.

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a boy walks into a bar

A micro story read in-the-style-of Sam Elliott.

I reckon that’s whiskey you’re drinking there, partner. Me, too. Nothing beats the stuff. Seems to go down smoother each time you drink it. Me, I’ve been drinking the stuff longer than I can recall. Longer than I bet your momma ever been with your pops! Yep, I’ve been around a while. Long enough to see a few things in my time. Things that change a man. I reckon there’s less out there that makes a man a man than the life he already lives. And what’s a life without learning a few lessons along the way, huh? Lessons that I can pass down? That’s right, I’m going to tell you a story…

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katherine with a k

A micro-story.

What time is it? Did you even set the alarm? Why do I have to wake up so early? Why can’t I wake up earlier than this instead of rolling around for an hour? Why can’t my shifts start when I’m actually awake? Why can’t I turn off my alarm? Why won’t it shut up? Why won’t my husband get up when I do? Why doesn’t he get my coffee ready like he used to? What’s wrong with me? Why do I stay with him? Wouldn’t I be happier alone? Or living with my daughter and her babies? Why can’t I take the initiative and retire? Why won’t this fucking coffee maker work properly? Did I put the water in the right place? Is it plugged in? Why does it smell like something is burning? Should I look under the lid? Why is there smoke? Why did I set it and not add water first? Why am I blaming myself? Why isn’t it his problem? Why is he so stupid? Why does this needle hurt so much? Why is my blood sugar so high? How much stress can one woman take?

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3517

A micro-story.

the enormity of life confronts us all. i stand before a wall that separates me from my better half. this wall stretches the imagination, and i am alone. like a scrapbook it is covered in photos of people i knew; who i had lost; who had lost me. but as my bare toes sink in to the warm sand, i am not afraid. i am full of love. with a gentle push, this wall comes tumbling down. and the blue sky above me no longer splits across its middle but extends into the horizon, where a still blue ocean sits below and the sound of waves crashing rests miles away. i am in my happy place: a cove, a short swim around an inlet on oahu. any time i would visit, there wouldn’t be another living soul: like i was the first. in truth it was inconvenient enough for the kids and the families, but we were not the first. no one can be the first: not anymore. i sit in reverence to those who came before me, whose drawings are carved along the cavern walls. drawings that tell a story: one with layers, a new one uncovered with every visit.

//jf 6.6.2020

 

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the middle ground

themiddleground_try1

The second entry in the “Shotgun Room” trilogy. For mature readers.

“A family with a tragic history tries to survive during a global food crisis.”

The world is a hard place: hard ground; hard life. We are all tethered by gravity. When the government officially announced the start of a new phase of food production, some people wished they could defy it and simply float away. No one was prepared for the food shortages, other than the Preppers; but they had bugged-out long ago, holed-up in their compounds with whoever they had decided to allow entry. Climate change had permanently affected crop growth and no new wheat was being produced. No flour; no bread. Milk was a premium reserved for those who still owned viable cattle and even then, reproduction levels had severely decreased and no owner was sure their herd had been affected. It was simply too soon to tell. That was the consensus from the Men In Suits: “We are still working on a solution to the problem, and we assure you that we are doing everything in our power to ensure the future survival of mankind.” The broadcast from one of Virgin Galactic’s completed shuttlecraft took a week to breach the atmosphere and by then, the chaos had already run its course. Crime in the major metropolitan areas was at an all-time high. Seniors and the weak either starved-to-death from isolation or were home-invaded for supplies, or worse. The titular shotgun was stolen from the hospital and used in a shooting spree. There were even reports that some had resorted to cannibalism, as more-and-more half-mangled bodies with teeth marks and handkerchief-thin slices carved out had been popping up all over the city. An alternative had to be found, and it wasn’t Soylent Green.

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