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Literature
Existential Crises
There was an odd feeling that washed over her on Saturday mornings. She sat dazed between unfinished paintings, white canvases with specks of reality, and piles of unorganized papers; they seemed to magically grow and multiply as if by an imaginary stroke of the hand. Some were bills she always forgot to pay, or letters from Dylan that always ended up, with the envelope still tightly shut, in the trash. You can read a person's personality, right to its gritty core, simply by examning their trash. She had Ding-Dong wrappers, ice-cream containers, sketches of people and people that were no-longer, and a rotting carton of orange juice with a lon
Literature
Vertigo
He sleeps the sleep of a man
who doesn't yet know that Love
sits sewing her shadow to the dawn,
nursing a subtle,
aching silence in his lungs
with her name, her shape.
He can't fathom how someone
can sit so deep inside him,
shelling the shadows of himself
as though there are moons at their core,
how he no longer believes
in falling lightly in love
but in committing himself
to inevitable call of concrete
or how she lingers like ink on his fingers,
like a story he's still figuring out how to write.
Literature
letters out the window 2
Dear stranger . . .
A man with a torch – that’s you – comes into my house and says, I'm here, I ought to burn your house down . . .
But will you let me collect my hospitalities, and present them to you, all lined up in a row? There are so many! First, I ought to offer you a drink . . . then I ought to ask you to sit . . . then I ought to ask about the wife and kids . . .
But you say, it’s best if I don’t stay long – I ought to just torch your house and be on my way – I don’t want the mind to demand other things from me . . .
Start here, I say, gesturing towards the bedroom. It seems most flammabl
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Warning: Disturbing Content.
Day 1 of my week of writing a short story each day.
This story actually took me two days (I wrote the entire thing yesterday but all the typing and editing I did today) but, as this was the first day, I can still get away with it if I call this Day 1. Besides, I think it was worth it. I didn't want to rush this one. It was difficult and I think it is probably the longest story I've ever posted. I hope it works/makes sense/means something to someone.
I hope you enjoy this series.
Last night I slept better than I have in three weeks. This morning I got up at 6am and walked along the beach with my family and beagles. A dolphin joined us half way and kept pace with us the rest of the walk, swimming just five meters from the shore and regularly rushing up practically onto the sand. The water was completely clear and, when the dolphin left us, we swum, leaving my water-phobic beagle to guard the towels. I live in a beautiful country.
Day 1 of my week of writing a short story each day.
This story actually took me two days (I wrote the entire thing yesterday but all the typing and editing I did today) but, as this was the first day, I can still get away with it if I call this Day 1. Besides, I think it was worth it. I didn't want to rush this one. It was difficult and I think it is probably the longest story I've ever posted. I hope it works/makes sense/means something to someone.
I hope you enjoy this series.
Last night I slept better than I have in three weeks. This morning I got up at 6am and walked along the beach with my family and beagles. A dolphin joined us half way and kept pace with us the rest of the walk, swimming just five meters from the shore and regularly rushing up practically onto the sand. The water was completely clear and, when the dolphin left us, we swum, leaving my water-phobic beagle to guard the towels. I live in a beautiful country.
Mature
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I read this a second time starting chronologically, and it helped me appreciate how effectively you used the backwards narration to lay the ominous mood over the whole thing.