Fiction

“On a dark and stormy night” 

“Oh don’t start like that…Those stories are always stupid,” I say as I adjust my seating position. “Can’t I just go trick or treating now?” 

The West Wind is a banker in a smart navy suit and a tie. His dress shoes clack on the pavement; he’s got someplace to be, always someplace to be, rushing to the sidewalk, the subway, the elevator, checking his gold Rolex watch.

It was with a quiet sense of misery, a longing deep in her soul, that she watched the people around her.

The irregular trods of exhaustion, followed by certain ones of death. Chasing the mouth of the Styx. Trying to ignore the screams of a thousands hanging from the limbs of lamenting branches, whilst following a torch that still would not light.

Introduction: I’m writing a story that hopefully never comes true. I recently read Orwell’s 1984, and I saw some disturbing similarities to today’s United States under the Trump administration.

Cold, unforgiving wind batters against my patchwork coat as I shove my way through crowded streets. Tiny snowflakes glitter on my eyelashes and my breath freezes as soon as it hits the air.

Every Halloween, one house on your street stays dark; no lights, no candy, no decorations. The neighborhood kids whisper about it, daring each other to knock, but no one ever does.

With her cheek pressed against the window of the car, hurtling down a freeway to god knew where, she watched with tired eyes and a heavy soul as the scenery flew by.

“You’re beautiful.”

“I’m not.”

“I love you.”

“You don’t.”

“You live in the stars.”

“My feet are planted on the earth.”

“But your eyes are reflecting them.”

“They’re not.”

“Believe me.”

...but maybe that's the point?  I wrote at random inspiration and when I was tired, but I hope you find it entertaining

“The world,” said Claire, “is a very pointless place.”

The swirling, hazy perspective on a long summer's day. The feeling as if time has halted. Expansive blue sky dotted with lazy clouds, watched from patches of warm, tickling grass. The swish of clothing, movement.

Somewhere far away, just far enough away that you won’t find it, there is a highway that goes on forever.  Driving down that highway at 75 miles an hour, is a car that will never run out of gas.