“Dad!” I call. “Come one! You have to see this.” I found something really cool in the park. Dad is mad, one, that I’m up so late at night, and two, that I woke him up at a time when both of us should be sleeping. I don’t care. This is totally worth it. I … Continue reading The Park at Night
Tag: Short Fiction
This Meal Matters
This meal matters. To an outside observer, with no knowledge of Justin’s life, perhaps it would seem insignificant. Perhaps a more experienced chef would laugh at him, for he is following, to the letter, a recipe he has called up on his phone, though the meal is simple: chicken, with sides of steamed broccoli and … Continue reading This Meal Matters
Ink: Epilogue
He loves her. He has to: she holds his heart in her hands. What can he do but love a woman who cups his still-beating heart so gratefully, so lovingly? He can see that she cares for it. He can feel that she does. She has stopped crying, leaving only the stains of her tears … Continue reading Ink: Epilogue
Ink, Part 5
It is not a lie to say that Chester does not interact well with women. There is something about them he feels he doesn’t understand. He never knows when they’re going to be nice or cruel to them. He has no conception of whether what he says to them will be well-received, ignored, or reviled. … Continue reading Ink, Part 5
Ink, Part 4
There is a long line at the customer service desk, and Chester hates every other person in it. His sour mood is affecting the way he looks at the world, but he’s embracing it, because something about the way anger makes him feel is addictive. It’s not pleasant, but anger, for Chester, is like the … Continue reading Ink, Part 4
Ink, Part 3
The video game Chester enjoys playing most right now isn’t one he would have picked out for himself when he was younger. The tattoo on his arm is from an online first-person shooter. It’s the symbol of the guild to which he belonged. It was once true that all Chester would play were FPS titles, … Continue reading Ink, Part 3
Ink, Part 2
The gleaming aura that surrounded Chester’s new house faded last night as he reclined, on his back, in his bed. He stared at the ceiling which, painted a bone-white, almost seemed to stare back at him. In the night-dark of his first half-hour staring at that ceiling, still awake, it gains the sense of depthless … Continue reading Ink, Part 2
