Short Prose

Week 4 – Short Short Letters

Kristin,

I keep thinking about that day, the Friday after mom was brought to the hospital, when we were all sitting in the little waiting room near the ICU listening to the resident doctor explain to us how poor the situation looked in regards to her recovery. I remember you, and me, grasping at hope when ever it managed to poke its head out even a little. I remember that look of fervent determination that you get, that you accredit to mom, that you really got from both of our parents. You wear determination in a way that is similar and different to both of them. I remember thinking that I needed to be strong for you, and now I realize that you were being strong for all of us. I was so distraught I could not even understand that you were the center of strength in the room. I was the vacant, detached, in denial wreck pretending that my behavior would give you strength. I want to thank you for all the questions you asked, all the fierce looks you gave, all the intense hugs you delivered, all the cries, the wales, the stories, and the tears.

Thank you for your strength. Thank you for being her daughter.

-Jake-

~~~

Dear Mom,

I miss you. You’d be proud if you saw how Kristin is handling things. I know you would have worried that she wouldn’t, but she has. She’s managed to be a calm center in all of the things going on since you left. Watching her is like watching you when you were a young woman.

I’m a wreck. I don’t sleep well. I see you everywhere I go. Memories of you and places I saw you have become so mixed up that some times I wonder if I am awake or not. Every day I drive through Tualatin and I see you at every shop, every street corner, every restaurant, every store, and every park I pass. When I leave, I see you on the freeway, clutching to my back as we drive to my place on my motorcycle. At home, I see you playing upstairs with Aage. Downstairs, I see you sitting in the dining room smiling and quietly listening to me tell endless stories. Going home to Sherwood is too intense. I’ve avoided the place ever since you were in the hospital. I still haven’t gone to your condo since you left. I want my last memory there to be that one armed hug I gave you when I dropped you off after a motorcycle ride.

Your loving son,
Jake

~~~

Dear Aage,

I am the all knowing, all seeing Daddy. Get your finger out of there.

Your loving helicopter parent,
Dad

Standard
Short Prose

Week 3 Writing Exercise

This is the final step in the writing exercise for this week. This is where the memories, sensory information, and details took me.

I’m glad I did not get into rifles. I’m glad I didn’t get into guns of any stripe. I’m glad I do not play with things that are meant to snuff out angels. I’m glad I bought a mountain bike instead of a target rifle. I’m glad my hobbies have taken me places rather than hurling death and fire. I’m glad that when I go and sit in the woods, I take beauty home with me, not carcasses and bloody trophies.

Standard
Short Prose

Week 3 – Short Short Fictions

James rubs his thumb against the palm of his hand, trying to scrub the bit of blood that had dried on it.

“Why’d you have to go so crazy? Why’d you hit that little kid?” James’ voice comes out a mix of anger and sadness.

Josh doesn’t reply. He lowers his head until his chin is nearly touching his chest. He begins to quietly sob. The two boys continue walking down the sidewalk away from the playground. Josh’s knuckles are raw and covered in blood. Blood is smeared across the chest of his plain white T-shirt striking a vicious contrast.

James falls back a step. He doesn’t want to look at the shirt. He doesn’t want the image of the younger, crying boy from the playground in his mind any longer, the vision of the bloody boy hugging into Josh’s chest, begging him to stop hitting him.

“Why’d you have to hit him?” There is only sadness in James’ voice.

Josh stops walking, turns to James, and says, “I wanted him to stop being sad.”

 

~~~

 

I want to sit up late, sipping shot glasses of black espresso that tastes of burnt tires and crude oil like they do in little towns in Italy, typing like a crazed fool who does not know well enough to judge his own work harshly.

I want to wake early and listen to the songbirds in my cherry tree while composing haikus that are both witty and beautiful.

I want to sleep in the afternoons, dream profound and inspirational dreams that feed my creativity until I wake, drink my dinner and dash out prose so brilliant that they obscure the stars.

 

~~~

 

I decided one day that I was not going to believe in God any longer. I would stop talking to him, stop sending wishes and hopes to him. I would stop looking to his book in times of need. I would stop taking pleasures in singing songs during service. I would stop going to service. I would stop worrying about using his name in vain. God dammit, I decided it was time to go out and really start enjoying myself.

Then my son didn’t die that one time he was really sick and the doctors all said he was a lost cause. Then I realized that everything I had done was like turning off the radio to avoid a show or bit of news you don’t like; you may tune out, but the broadcast never stops coming.

Standard