Category Archives: Short Stories

Check it out. I wrote a short story “of desperation, wanting what we can’t have, and phone books.” It requires a lot of clicking on your part to turn pages. Start by clicking on “When.”

I just finished putting together a very short story utilizing telescopic text. It’s inspired by a guy named Joe Davis, who did one about making tea. It works like this: there are occasionally words with a light gray background that you can click. When clicked, those words will reveal more words. So a simple statement like “I made tea” can become “I made myself tea” and then “Yawning, I made myself tea” and so on.

I wanted to make one that began with vague characters who gained dimension and shape as more of the story is revealed. Though my end result is nothing award-winning, I think it succeeds in shifting the expectations of the reader. It’s also a pretty cool example of how a writer’s revisions to a simple piece can change it dramatically.

Here it is: “He Looks at Her” by me.

“What took you so long?” she said.

I shrugged and bit my lip.

It took her a second, but she recognized I wasn’t Jake. “Colin?”

“Hi.”

Her face softened. “What are you doing here?”

“In a philosophical sense? I don’t really know.”

She scoffed. “God, you guys are so much alike.”

“Really?” I felt a tinge of regret but pushed it away. Instead, I focused on her smile. And her eyes.

“Where’s Jake?”

I took a breath – a big, pre-leap breath. You know the kind. It’s what you do before telling your boss you’re quitting or before telling a pretty girl you love her. “Yeah, about Jake. He, uh, he’s breaking up with you. He’s too much of an asshole to tell you to your face.”

She stared at me with those emerald eyes. For a second, I thought she was going to call me out, accuse me of murdering Jake, yell at passers-by to look around for a body. But then she laughed. “Nice try,” she said.

“No, no, I’m serious.”

“Yeah, I know what you’re doing, Colin.” She stepped closer and whispered, “Ever since you saw me and Jake doing it, you’ve been after me.”

“What?”

“Oh, c’mon. Admit it.” She put a hand on my chest.

The image flashed in my mind of what this Colin guy might have seen — live pornography between a devilish, blonde-haired flirt and a replica of himself. It might have been pretty difficult to turn away from.

“I can see you’re remembering,” she said.

Imagining, actually, not remembering, but it wasn’t worth quibbling. Fantasy, memory – they’re more or less clones, aren’t they?

“Look, if you want to get down my pants, there’s a better way to go about it.” She ran her hand down my arm.

I touched her neck, entertaining the possibility of driving home with her at that moment. After all, it’s about not missing out, right? A barrage of images flashed in my mind – blond hair, disheveled couch cushions, long legs.

But here’s the thing; some opportunities are mutually exclusive. If one lives, the other must die.

So I left. I went home to Maggie.

It was a sobering walk. My aches and pains resurfaced. And the prospect of dinner wasn’t much consolation. But once through the front door, I saw Maggie on the couch, looking all cozy and cute. And only then did it dawn on me that I had just escaped death. Twice. Maybe three times. And now here I was, staring at my reason to live.

The brief and crazy notion entered my head that I could tell Maggie everything. I could confess it all. “It’s like a disease,” I’d tell her. “But I’m a survivor. I’ve got you and luck on my side. We’ll get through this. Together.” But instead, I asked, “Have I told you recently I love you?”

“Well,” she said, “you just bought Not Dogs. And I’m of the mind that actions speak louder than words.”

“Fair enough.” I got out the dogs and put them in the microwave. “Hey, you wanna go up to Mt. Hood this Saturday?”

She set her knitting down. “You sure you want to miss out on your bird thing?” she asked.

The microwave beeped.

“Oh, I’m not missing out.”

“You’re positive?”

“Yeah. I’m positive.”

“Well, then, yes. I’d love to go.”

*The End*

He swung; I swung. We both missed — or so I thought. But the blood that splattered on my face made me think otherwise. When he swung at me the second time, more blood flew in my eyes. I wiped my face off and saw his arm, dripping fat drops of blood that landed in spiky circles on the pavement. I’d slashed the wrist on his knife arm.

It was pure, dumb luck.

It was also pure, dumb luck that when he swung a backhand and hit my hip, his switchblade closed on his fingers. Apparently, his knife was the broken one.

He grunted and peered down at his skinned knuckles. I took the opportunity to kick him in the knee, hyper-extending it backwards and sending him to the ground.

There was one thing left to do. I jumped on him, grabbed hold of his hair, and plunged my blade into his neck, transforming it into a fountain of blood – thick, scarlet blood; sweet, syrupy blood. Wonderful blood. God, the euphoria was amazing.

I was drunk on it. Which must have been why I had no qualms or fears about opening the back door to Peace and Harmony Co-op and washing my hands in a sink conveniently situated right by the door.

And when one of the hippie employees came out of the nearby bathroom, flashing me a perplexed look, I said simply, “Hey, what’s up?”

He looked pissed. “Do you work here?”

A tip for effective lying: don’t confirm or deny. I tried to look offended. “You don’t remember me?”

He scratched his head. People actually do that, you know.

“You seriously don’t remember me? I’m Colin; you’re Brian. We’ve been through this.”

His expression moved from anger to confusion to shame. Beautiful. “Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

I patted him on the back as I walked past him into the store. People always forget when they’re wearing name tags.

I got a few more looks when I emerged from the back room into the front, but I walked outside without incident. My Not Dogs were still on the ground. The box was dented a little, but they seemed otherwise unharmed. I couldn’t say as much for Julie, who was leaning against a car on the street, arms crossed and looking ready to scold her boyfriend.

I remembered my promise and sobered right up.