Category Archives: Short Prose

Short stories, short short stories, and other assorted prose.

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.

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Short Prose

Dialogues – Week 2

Do you remember that one time that I…No, but do you recall that thing that I…You don’t know what you’re talking about, it really happened like…I don’t know why I even try to…When was the last time you ever…I do all the time, it’s you that…fuck you…see?…You always make me…I don’t do…You know that I…Yeah, I do.

~

Hey, take Gramma outside. Get her out of here. Oh my god! Jason!
What’s going on?
She thinks I made ‘im do it.
What are you talking about Gramma?
Your brother. He did it ‘imself.
Wonder where those sirens are headed?
I did it, didn’t I?
What did you do Gramma?
I told ‘im he didn’t have the guts. Your Grampa said that to a guy in the Navy once.
Jesus. Did you do something to Jason?
I made ‘im shoot. Oh God, I made ‘im shoot.

~

I can’t believe I had to come pick you up like this. What ever happened to never wanting to speak to me again?
…
Fine. Don’t speak. I’m sure you’ll just say you were too fucked up again when you call me begging for forgiveness tomorrow.
…
Really? Nothing?
I…
Oh don’t bother. I’m just going to take you home.
You…
Don’t worry about me. Give me your phone.
…
There, I deleted my number. Don’t ever call me again.
But…
No more of your late night booty calls at my apartment. You’re pathetic. Be a man.
But I…
Shut up or I’ll kick you out here. I never want to see you again.
…

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Short Prose

The Back Side of The Point – Week 1

I’m sitting on the sandy ground, beach grass swaying around me. Missy, my dopey, loving, lab-mutt is sitting next to me. The air smells faintly of old, briny mud, rotting crab meat, and the musky smell that sandy loam exudes when you are sitting on top of it, running your fingers down into its softness, wondering what things it has swallowed and now holds from you. This ground feels isolated and fully mine.

~

I remember returning not long after graduating from high school. My spot on the back side of the point, watching the sun rise over the expanse of Oregon in front of me. The mosquitos are out in force but the toxic smoke from my cigarette keeps them at bay. If only toxic smoke could protect my dog from sand fleas that torment her when ever she lays down close to the water watching for mysterious creatures to emerge from the glassy water of the bay. I can watch her endlessly as she stares intently into the water, waiting, and then laugh a little, inwardly, when she yelps and looks at her own ass, wondering what invisible creature is attempting to consume her. I tell her that she should keep on guard, the little bastards are vicious.

~

I keep looking down the road running along the most westward part of the campground. My point, the point, the place where I can look back on Oregon spreading for what seems like eternity, is at the end of that drive. My mom is cooking my son chocolate chip pancakes. I cannot go, cannot miss this ritual echoing from my childhood to my son, chocolate chip pancakes cooked on a camp stove, my complete happiness in those moments, the complete happiness of my son in this moment…my desire to step away from this moment that will end up being one of my final good ones with her, my mom, to go to my point, the point, and run my fingers through the sandy earth, whisper warnings to my dead friend who guarded us from creatures of the mysterious deep.

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