Archive for the ‘Short Stories’ Category

Something Like That

November 5, 2009 Leave a comment

I saw them on the subway the other day. Your battered green suitcase with the tear in the right corner. Your woven purse, faded because it had seen so many sunny days. And your scarf too. It was red, as I recall, with orange trim and a little stain (coffee perhaps, or maybe blood) in the shape of a bear (that’s what I thought, at least). Your boots, I suppose, had grown lonely at home in your closet, so they tagged along as well. They’d not been worn since high school, junior year I think, when they trekked through the woods to my house. Ah, your necklace. That was there too, in the woods that day, and on the subway. I thought you’d lost it. Maybe my memory’s not as reliable as it once was. I saw your ripped jeans (no story behind those, because you bought them like that), paired with your favorite black t-shirt. The one you wore four weeks ago when we last talked. The one I cried on ten years ago when we found out about Chris (life wasn’t quite the same without his smile, was it?).

Sadly, though, I didn’t see you there. I had something to tell you (I’m not sure whether you’ll be happy about it or not), but I suppose it can wait a little longer. You’ll be glad to know, I think, that there was another girl there keeping them company (she looked a little like you, actually), and I think they’ll be well taken care of till you come back.

Categories: Short Stories

The Mirror

November 5, 2009 Leave a comment

Dying is not at all like falling asleep; the point of transition is so much more defined, discernible. It’s as if your spirit were balanced on a fulcrum, and one slight shift to the side  slowly  lowers you into death. But then it is also like a mirror. Stand in your bathroom now, and look into your own eyes, and let your hands meet against the glass. If your life were slipping away, you would feel yourself fall into the mirror, into your body on the other side. There would be a brief pain, or something akin to pain, when you passed through the glass, as if you were a tooth loosened and removed from a child’s mouth. But you will have not been removed from yourself. You will have divided, as the cells of your body did and will continue to do for a time after your heart has hushed its beating. And when you looked back upon your living self, and placed your fingertips against the glass, you would feel both hands, see through both pairs of eyes, in the same instant. You would be two, and both of you would be one.

But it is also not like that at all.

It is like being stretched, expanded, pulled in a thousand directions, and  at once being compressed by a weight unlike any you have ever felt.

It is like falling upward through the coldest, blackest night, and then being burned by a sea of stars.

It is like being completely empty, and also completely full.

It is like crying on a cold, hard floor.

It is like loneliness. 

It is like fire.

And then it is like nothing. 

You are like nothing.

You are nothing.

You were the sparks of electricity in your brain, an eternity ago.

In this infinite moment, you are, you were, you will be, nothing.

But if I am nothing, how can I be wri–

Categories: Short Stories