From Novel #2 in progress, tentatively titled, “Heathens, Blood and Stone”
Mirror’s head tilted, and she leaned to the side.
The person was slouched down on the train seat, but the black sweatshirt was so non-forming that the resulting bagginess left the distinct impression of a curve deeply slouched onto the seat. The knees were no different; the bagginess of the jeans, this shade of navy, left no distinct impression of a knee, it was just part of the curve occurring at that region as well. In fact, there were no distinct impressions of body parts at all; not even a distinct shoulder, even though the person’s hooded head leaned on the pane bordering the train’s doorway. No hands, even, buried into the bagginess of the too-short pants- did they even come up to the guy’s waist?
“What are you doing?” Nancy asked.
“Trying to see if this guy’s made of bone.”
A snicker skipped out of Nancy. “He is kinda like a spaghetti trying to sit on a chair, isn’t he?”
“Can you see his face?” Mirror asked.
The front of a cap protruded from the sweatshirt’s hood, but that was all that could be seen.
500 word piece meant to stand alone by itself, but I plan to expand it to a full-blown short story:-
You have terminal, aggressive cancer, and today is the day you are going to die.
And now, you’re not sure if you’re dead dead, or some weird state of being, because your unique Gift that manifested at puberty–like everyone’s does–is that you can make yourself disappear, not be found. That’s how you managed to leave your family behind. The death itself was not what you thought would happen; no going towards the light, no meeting your maker. Instead it’s like as if your essence withdrew into itself, and, muffled from the sensory input of the world, took residence somewhere inside your skull.
That moment when working on finishing up your novel you realize that novels aren’t just something ‘they’ or ‘other people’ do, but YOU do, too.
The mild panic.
The realization hits you and hides, as if to protect you from freaking out;
It comes in waves.
The four men were angry.
Angry, and in the dark.
“Well,” said the first man, named Ed, “Let’s see what we have here.”
“Well,” said the second man, named Jed, “I know where you are, but where am I?”
“Well, said the third man, named Teddy, “You’re to my left, which means…”
“Well, said the fourth man, named Alfred, “I’m to your right. Right where we were. When the lights went out.”
“I know where you are,” said Jed, but where am-”
“Shut up, Jed,” the other men said.