This is my version of a story my Uncle Dan tells:
The old man sat in the garage when he didn’t want to be around his wife. Which was always. When my Uncle Dan was a kid, he would help out around the house, doing odd jobs, picking up heavy-ish things. Primarily it was a chance for his mom to get him out of her hair under the thin pretense of Christian charity. So he was sent across the street, more out of convenience and guilt than for any practical purpose.
One afternoon he was in the kitchen, helping the old lady wash and dry dishes after baking. Once everything was toweled and put away, she cut a slice of pie from the tin, plated it with a fork, and asked Uncle Dan to take it out to the old man. He was in the garage, as usual. Continue reading
This went up on the USS Rock N Roll blog today:
My friends Tim and Shad and I get together and sometimes we do timed writes: set a timer for ten minutes and just write on an agreed upon topic. This idea is simple enough, but would never have occurred to me. We took a workshop with Tami Sagher, who explained the exercise as outlined in the excellent Natalie Goldberg book Writing Down the Bones.
What follows my (now edited) short story inspired by the suggestion, “The South.”
The swamp moss hung languorously from the trees, moisture dangling in the air like ripe fruit. Little moved down by the old porch swing and the breeze did not lift the shimmer of heat.
An old man sat on a stump, eating a peach, contemplating the end of the world. While there was no outward indication this was imminent, he spent a good amount of time chewing on the prospect. Continue reading