I’m not sure if this one is as interesting conceptually, but I like it.
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Who saw this coming? Yea. Yea I DREW this. Not that it’s really all that good, but I made it. From scratch. I’m so proud.
Now go forth to the comment section below and RIP! Rip this apart! Or don’t. It’s 1920×1080 for all those of you with nice monitors to enjoy. Make it your desktop wallpaper! Print it out and wear it as a hat! Take it off and eat it! The fun never stops!
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Just keeping the brain flexible. Short story in the works.
When I woke up again, the sheets on the other side of the bed were cool. The room was quiet, yellow ambiance from the lights outside pouring in through the slats in the venetian blinds. Bamboo bedroom, the Ikea dream. I could see it all from my pillow. Bargain-bin lamp shade. Television furniture. White curtains. The fake plant in the corner next to the dresser that matched everything else. The familiar scent was missing, replaced with a cool breeze that only served to remind me how cold it was under the blanket alone.
I could get used to her being there. I wanted to get used to it, like it was the only thing I needed, but I didn’t because it was the one thing I really couldn’t have. I felt so ambivalent.
I glanced at the clock. Early morning. Had to get up in four hours. I couldn’t stand thinking about that last weekend. She flew out for three days and it seemed like we only had just enough time to say hello before she was heading back to Vermont.
The worst part about waking up was remembering that when I turned over, there was no one to hold. Months of being away, sleeping alone, and it felt immediately natural to have her between the sheets with me again. Nothing foreign about it. Nothing uncomfortable about cracking my eyes open at four a.m. and finding someone there. Now my four a.m. moment was empty, like my discount bedroom.
A ficly about a late night trip to a diner.
A little place called Four AM. We stepped into the dinner, knowing our money was low. We’d been traveling at night a lot. There were two younger Latino men in the corner booth, sipping coffee, and debating the wonders of nighttime driving with the fifty-something year old waitress who sat next to them.
She walked over when we entered, bleary-eyed. I loved twenty-four hour diners. There was a kind of brutal honesty about the place, but everyone kept their decency. I looked out the big window at the car parked in the cold, the dew gathering on the hood. The lot, the single road through town, the park across the street. Everything was empty. There was a baseball game on the television which was planted awkwardly on a high shelf above the bar.
The food arrived on wings, like the cook had been waiting for us, and before twenty minutes was up, we were on the road, listening to the engine purr, the AM radio station hiss, and the chilled wind whip the sides of the car.
Originally on Ficly: http://ficly.com/stories/18861
A ficly about a web-designer and a late night ritual…. Ok ok. It’s about me. This is the first thing that I’ve written in a long, long time that is directly about moi.
Midnight again. Everyone was asleep. I listened to the machine whir to a gentle close. I plugged in my cell phone, put my wallet by the door, and waited on the couch in the dark room.
It was time, because it had to be. One constant in the day. When I couldn’t figure something out, or when I was angry, or nothing made sense and everything had gone wrong, there was still up and down, and the pain. The grueling, searing, ripping pain, and I loved it. Fifty of them, chest two inches from the ground, that was all. Had to be done. Then I could go to bed.
The first was always the easiest. Around twenty-six the pain set in, and by forty-five, I was praying for death. Then fifty-one. The period on the whole ordeal, a little something for me to let myself know that I could do it.
When I was done, there was nothing left but the crawl into bed, and the silence while my heart slowed.
Originally on Ficly: http://ficly.com/stories/18088