Two days, and you’ve only managed this? 154 words? Are you serious?
A seat. A button at knee height. An old man in a wooden box. Cedar and something like warmth.Fist against his chest. Pressing hard.
His breath hitches. Shoulders forward. The hand slips and claws. Comes back to his chest. He looks at the button. The look of a man who has forgotten what a thing is for.
Reaches for it. Stops.
He turns. The box creaks. Fingers on the latch. Misses it. Finds it. The seal breaks and the door swings out. Cooler air rushes across his face.
He doesn’t move.
Half turned. Arm outstretched. The button. The door. A correction only he understood.
The workshop beyond. Bench and lamp. Tools on their hooks. The quiet order of a room that had always been his. It would outlast him now by hours. Temperature settings on the outer panel. An LED timer gone dark.
A man in a box in a basement.
A father.
Indeed, I am.
My last two days were occupied outlining and annotating a short story or novellette, depending on how many words I muster. At this rate, short story is the easy bet. This is the opening scene.
This is somewhat experimental literary speculative fiction, but I am not a fan of genre constraints. This isn’t as experimental as some of my writing, but it is as philosophical.
I’m not sure that I’ll finish this manuscript anytime soon. I just decided to use the Easter holiday weekend as an excuse to ignore my academic writing, having just finished revising and publishing an essay I had originally published in February.
The basis is a secret. 🤫 Shhhh… It follows another academic essay, but as a publisher once insisted: nobody reads nonfiction. It’s boring. If you want to make a point, write fiction. It’s like warm water to a box of frogs.
I didn’t question him on the frogs.
Apparently, I should complete my Gravatar profile. If this is complete in the future, you’ll know I succeeded.
Ridley Park 