This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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I had a conversation with you yesterday. I know, I know, it’s not fair to hold you to something you don’t remember–but I did. I promise. You were sitting in your chair, and I in mine. You looked up at me from your magazine (or newspaper, was it?) and said, “I do declare!”
“What is it that you might declare?”, I declared back in your direction.
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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The plates shift in the sink, startling her out of her daydream. Her thoughts had lingered away into thoughts of autumns gone by. She resumes her circular repetition, her hands enjoying the warmth of the water as a cold body enjoys the comfort of bed. The suds feel like velvet across her skin, and as she scratches an itch on her face, it leaves a little tuft of bubbles on her cheek. She feels the pops and tingles, causing her to leave them there for a moment longer than she normally would.
The tomato sauce wipes cleanly from the plate, making this an act of leisure and not a chore. The morning stresses of dressing kids follow the tomato sauce down the drain, leaving only a porcelain plate in porcelain hands. She imagines her heart as porcelain as well.
Porcelain? Yes. Broken? No.
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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Travis woke up. The world was sideways. He wasn’t used to seeing things this way, and it startled him greatly. He eventually realized that he was lying on his side–a position he was not used to. Struggling under his massive weight, he eventually stood himself up (but not without some damage).
Looking around, he saw his brothers and sister and mother and father all on the ground as well. The wind must have knocked them all down at once. He thought to himself, “This might be my chance to finally get away; to see the world and do what I want. I’ll find a new home for my roots” So he set off.
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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As usual, I wake up three minutes before my alarm goes off. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, noticing for the first time a crack in the paint above our bed. I wonder how long it would take for the crack to grow enough that a chip of paint would fall in my mouth as I slept. I recall that vague idea we all hear growing up about the average human eating such-and-such number of spiders in their lifetime, and the only conclusions us laypersons ever arrived at to explain this is that they must crawl into our mouths while we slept. This is disconcerting to some, but I’ve never really found much of a problem with it. We let so many other things inside of us, “spiders” is perhaps the least illogical of them all. Hot water strained through the ground, dried, and roasted seeds of an otherwise tasty berry? Omelets made with what are more or less the products of daily chicken periods? The squashed and processed remains of a peanut and a grape spread on dry-heated, germ-infused, ground-up wheat plants? Gummi Bears? Wives?
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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I come from a long and distinguished line of men committed to defending this great nation from whatever attacks may befall it. This has been an honor and privilege for my family’s name for many years, even though it has brought it’s fair share of heartbreak to us.
For several generations now, my family has heralded from New York City and it’s surrounding areas. Nearly a hundred years ago now, my great-grandfather, Frank Crawford, fought in the Wars both in Korea and Vietnam: two of the greatest military victories our undefeated nation has ever seen. In both conflicts, my great-grandfather witnessed the violence and atrocities that were perpetrated against our forces with such cavalier brutality that it threatened to break our will. But, as is true of the American Spirit, we persevered to victory. And this was in spite of all of the proto-terrorist uprisings happening all over the nation on college campuses.
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here. Today’s story is based on the first part of my favorite short story, Anton Chekhov‘s “The Lady with the Little Dog“. It’s a retelling from the woman’s perspective, trying to capture Chekhov’s tone and style.
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I
Anna Sergeevna knew not whether to wear the beret again this day, as the dust and sun of Yalta were beginning to change its color. She looked at herself in the mirror that so many had peered in before and would thereafter. It had been hers for the past five days. What all had this mirror seen? What lovers had found themselves stealing a glance at the Other in this room; not at a person, but a reflection mediated by polished glass, preventing them from seeing the truest contours of human flesh. Anna scolded herself. Now was not the time for such sentimentalities. She decided to wear the beret. Putting it on reminded her of her husband’s feeblest attempts to cover his own shiny zenith that burned so easily. He was so self-conscious about it. But why? Not for what she may think about it–that much was certain. It was for all of them–all those that could provide medals, accolades, and honor. She realized then that this was the purpose behind his fortuitous side-whiskers: compensation. She believed his lack of hair made him distinguished-looking in certain lights; at certain, ephemeral moments where he may have said the right thing or noticed a different shade of rouge she had picked up on a whim. He was a lackey. These moments were few.
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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Jim:
“Well, uh, do you think that . . .
you might . . .
want to . . . maybe . . .
go on a date with me?”
Helen:
“Really? Yes!
I’ve been waiting so long
for you to ask!”
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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As I was walking down the crowded downtown street, I noticed a woman walking the opposite way, walking toward me. She was stunning. Long black-brown hair framed a clear face with a touch of rouge; the face contained two deep and dark eyes, ornamented with the perfect accents of eyeliner and shadow. Tall and slender, she walked with a poise and confidence that could do nothing but draw one’s eye. The cool of the coming Fall brought forth her seasonally-appropriate dark colors, layered clothes, and charming violet shawl.
My gaze was immediately arrested and mercilessly held without bond, tortured for the information I had no words to say. I had only thoughts. Only sensations. Only slight, but deep, sensual perceptions rising to an unfulfilling place of fleeting desire and longing. I felt the invitation to come, tempered only by the canyon of anonymity between us.
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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Yes, I am.
What?
I am.
Who?
Karen. From the office.
How long?
To what degree?
“To what degree?” What the hell is that supposed to mean?
I mean, “How long since what?” Since it became physical? Since we started talking? Since the idea popped in my head? Since I contemplated opening myself up to the possibility in the first place? To what degree are you referring when you ask me “how long”?
Why are you talking so calmly about this?
Because we’re adults.
No, “we” are not.
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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It’s not until you’re laying there that you realize how different reality is from the movies–especially in this case.
That moment exposes the assumptions you had about how this sort of thing would happen, and the various details and nuances of those assumptions are really affected by the cultural influences you take in.
The biggest difference? For me, at least, it was the sound. Or rather, to be more specific, the lack of it.
Music. Squeal. Cursing. Bending of metal. Breaking of glass. Breaking of branches. Landing of body.
And then, silence.
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It was from loudly sucking the last of his milkshake that Ted finally understood the way she really was. Grabbing tissues, he made the call.
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more and follow here. (Because today is Labor Day, I am following today’s writing prompt by StoryADay.org to write “Twitter fiction”: a story in 140 characters of less. Come back tomorrow for my first “full length” piece.)
This work by Paul Burkhart is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
This post is not a defense of Christians cursing in their everyday lives (I wrote that post a few years ago, though I think at some point I may need to revisit some of what I said there).
This post, rather, is about the merits of Christians creating (or doing) art in which there are profanities (this also has implications on other “worldly” things in art like sex and violence, but they won’t be my main focus today). I’m writing this to prepare some people for the stories I plan on writing for this blog. I talked yesterday about how I’m participating in StoryADay September (Update: I’m done), and hope to post an original, completed fiction story every weekday in September. Concerning that, I wrote:
I will not be doing “Christian art” or “prophetic art” or “evangelistic art” as I write and post here. I will simply be trying to create Beauty in words and character and story in a way that is original, interesting, and stirring. My stories tend to be rooted in reality as much as possible, and so they will probably include “real” things like sadness, violence, sexuality, cursing, or other things that challenge many Christians’ sensibilities. Know this ahead of time.
the long way home 