Extra Crispy

$_32
First sentence submitted by Madeline Walker of Victoria, British Columbia, Canada.

I’ve wasted my life. I’m fifty-years-old and cooking french fries for people who are too lazy to do it themselves. Droplets of grease weigh down my arm hair, and my skin shines with sweat. It’s a hundred degrees back here, and all day I’ve been lugging twenty-pound boxes from the freezer across the slick floor so these slobs can have their chicken strips, onion rings, and breaded fish fillets.

I yank a large bag from the mini-freezer beside the fryer, rip off a corner, and tilt it over an empty basket. Frozen fries tumble out in chunks of stuck together sticks. Crumbs escape through the mesh and crackle in the three hundred and fifty degree oil. I lift the basket from the holster and set it into the amber pool. The frost coating the fries explodes to steam with a symphony of sizzles and snaps. The surging bubbles form a mound above the fryer basket as if soon to be followed by an emerging submarine. Oil mists onto the surrounding stainless steel, some dotting my work shirt.

“You realize we’re in the middle of a lunch rush, correct?” my boss, Richard, asks. “We don’t have time for you to stand around daydreaming. Wake up and drop more cheese curds.”

Silent, I open the mini-freezer and extract a bag of curds. I don’t speak to Richard much. I don’t look at him much either if I can avoid it. Passive aggression is the only way I can safely communicate to him how much of a douchebag he is without risking an outburst like the one that got me in trouble ten years ago.

I didn’t take this kind of shit in prison. I wouldn’t have survived if I did. But I’m in the real world now, and sometimes in the real world you have to bend over and take it or they’ll find someone who will.

“How long on the grilled chicken?” the expediter hollers.

“Thirty seconds,” someone responds.

Sounds string together endlessly through the day, the slam of microwave doors, the clink and scrape of metal spatulas on the grill top, beeping timers, rustling wrappers.

Back again comes Richard’s nasally, never-quite-left-puberty voice: “I need those cheese curds now.”

“I can’t make them cook faster,” I say, still staring at the rumbling oil because if I look at him I might throw a haymaker. Eight hours a day, four days a week I listen to this shit.

“If you would have dropped them five minutes ago instead of wandering off to La La Land they’d be done by now.”

“It’s too late for that, isn’t it? I don’t think anyone is going to starve to death if they go another sixty seconds without cheese curds.”

“Cut the smart-guy act and get it done. Why don’t you have more chicken strips cooking? There’s only four left over here.”

“I’m getting to it.”

“Then hurry up and get to it!”

He speedwalks toward the counter. His arms pump when he walks. Nevermind that he treats me with such disrespect, that prissy strut alone is enough to make me want to swing a mopstick at his temple.

Thirty-two hours a week of minimum wage is not enough to rebuild a life from scratch. I used to work a full forty until my old manager quit and Richard got promoted. Now he creates the schedule, and he has been chipping away my livelihood ever since. Next week he only put me down for three days.

With so much struggle and so little to show for it, my quality of life begs questions about the purpose of living it at all. I rent a mattress on the floor of an old classmate’s unfinished basement, and his welcoming nature has been fading ever since his girlfriend started staying over more. I eat only the food I can sneak from the restaurant. When I have several days off in a row I’m forced to ration it, and it does not age well. Hamburgers harden and buns turn stale, grilled chicken becomes oddly gelatinous, onion rings grow soggy and amoebic.

Beep beep beep… Beep beep beep… The leftmost digital display flashes red zeros. I lift the basket and rack it. Oil rains from the golden, glistening fries and lands in the fryer like drizzle on a pond. I press the ‘Clear’ button to silence the timer. The display to the right is counting down from twenty. Richard’s precious cheese curds are nearly done.

I wouldn’t say I ever had it all together. I used to work construction with cash from odd jobs on the side, respectable enough but nothing to brag about. I had a son. His mother left me. I had a girlfriend. After the incident, she left me too. My son visited me once in prison. I was escorted, wearing handcuffs and a pink jumpsuit, into a room so thick with disinfectant it was hard to breathe. Not much was said. We sat across from each other at a crumbling fiberboard table in scratched folding chairs and tried to blink away our tears and stifle our quivering chins. I don’t blame him for not coming back. Visits between us would have only served as painful reminders that I was no longer the father he deserved.

He turned twenty-five last week, and wherever he is, he is old enough to know he doesn’t want me.

I lost everything and everyone because of Benny Parisi. That skinny little rat fuck shouldn’t have been even a sliver of my life, but he became the biggest piece.

I don’t care what they say, marijuana is not a drug. If it weren’t for the random drug tests mandated by my parole I’d be panhandling and robbing change from wishing wells just to buy it. And if I were high, Richard’s pathetic attempt at the biggest ego in the restaurant would make me laugh instead of pulling on the hairs of my patience. I bet alcohol does more harm in a week than marijuana has done in its entire existence. The only bad thing I’ve ever known weed to do was introduce me to Benny Parisi.

He was like the junkie’s farmer’s market. If it was in season, he had it. For a long time I resisted his sales pitches and stuck to the pot, but he was like a cracked-out used car salesman with an enthusiasm that made his invitations for test drives strangely convincing.

One evening, ten years ago, Benny offered me a sweet deal on a car he had just got on the lot, and as he talked through cracked lips and looked at me through bloodshot eyes bulging from sunken sockets, he couldn’t say enough good things about it. It was sleek, white, sexy, and fast. It was cocaine.

I should’ve known something was wrong when he offered me the price he did. I told him the ounce of weed I was buying would help me celebrate my fortieth. He convinced me to take the party to the next level, and offered me a “special birthday price” to do so.

That shit was laced with something. A half-hour after the first lines I started getting dizzy. I began to sweat at forty-five minutes and soon after had to peel off my shirt, because it looked like I had jumped into a lake. After an hour my muscles started twitching. My jaw locked. Sounds grew washy. My mouth dried of spit, and my tongue tasted like metal.

I didn’t know what to do. I needed help but couldn’t call 911 unless I wanted to wake up cuffed to a hospital bed. Benny will have answers, I thought. He fucking better, I thought. He lived on the opposite side of the trailer court. I put on a dry shirt and stumbled toward him through copper streetlamp spotlights, tripping over speed bumps, paranoid of black-veiled night-ghosts flashing in and out of my peripheral. They haunted me the whole walk though they were never there when I looked.

I scaled the wobbly steps at the back door of Benny’s trailer and knocked. No response. I knocked again. No response. I knocked again.

“Who is it?” came a muffled voice from the other side.

“Mark,” I responded, holding myself up with help from the railing.

“It’s one a.m. What do you want?”

“I need more shit,” I said, knowing to appeal to his greed, because he wouldn’t open if I told him the real reason I came.

He laughed. “You’re a fiend, bro.”

I heard the knob unlock, and the door opened my direction. He turned and led me to the living room. My hands guided me along the walls down the hallway.

“That coke’s good shit, huh?” Benny said.

“What’d you do to it?” I asked.

I reached the end of the hall. Light bled across the living room from his iguana tank.

“What’re you talkin’ about?” he asked.

“What the fuck did you do to it? There’s something wrong with that shit.”

“You’re trippin’, bro. You need to go home and sleep it off.”

“Goddammit, Benny, what did you do?” I’m not sure if it was the adrenaline or what, but something breathed clarity through the fog in my mind, and behind that fog lived rage.

“Leave, bro,” he said with a finger pointed toward the back door. “Now.”

He stood beside the couch as did his four-foot bong. I grabbed it, turned my hips, and brought it up like a golf club into the bottom of his chin. Gray, burnt-smelling water poured down the tube and along my arms, cascading down the sleeves of my shirt, soaking into the front and running down to seep into my underwear, lukewarm. Benny pancaked backward onto the coffee table with a thunk and the splintering of wood. I brought the bong over my head, the remaining resin water pissing into my hair and rolling down my face, and I swung it down like an axe. The orb on the bottom, clear glass swirled with cream to look like smoke and streaked with lime green and orange, buried itself into his abdomen. The oxygen burst from him with a whoof. The table legs snapped from the screws and the top dropped. Off rolled Benny. The strength of the bong astounded me. I brought it down on his lower back again and again, and it did not shatter. I whipped it at the iguana tank which was apparently not as hefty, because it exploded with the sound of miniature bells and shot forth glass shards glistening like icicles. His stunned iguana lay trapped, perhaps dead, underneath the bong, and though spiderwebbed with cracks it still had not broken.

I vaguely remember tripping down the stairs outside his back door and the feel of gravel on the side of my face. Despite my previous precaution not to call 911, I woke up cuffed to a hospital bed.

Due to Benny Parisi’s broken jaw, ribs, and internal bleeding, the jury considered the bong to be a deadly weapon and found me guilty of felony aggravated assault.

My body jolts sideways. Timer beeps echo back into my ears along with Richard’s voice, “What the hell are you doing? They’re burnt!”

I look over and see the redness of his face behind steamed glasses and his arm extended toward me, and I realize he just pushed me.

“Which hand do you write with?” I ask.

“What?”

“Are you right-handed or left-handed?”

“Right,” Richard says. “What does that have to do with anything?”

I snatch his left forearm and clamp all ten of my fingers around it. He tries to wiggle free, but he’s not near strong enough.

“I asked,” I say, “because I don’t want to disable you too badly. I just want to teach you a lesson.”

I rip his left arm in the direction of the fryer and push it toward the oil until his hand disappears beneath the surface. It crackles and roars like popcorn and static at full volume. The grease bubbles violently as does his skin. Drops spatter the air. They fall on my arms and the backs of my hands with the tiny stings of nettles. He doesn’t scream as I expected him to, but rather his mouth bursts open in silence, and his eyelids peel back nearly as far as his thin lips. I pull his hand out and shove him. His feet wipe away from the slick tile, and his head crashes down upon it and bounces back up before he rolls over and grabs his forearm where my hands were only a moment ago, his crispy skin sagging from his bones. Finally he finds the air to scream, and he bellows with sobs and indiscernible babble.

I step over him and walk to the expediter window. I survey the food waiting to be handed to the customers. I take two bacon cheeseburgers, their warm buns squishing under my fingertips as I clutch the waxy wrappers. I pull a large cup from a stack beside the register and walk to the soda fountain where I fill it halfway with ice then to the brim with frothy brown root beer.

There’s a lot of commotion around me, people and voices and movement, but for the first time in a while I feel peace. At least in prison I had a few friends, real conversations, and a hot meal three times a day. I sit at a booth by a window while I wait for the police to arrive. The sun is beautiful today. The breeze nudges the heads of tulips to and fro. I eat a couple of burgers. I slurp my root beer through a straw.

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210 thoughts on “Extra Crispy

  1. Wow! I am almost speechless. You are an amazing writer, so inspirational to a newbie like me. Your style, imagery, all of it captivated me. What a brilliant mind you have. Who would ever think to come up with a story like this. It almost seems like non-fiction. Is it?

    Liked by 7 people

    1. Thank you for the heartfelt compliments, Nancy, perhaps the ultimate being your question of whether it is non-fiction. To know that I conjured something that felt so real for you gives me great pride. I worked in a fast food restaurant for a few years, but that is where the autobiographical aspects end. 🙂 Keep writing… It’s not too long ago that I was a newbie as well.

      Liked by 4 people

      1. You drew from that experience colorfully! I took a creative writing course under Cecil Murphey and am now waiting for a response from an agent who asked me to send her the first fifty pages (NYC agent). Nerves.

        It is said that the best writing comes from what we know about or have experienced. As you know, my life is full of suffering from a very young child. Audiences need to feel good at the end of a story. I think we accomplished that in my memoir, but it limits me with my writing now. I am exploring different ways to gain an audience for my blog. It’s always a hit and miss 🙂

        I learn from authors like you who particularly draw my attention. I am a hard sell with books and reading. I have so little time. That said, your writing holds my attention, drops me into scenes, and stimulates my own creativity.

        Liked by 3 people

        1. Thank you again. 🙂 I know all too well of those nerves you mentioned. It seems every time we put our writing into the world, no matter if it’s the first or the fiftieth, it comes with a certain anxiety as to how it will be received. We put so much of ourselves into it. And then to amplify that feeling with the pressure of an agent request… I can’t help but empathize. I wish you the best of luck. Regardless of the outcome, remember that you have already accomplished a great feat by getting that request. There must be something in there worthy of attention. I hope to someday pick it up off a bookshelf. 🙂

          Liked by 4 people

      2. You drew from that experience colorfully! I took a creative writing course under Cecil Murphey and am now waiting for a response from an agent who asked me to send her the first fifty pages (NYC agent). Nerves.

        It is said that the best writing comes from what we know about or have experienced. As you know, my life is full of suffering from a very young child. Audiences need to feel good at the end of a story. I think we accomplished that in my memoir, but it limits me with my writing now. I am exploring different ways to gain an audience for my blog. It’s always a hit and miss 🙂

        I learn from authors like you who particularly draw my attention. I am a hard sell with books and reading. I have so little time. That said, your writing holds my attention, drops me into scenes, and stimulates my own cre

        Like

  2. This story is an inspiration. My days working at fast food restaurant “Wendys.” I remember writing a college essay about my fast food experience while attending high school.

    Thank You for writting this I LOVE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Hi Steve,
    Great writing! I’d like to invite you to FARG (Fiction Authors’ Resource Group) on Facebook. We’re a bunch of authors trying to get noticed. We have a lot of info that help authors to self-publish. Why pay a publisher when you can do it all yourself and not hand away your well earned money? Have a browse, they’re a fun bunch! Kathryn Bax is the one that runs it…
    Hope to see you there,
    Jacky D.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. Hey! Thanks for checking out my blog and following! It gave me the opportunity to read this amazing piece! 🙂 Your writing is inspiring and absolutely perfect.

    Liked by 3 people

  5. You went all out on this one Steve!! You made it feel like we were there in front of that fryer…. I felt the pressure building from the beeping alarms, the idiot manager that we’ve all had, and in this case the life he was forced to endure for the path he chose… Enjoyed the ride…. Very Well Done!!!

    Liked by 3 people

  6. Hi Steve. Really an excellent piece of work. Did not get a chance to rest of your stories yet. Just started on the first page I landed and could not skip it. I am amazed to see how minute details of the life, and things around you have been portrayed in your story that make it realize the reader if he is really there. I am sure it cannot happen without having a closer inspection of life around you.

    Your stories keep focus on the main contents (main idea) that you are following and don’t deviate from it which keeps the audience bound to the story. Vocabulary is excellently used and I hardly find a word repeated to express similar scenario.

    There is much more to learn from your writing. I would like to thank you for bringing out such marvelous contribution to literature. I still can’t believe that it is all part of fiction.

    Liked by 3 people

  7. I don’t think you wasted your life. Don’t be so hard on yourself!

    If you don’t like what you’re doing doing, do some self-exploration and come up with ideas on how you could be doing that you really love. That’s what I did about 10 years ago when I couldn’t earn a living as a master piano teacher any more after my divorce in 2001.

    Liked by 1 person

  8. There’s no job that’s a bad job, only in the sense that you’re earning money and some money is better than no money. Right?

    But if it’s not the right fit for you, then somehow you need to think about what really would give you Joy and make you feel rewarded doing something that gives a service to other people.

    Liked by 1 person

        1. I’m not being hard on myself. Actually I am quite proud of this story. It has been selected to feature on Discover! I’m not sure where you got the impression that I’m down about anything. I’m a happy guy whose mentality in no way reflects that of his characters. That is the beauty of fiction.

          Liked by 1 person

    1. Haha. Yeah… I’m generally a very peaceful guy so I’m not sure where some of this stuff comes from. I think it’s natural to enjoy a good story regardless of the subject.

      Like

  9. Thanks, Steve, enjoyed the journey. A little Dennis Lehane, a little Stephen Hunter. A great guy read. Don’t get many of those here. WordPress seems more a support group for the introspective and self-aware. Kind of a touchy feely, I’m putting it all out there and let the world be damned type of forum. I got a kick out of the comments on your well being, as if you were channeling your inner demons, and how you had to reassure some that, hey, I’m okay — that’s not my life, it’s fiction. I’ll be labeled a sexist, but I would guess your female readers would have preferred Mark to give his boss a severe tongue-lashing instead of deep-fried digits. Good work!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Oh I don’t know about that. I’ve known some pretty hardcore females. I think there will always be those of both sexes who are off-put by the edgier stuff, just as I know some folks will always gag about the touchy-feely. I agree that the blog world seems a bit diluted, but I can also respect that everyone feels the desire to be heard for what they have to say, even if it’s something few people can relate to. I didn’t mean to rant about equality here, but I also don’t want to isolate anyone in my audience, and I truly do appreciate and respect men and women readers the same. I am, however, very appreciative that this story was something with which you can identify, and I thank you for taking the time to read my work and share your thoughts.

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  10. This is an awesome idea for writing! I’m really new at writing, but I love it once I have a good flow going. I’ve been trying to find any inspiration for literally anything to write about, whether it be a short story or an article (blogging seems really fun to me), but this idea actually helped me think of some ways to at least get started writing! Do you have any advice for a kinda new writer on what to do with, or how to even start, a good story or blog?

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Hey! Thanks for reading. I’m glad you’ve recently discovered excitement in writing. I love that feeling you speak of when you hit a rhythm and it starts pouring out almost involuntarily. There is not another high quite like that. As far as advice goes there are so many different things that come to mind, so forgive me if I’m about to ramble. I fear this first answer might sound a bit cliche but: you must read a lot and you must write a lot. When you read your favorite authors try to pay attention to WHY they are your favorite. Is it their descriptions of the surroundings, engaging all 5 senses, their artfully crafted sentences, their realistic sounding dialog, the characters you can’t help but grow attached to, the questions they force you to ponder that keep you turning pages in search of the answers? Chances are it is some combination of all of these, because when they all combine that’s when you get compelling writing, but the trick is to study the masters and try to comprehend why you love their work so much. I read so much slower now because I take time to really think about this sentence or that word choice or that character’s reaction to this situation. Also, I HIGHLY recommend Stephen King’s memoir “On Writing.” It changed the way I write in such a monumental way. The amount of wisdom he squeezes into those pages should be required reading for any aspiring author. Other than that, to address your more specific inquiry regarding how to start a good story – look around you, and think about what you see. What makes you curious? Do you ever sit there and think, “holy shit what if…” Those things that snag your attention or curiosity – write about them, because if they are interesting to you the reader will pick up on your excitement, and it will become interesting to them. A trip to the grocery store could make for a compelling story in the right hands. Best of luck. Writing is difficult and frustrating at times, but if you truly love it and continue to feed it, it will pay you back.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Wow. Thank you so much! This response alone was far beyond my expectations! (sorry- I changed my username). Thank you for putting so much time into that response! This helped a lot, and I hope you don’t mind if I may come back with more questions later!! I’m going to look up that book now.

        Liked by 1 person

        1. You’re very welcome. I have an immense passion for writing and love to discuss it with anyone interested. Feel free to bring more questions my way as they arise. Once you read that book and apply your learnings to a new story I would be happy to critique it for you. In my first writer’s group one particular woman gave me extremely honest and thorough (but courteous) feedback on some of my work, and I will be forever grateful to her. That is when I felt my skill accelerate, and I began writing my novel. I think every aspiring writer should have the luxury of getting feedback like that at least once, because it is one thing to read all the rules but to apply them is an entirely different challenge, and when we’re first starting out we don’t see all the faults in our own work. Just shoot me a message through the contact page if you get to that point and you’re interested. Best of luck!

          Liked by 1 person

  11. Mate, again, a riveting story. You had me from the start and the build up was so gradual that your self control was bristling with the story. This writing style is inspirational for me. I’m fucking jealous…

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Hahaha. Yeah, there were a few times when I contemplated whether a character in that life situation should have such good diction, but in a first person story having a main character with bad diction is like trying to walk on two broken legs.

      Liked by 1 person

    1. Yep, those things are a lot more dangerous than people sometimes think about. I had a scar from one on my wrist for a long time. I’m glad the writing was vivid enough to elicit a cringe.

      Like

  12. At first I wasn’t so impressed, but after a few paragraphs you really captured my attention. Your story really strikes a chord inside of me, I have actually done time in prison and can relate to the main character. It has been a struggle ever since my release in 2012. I have four children I don’t get to see, two of them already married.

    If you don’t mind me asking, what inspired you to write this?

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I am sorry to hear of your circumstances. I hope you are able to find a bridge for those gaps. It is difficult to explain the thought process that went into developing this story, because for me they tend to piece themselves together over a period of time. With the first sentence Madeline gave me, I tried to think of someone who would feel they wasted their life, and I decided on an older man working at a fast food restaurant scraping to barely get by. Then I wondered how he ended up in that situation and what would bring him to do something so drastic, and I thought of someone at their wit’s end who just can’t handle anyone’s shit anymore because life has already dealt them too much. But I wanted the reader to care about him and not just think he was some psychotic savage. That’s when I was stricken with the prison aspect. I wanted to illustrate that people who end up in prison are not always inherently bad people, but rather end up in an intense moment where things get further out of control than they realized in the heat of things, and unfortunately that one moment changes the rest of their life. I also hoped people would empathize with him and be forced to think about the fact that everyone deserves to be treated with respect regardless of their past, because we all face our own struggles (the asshole boss, the family troubles, the mental turmoil, etc.). They’re like everyone else, just trying to make it through the hardships of life and hopefully find some enjoyment along the way. You sound well-read and relatable, as well as remorseful, and I hope that translates to the others in your life. I hope you can try to remain positive and find some comfort in between the chaos. That’s all any of us can do.

      Liked by 2 people

      1. I am so blessed actually to have been given some understanding about life, and in the recent months it’s been one amazing experience after another. For me the answer was to stop struggling with these apparent road blocks in my life, and allow myself to be guided by the positive energy that flows through all of us. If you get a chance checkout my blog it’s only in the beginning stages, but you can still grasp the concept. Stillstandingtall.com…. thanks for taking the time to reply.

        Liked by 1 person

    1. I appreciate that compliment very much and thank you for the advice. I have considered doing an anthology, and once I accumulate enough of these I will probably look at that more closely. I’ve entered a few short story contests to no avail, but I don’t think those stories were quite on this level. I’ve also thought about the literary magazines. Perhaps with all this excitement from readers it seems I have finally reached a point where I can break my way in. I will check out the one you linked. Thank you.

      Like

      1. Most writing contest are very publicized and a lot of people enter them if you haven’t won any writing contest don’t feel bad there’s only one winner and thousands of entries I only read this one story but if any of your other writing is half as good you are more than eligible to be published in a literary magazine

        Liked by 1 person

  13. This was such an incredibly vivid piece of work, really very impressive in all aspects. This is the first of your stories that I have read but I’ve now followed you and am looking forward to reading more.
    Well done, you should be very proud of this.

    Liked by 2 people

  14. By the time I got to the end, I was so engrossed with the events in the restaurant I completely forgot about Benny. I scrolled back up to look at the first sentence someone commented on and thought “Wait, did I click on something else…what is this Benny section…” and then I remembered. I’m glad someone asked if it was non-fiction because I wondered myself.
    The only thing I wonder is who is Robert? Is he another character or is he Richard?

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Oh! Darn it! Yeah that’s supposed to be Richard. I changed his name at one point throughout the writing process and must’ve missed that one. An attentive reader you are. Thanks for pointing that out. I will fix it. I’m glad it had you so entranced at the end. Very cool anecdote.

      Liked by 1 person

  15. Great idea for a blog!! I love your writing style and found myself completely submerged in your words. (Much like a fast food manager’s forearm in a vat of oil!) I particularly like your imagery and the peacefulness of the character at the end as opposed to an obvious description of chaos. I am sooo looking forward to catching up on all of your posts!!

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Wow. Thank you so much for such a wonderful comment. You’re the first person to remark on the peacefulness of the character at the end, a detail that felt crucial to me as I was writing it. It is a pleasure to have you here.

      Liked by 1 person

  16. Well that’s the last time I ever visit Chick Chicken again.
    I don’t seek out short stories because I find them too pretentious and abstract usually. A lot of them try to hard to be poetic and meaningful. But this was just amazing, exactly the kind of short that is worth reading.
    I can’t stop chuckling at the title now that I’ve read the story.
    Also great idea and name for the blog too, I’m trying to think of a sentence that you would really struggle with for your next one just to be evil.
    Thanks for sharing.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Hahaha. I love your wit. This comment had me so intrigued I had to go check out your blog, with which I am also slightly enamored. I concur with what you said about a lot of short stories trying to be too poetic and meaningful. I would be lying if I said I haven’t written a few of those myself, but I’m glad to hear this story is evidence that I have crossed to the other side. I hope you think of that difficult, evil sentence. I love a challenge.

      Liked by 1 person

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