fwriction

“Between seven and eight, Winston wasn’t sure what happened except that his voice had grown hoarse through shouting and Georgina’s face was strewn with post-impressionistic tears, rippling like a lake, flecks here and there, down her neck, mascara on her hands. The argument began with indecision about whether the couple should move in together or perhaps wait a little longer. And the conversation seemed fine. At least to Winston. But Georgina began to cry and wouldn’t say why. Winston tried to be understanding. Georgina’s reticence to get a place together irked him in a way he couldn’t fully pinpoint. At the time, Winston shared a house with three university friends, who were swiftly becoming ex-friends after nearly nine months as housemates. Winston kept pressing Georgina. He didn’t want to. 

The tears cut up her sentences and spat them out nonsensically. 

Georgina asked Winston to leave.”

Rhys Leyshon Evans, “Lapels”

dannygoodman.me:

“My family would be leaving soon; we always ended our Memorial Day vacation before lunch on Monday: on our way out of town, my father would drive to Duryea’s, a small place on Fort Pond Bay next to the railroad station, where lobster rolls were procured and savored on the journey home. I couldn’t imagine the car ride, what we would say to one another, if anything. I held out hope that Liam, in his infinite wisdom and narcissism, would occupy us with uncomfortably carnal stories. Maybe, though, we had already said enough to one another. Maybe we could just move on. Maybe, hopefully, there would be no need for apologies anymore.”

Read the opening excerpt of the novella, Memorial Day, over at Blue Fifth Review

Happy Memorial Day weekend, everyone!

“George dropped to his knees, clutching the piece of chalk between two gloved fingers. Writing frantically, dirty black hair springing out above the thick wrinkles of his forehead, he worked the chalk against the pavement in complete concentration, pressing down so hard flecks of broken yellow chalk fell to either side onto the street. He wrote in bold letters—BY RUSSELL AND DADDY—then stood up and sucked in a long breath, turned his head sideways to review what he had written and handed the chalk to Russell, watched as his son fumbled with it between his fingers, dropped it and then bent slowly to pick it from the ground.”

Sheldon Lee Compton, “Snapshot ‘87”

George allowed a long breath to ease from his lungs, patience slipping from inside him in a slow gush. His insides were turning on him now. Moving and shifting energy, an old energy, that nova blast that could create explosion from nearly nothing at all.That wild-wiring that had grabbed him away from the world once before. Only now there was nothing to hold it down. It spun and ran and shifted and did as it pleased.

Sheldon Lee Compton, “Snapshot ‘87”